Spring 1971 An Edinburgh Adventure

On Saturday, 6 March, 1971 five of us took off on a spring adventure - Ali Douglas; Les Ramage; Boo-Boo Hanlon; Iain and Peter Hoffmann..

  Ali Douglas; Iain Hoffmann; the Author; and ‘Boo-Boo’ Hanlon in front of

Mons Meg, Edinburgh Castle, 1971

      

We took the number 27 bus to Edinburgh Castle to explore our heritage. It was always good fun going out together, great company with many laughs. Although we had a rough outline of the day ahead, we never quite knew what would happen or who we might meet along the way.

                   

Iain Hoffmann; the Author; and Boo-Boo Hanlon - Soldier unknown

         

Iain Hoffmann; Boo-Boo Hanlon; and the Author 43 years later at

Swanston Golf Club, Edinburgh

From the castle we walked all the way down the Royal Mile and then up and over Arthur's Seat. We were in no hurry and walked at an easy pace, calling in at one or two of the shops along the way. There were fewer tourists around then and the Old Town still had a significant population, so it was local people and workers who were in the area.

                

Iain Hoffmann and Ali Douglas Boo-Boo Hanlon and Les Ramage Arthurs Seat 

Although we were young and fit the climb up Arthur's Seat was a stiff one and we quickly built up a sweat and the beginning of a sound appetite. At one stage, whilst running through the long grass, we unknowingly came to the edge of a sharp precipice which would have been all too easy to have fallen over.

 Ali Douglas and either Les Ramage or  Boo-Boo dangerously close to the edge above Holyrood Palace

We had a general sense of direction now. Once we had reached the summit and taken in the 360 degree panoramic view of Edinburgh, we traversed Arthur's Seat and got sight of Duddingston Loch in the valley below; we'd found our bearings. It was downhill now. We leapt like hares and galloped like horses, occasionally crashing, rolling and laughing, as we ran and tumbled down the hill.

                        

No matter the weather, Holyrood Park and Duddingston Loch are quite magical with quiet  parts where you can completely escape the city.

                    

Duddingston Loch, Charles Lee, 1853

A century before, Robert Louis Stevenson enjoyed it in all the seasons too. He writes in the winter of 1874, of looking down on the frozen loch, at the skaters flitting around, under the light from the moon and lit torches.

                    

Skaters, Duddingston Loch, Charles Lee, 1857

A fantasy in dull school lessons was to visit Duddingston Loch on a spring or autumn Saturday afternoon with a rubber dinghy and gently float around the loch, whilst listening to a football commentary on my miniature radio.             

Duddingston Loch

After the excitement of Edinburgh Castle, the Royal Mile and Arthur's Seat, the long road through Duddingston to Durham Road was the least enjoyable part of the journey, particularly because by then, we were hungry.

 Boo-Boo Hanlon, Duddingston Golf Course, 1971 the end in sight

Afternoon tea awaits for five hungry boys

We hadn't planned ahead or notified our grandparents, but we knew from old, that there was no trouble turning up announced on their doorstep. There was a warm welcome and a massive tea soon followed bacon and eggs and scones and buns were soon drummed up for us to enjoy.

  

Grandfather (Gaga), buying the Ford Zephyr, Hawick with the Author

After tea, we got a lift back home from Portobello to Oxgangs in our grandfather's large stylish Ford Zephyr car with its American styled tail fins. It easily accommodated three in the front and three in the back. I suppose we were cheeky in requesting a lift back by 6.30 pm, but Ali had to get home to see an Aunt and Uncle. Even after the day’s adventures, we still had the energy to play a game of singles and dodgy ball well into the evening.

Happy, timeless and seemingly endless days of friendship and companionship.

Christmas Day

Christmas Day was always the best day of the year. We always spent the whole day at our grandparents’ home at Durham Road, Portobello. I therefore have no knowledge of how The Swansons; The Stewarts; The Hoggs; The Smiths; The Blades; The Hanlons; or The Duffys spent their Christmas Day.

Christmas Day is always a popular church day. Perhaps the Swansons may have attended Colinton Mains Parish Church of Scotland; The Blades one of the Baptist churches; whilst The Duffys probably celebrated at St Marks RC Church.

The drive from Oxgangs to Portobello from The Stair was always the quietest of the whole year. Sundays were normally quiet, but on Christmas Day there were few other cars on the road and we just sailed down as if we were the Royal Family.

Grandma Jo; Aunt Heather; and the author, Gleneagles Hotel, 1985

It was our grandmother who made Christmas the day that it was. She would be there to greet us in the hallway and we would give her a formal light kiss on the cheek. Although she loved us all very dearly, she wasn't one to be effusive, instead expressing her great love for others with innumerable acts of kindness to the family and many others throughout the decades.

The hall looked resplendent-there would be a flower arrangement and the royal blue carpet had been hovered clean. As a busy artist, jeweller, pottery decorator, lace-woman and gardener our grandmother didn't want to be remembered for dusting the house-she had more important priorities. And, because her house resembled the ‘Old Curiosity Shop’, full of fascinating antiques and interesting items from throughout the world, the hall didn't need any Christmas décor. Although, I suppose one could have hung some tinsel from the African buffalo's antlers high on one wall! I lived there from the winter of 1972; whenever I invited a friend, a colleague or a journalist into the front room, their first comment on entering was always ‘What a fascinating room this is!’

Apart from the tiny kitchen her house was perfect to host the large Christmas gatherings which took place there for over half a century. The hatch linking the kitchen to the sitting room was a clever little idea. As the kitchen had no work space or work tops at all the Buchan's pottery casseroles containing hot vegetables were delicately placed and balanced on top of the washing machine. Grandma Jo had the most wonderful grace under pressure-I never saw her get flustered. Indeed when I think about it I never recall her raising her voice in all the subsequent years that I stayed with her. The only hint of colourful language emanating from the kitchen would be from my father whipping the cream by hand. Our grandmother served up those wonderful Christmas dinners through the magic little hatch, year in and year out, until well into her eighties, when I took over hosting Christmas as the Laird 'O Plewlands; then at West Mill, Colinton; and for a few years at Moorlands, Dingwall.

Anne Duncan (Hoffmann); John Duncan; Anne Hoffmann Junior; Iain Hoffmann; Peter Hoffmann; Willie Robertson

The first course was usually home-made soup. This was followed by the traditional roast turkey; mashed and roasted potatoes; various vegetables; and two types of stuffing-sage and onion and sausage-meat, with gravy. Despite being a butcher, our grandfather didn’t carve the bird, which was left to our grandmother too.

The table was lovely to behold. With the eye of the trained artist the table was laid out with colourful antiques and glassware. It looked like something out of a Dickens novel. There would also be beer, lemonade and as we children got older, the excitement of having some Woodpeckers Cider too.

Around the table the craic was good-some teasing-some wit-some awful jokes-pulling crackers and several of us all cajoling our grandmother ‘Come on through Josephine and enjoy your dinner too!’ Atypically, she was always the last to join us.

There were various pudding-trifles, a mix of milk and water jellies and single, double and whipped cream. Some of us would go outside into the winter air and stroll around the back garden before we could face our pudding. She always made a home-made Christmas plum pudding and the children would ‘ooh and ahh’ when the brandy was poured on top of it and lit. The flame puffed up almost taking one's eyebrows off. To accompany the pudding there was both custard and ice cream, the latter coming from either the wonderful Arcari's or Lucas Italian ice cream shops.

Because of the number of people at the table-the very young; the young; adults; the middle aged; the old; and the very old, these occasions were quite magical throughout the 1960s. Sometimes there would be a dozen or so present. Was it Old Aunt Mary or our great-grandmother, Wee Nana, who always said ‘Now, Josephine...where's the silver spoon...you know I can't eat my pudding without it!’ 

‘Wee Nana’ and Anne Hoffmann Junior, circa 1962

And of course I've mentioned how ‘The Miser’ aka Pumpa (great-grandfather) tried to slip me a penny, which I turned down. The age range of those sitting around the table covered approximately ninety years, therefore stretching back to when Queen Victoria was on the throne.

Iain, Anne and Peter Hoffmann

Once Christmas Dinner was over and before the Queen came on the television, people would retire to various rooms throughout the house to allow their food to digest. Our mother would enjoy a snooze in one of the bedrooms-usually my grandmother’s south facing room, which always had a very comforting and quiet feel to it. Aunt Heather would be in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up washing dishes in the sink, often with our father giving her a hand. Others would find a spot on a spare sofa, put their feet up and place their head on a soft cushion and shortly be happily asleep. We children might go out to the garden for a while. It was good to come out from the warmth of the house with Iain and in to the fresh cold air in the winter garden. We enjoyed having a blether about our presents or to kick a ball around. In its bare winter December state the garden had a completely different feel to July when it was lush and adorned in its summer clothes. In its hibernated state all that remained were the skeletons and structures of trees, hedges and shrubs. As the afternoon coolness descended and the light quickly began to disappear, I enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the garden and the slightly brooding presence of the season. All that separated the light from the dark, the cold from the warmth, was a solitary door. It made me think of some lines from Buchan’s The Power-House where the hero, Sir Edward Leithen is told: ‘You think that a wall as solid as the earth separates civilisation from barbarism. I tell you the division is a thread, a sheet of glass. A touch here, a push there, and you bring back the reign of Saturn.’ And then, it was braw to go back into the warmth of the house and the bosom of the family and to be reminded yet again, that it was still Christmas Day!

After the Queen's broadcast, a highlight for me was to sit quietly in the Smoking Room at the front of the house. This was the front room, which was a fascinating room to be in because it was full of antiques, paintings, glassware, snuff bottles and old French clocks. I sat on the big old sofa alongside my grandfather, whilst my great grandfather and father sat on the large squishy chairs. There was a large old gramophone come radio cabinet in the corner and a Christmas tree in the bay window. It was here that the men retired to enjoy the home-made sweets which our grandmother made annually for Christmas-marzipan and walnuts, peppermint creams; fudge et al. Most of all I liked when the men enjoyed a cigar. I loved the smell of the cigar smoke. It’s a smell which immediately transports me back through the mists of time.

I loved sitting quietly, listening to my great-grandfather, grandfather and father talking and conversing. I always kept very quiet and tried not to be intrusive in case I wasn't allowed to stay. And, as the light outside slowly began to fade and darkness fell and the street-lights flickered on outside and then we switched the Christmas tree lights on. The lights were a novelty as we didn’t have them back at The Stair at 6/2 Oxgangs Avenue. In that room, surrounded by three older generations, I felt part of a line going back to Victorian times.  I also felt warm, secure and at peace. I didn't want these moments to end and savoured the hour or two before someone would look around the door to say that ‘Tea was now being served up and would the men come through and join the rest of the party.’

We'd all trot through to enjoy some fresh cut bread, salad and John West salmon which was a luxury item in the 1960s. There would also be a variety of shortbread, Christmas cake, mincemeat pies and for the gutsy perhaps seconds of trifle and cream.

By then a good fire was blazing in the grate and one of the nice things about Christmas Day, compared to our Sunday visitations, was that we got to stay on a little longer into the evening. Our grandfather would give our great-grandparents a lift back home to London Road, Dalkeith, before then returning the seven or so miles back to Portobello to give the Hoffmanns a lift back home to Oxgangs Avenue and The Stair. It was of course a stark contrast coming home to 6/2. The house was quiet. It was cold, but slightly more inviting than usual, because the Christmas tree decorated the corner of the living room and we had the pleasure of going back to our presents.

Summer Has Gone

On Saturday 15 July, 1972, five of us set off for a camping holiday to Stobo, Peebleshire. The five were Alison Blades; Fiona Blades; Paul Forbes; Iain Hoffmann; and me. We got a lift down there from Douglas Blades in his red Austin pick-up.

Douglas's van could only seat two passengers in the cabin, so Alison and Fiona sat inside. Paul, Iain and I meanwhile sat in the back with all the camping gear and luggage; we were completely open and exposed to the elements, although fortunately the weather was set fair. It was a great feeling sitting in the back of the pick-up with the rushing breeze blowing our hair back. We felt cool, metaphorically and then literally, as the journey progressed through the wynding, open roads of the Borders. After we travelled through Penicuik we passed Leadburn Junction and made our way to Eddlestone where we turned right for the drive over the gentle Meldon Hills and then on through old Lyne Station, Stobo Castle, Stobo Kirk and the tiny hamlet of Stobo.

To keep sheltered from the wind we had to snuggle up together and kept as low down in the vehicle as possible. Fortunately we didn't come across any policemen en-route-although it was a laxer age, they might well have stopped us if they'd seen us sitting in the back of an open vehicle.

Stobo is a sylvan spot in Peebleshire set amongst the gentle and beautiful Borders landscape. It's little known unless you are perhaps familiar with the early works of John Buchan. Forty years before James Patrick McIntosh, the great Dundee artist painted a well known painting of the kirk; the painting is in the collection of Edinburgh's City Art Centre. Today, Stobo is a little better known because of the exclusive health spa at Stobo Castle.

Stobo Church (James Patrick McIntosh)

We had managed to borrow a large tent from the church - I think it belonged to Oxgangs Evangelical Church rather than Charlotte Chapel - I note from my diary that it was Fiona who got it for us. I had borrowed a sleeping bag from my grandparents and bought in lots of food from The Store, including a few flagons of cider - looking back it seems amazing that teenagers could buy alchohol and tobacco so easily.

Paul Forbes; Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann trying to keep up!
(Heather Robertson)

The farmer gave us the go ahead to camp in his field. I note from my diary that after setting up the tent that evening (with a hand from Douglas) we thereafter managed a swim in the River Tweed followed by a good supper washed down with cider - a deadly combination! According to the diary we were tipsy - a rather quaint word. Paul had clearly consumed too much and was sick. I recall him swearing that he'd seen a shooting star during the night, but we were dubious, much to his dismay.

Normally the problem with camping in Scotland is the weather - people often get washed out and have to give up and go home. Ironically, we had some difficulty with the weather too, but for the opposite reason. We chose one of those very rare occasions when Scotland had a heatwave!

The week we'd chosen to go camping was the hottest of the summer. In the following days the temperature was mostly in the eighties. Indeed it was so hot that most of us began to suffer from heatstroke. By the following Tuesday our grandparents were good enough to drive down to take Alison and Iain back home to The Stair to recover. The group photograph shows how badly Alison was suffering. Again, from my diary I noticed that I too was sick that evening, noting that I was feeling crap!

Grandfather (William Robertson); Alison Blades; Paul Forbes; Fiona Blades; Grandmother (Josephine Robertson); Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann
(Heather Robertson)

However, in between, we had a lovely time. We were up early with the light and stayed up late into the evening sitting around our camp-fire. Sometimes we'd cook a fish that had been gifted to us by local fishermen during the day. The bus-driver on the Peebles to Glasgow late night bus used to flash his lights at the happy young campers as he drove the country bus along the old B712 road. From the spring through to the summer we'd all enjoyed occasional card games back at The Stair, so before turning in for the evening we sat and played games of trumps. Before we all drifted off to sleep inside the tent, the craic was always good with much story telling, nonsense and hilarity. We'd be awoken in the morning by the sounds of birdsong. The only sound during the night was the gentle plashing of water as it lapped against the small pebbles, but once or twice during the night there might be a strange sound or screech which broke the silence - What was that? (or if it was Paul What the fuck was that!) was the usual refrain from one of us, but we felt safe and secure in one another's company and soon fell back to sleep.

Paul Forbes; Peter Hoffmann; and Iain Hoffmann
(Heather Robertson)

During the day we used to spend a great deal of time in the River Tweed. It was a glorious spot. Adjacent to our tent was a small still pool which kept our submerged drinks cool and which we also used for bathing. We used the opposite side of the bank, which was a good four or five feet higher up for diving into the main body of the river. Here the water was around eight feet deep. It was wonderful to begin the day with a dive into the pure clean water. Throughout the day, whenever we sizzled with the heat, we'd stroll across and dive and dive again into the water.

Paul Forbes and Peter Hoffmann diving; Iain Hoffmann watching, learning and admiring-not! Iain was the diver par excellent!
(Heather Robertson)

On most days a few families came for picnics and were often friendly. Entertained by our exploits they were often kind offering us some of their food. Half a mile away there was a tiny wee shop in the little hamlet of Stobo. Paul and I usually wandered down early each morning to pick up a pint of milk, some bread and lemonade or coke to keep the fluids up.

Peter Hoffmann (Heather Robertson)

The lovely county town of Peebles was six miles away. On one occasion Paul and I began walking there but it was terribly hot and exhausting. We stuck our thumbs out to a couple of passing vehicles but without any success. Being a quiet country lane there was very little traffic on the road. Of a sudden we heard a car in the distance. I immediately lay down on the road whilst Paul leapt up and down and waved down an older, charming English couple and told them rather dramatically that I'd fainted with the heat. They kindly offered us a lift into town. Rather like Stanley Baxter in The Fast Lady I of course made an immediate recovery and we were soon conversing happily with them on the drive into town!

Peebles for pleasure runs the old motto and we sauntered around enjoying games of putting and of all things playing with swans down by the River Tweed. I assume we got a country bus back to Stobo as I suspect walking the six miles back to our camp-site would have been beyond us. Fiona, Paul and I stayed on for the rest of the week. We gathered firewood from the local wood, swam, conversed, played cards and generally lapped up the sun and the experience, before Douglas kindly came down to collect us and drive us back to The Stair.

When that summer of 1972 came to an end it marked a point in time - a line in the sand - the bell was ringing for the last lap and the end of my boyhood. It wasn't long afterwards, indeed only a few weeks later that I decided to leave school. A few months later, at the start of winter I left The Stair, only to return for occasional visits.

Summer Has Gone’ 

I have tidings for you,

The stag bells;

Winter pours;

Summer has gone

Wind is high and cold;

The sun is low;

Its course is short;

The sea runs strongly…

Cold has seized

The wings of birds;

Season of ice.

These are my tidings

       (Early Irish Lyrics, Oxford 1956)