TO THE PENTLAND HILLS from Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes by Robert Louis Stevenson

The country people call it General Kay's monument. 

According to them, an officer of that name had perished there in battle at some indistinct period before the beginning of history. The date is reassuring; for I think cautious writers are silent on the General's exploits. But the stone is connected with one of those remarkable tenures of land which linger on into the modern world from Feudalism.Whenever the reigning sovereign passes by, a certain landed proprietor is held bound to climb on to the top, trumpet in hand, and sound a flourish according to the measure of his knowledge in that art. Happily for a respectable family, crowned heads have no great business in the Pentland Hills. But the story lends a character of comicality to the stone; and the passer-by will sometimes chuckle to himself.

The district is dear to the superstitious. 

Hard by, at the back-gate of Comiston, a belated carter beheld a lady in white, 'with the most beautiful, clear shoes upon her feet,' who looked upon him in a very ghastly manner and then vanished; and just in front is the Hunters' Tryst, once a roadside inn, and not so long ago haunted by the devil in person. 

Satan led the inhabitants a pitiful existence. He shook the four corners of the building with lamentable outcries, beat at the doors and windows, overthrew crockery in the dead hours of the morning, and danced unholy dances on the roof. Every kind of spiritual disinfectant was put in requisition; chosen ministers were summoned out of Edinburgh and prayed by the hour; pious neighbours sat up all night making a noise of psalmody; but Satan minded them no more than the wind about the hill-tops; and it was only after years of persecution, that he left the Hunters' Tryst in peace to occupy himself with the remainder of mankind. 

What with General Kay, and the white lady, and this singular visitation, the neighbourhood offers great facilities to the makers of sun-myths; and without exactly casting in one's lot with that disenchanting school of writers, one cannot help hearing a good deal of the winter wind in the last story. 

'That nicht,' says Burns in one of his happiest moments,-

'THAT NICHT A CHILD MIGHT UNDERSTAND
THE DEIL HAD BUSINESS ON HIS HAND.'

And if people sit up all night in lone places on the hills, with Bibles and tremulous psalms, they will be apt to hear some of the most fiendish noises in the world; the wind will beat on doors and dance upon roofs for them, and make the hills howl around their cottage with a clamour like the judgment-day.

The road goes down through another valley, and then finally begins to scale the main slope of the Pentlands. A bouquet of old trees stands round a white farmhouse; and from a neighbouring dell, you can see smoke rising and leaves ruffling in the breeze. 

Straight above, the hills climb a thousand feet into the air. The neighbourhood, about the time of lambs, is clamorous with the bleating of flocks; and you will be awakened, in the grey of early summer mornings, by the barking of a dog or the voice of a shepherd shouting to the echoes. This, with the hamlet lying behind unseen, is Swanston.

The place in the dell is immediately connected with the city. Long ago, this sheltered field was purchased by the Edinburgh magistrates for the sake of the springs that rise or gather there. After they had built their water-house and laid their pipes, it occurred to them that the place was suitable for junketing. Once entertained, with jovial magistrates and public funds, the idea led speedily to accomplishment; and Edinburgh could soon boast of a municipal Pleasure House. The dell was turned into a garden; and on the knoll that shelters it from the plain and the sea winds, they built a cottage looking to the hills. 

They brought crockets and gargoyles from old St Giles which they were then restoring, and disposed them on the gables and over the door and about the garden; and the quarry which had supplied them with building material, they draped with clematis and carpeted with beds of roses. So much for the pleasure of the eye; for creature comfort, they made a capacious cellar in the hillside and fitted it with bins of the hewn stone. In process of time, the trees grew higher and gave shade to the cottage, and the evergreens sprang up and turned the dell into a thicket. There, purple magistrates relaxed themselves from the pursuit of municipal ambition; cocked hats paraded soberly about the garden and in and out among the hollies; authoritative canes drew ciphering upon the path; and at night, from high upon the hills, a shepherd saw lighted windows through the foliage and heard the voice of city dignitaries raised in song.

The farm is older. It was first a grange of Whitekirk Abbey, tilled and inhabited by rosy friars. Thence, after the Reformation it passed into the hands of a true-blue Protestant family. During the covenanting troubles, when a night conventicle was held upon the Pentlands, the farm doors stood hospitably open till the morning; the dresser was laden with cheese and bannocks, milk and brandy; and the worshippers kept slipping down from the hill between two exercises, as couples visit the supper-room between two dances of a modern ball. 

In the Forty-Five, some foraging Highlanders from Prince Charlie's army fell upon Swanston in the dawn. The great-grandfather of the late farmer was then a little child; him they awakened by plucking the blankets from his bed, and he remembered, when he was an old man, their truculent looks and uncouth speech. The churn stood full of cream in the dairy, and with this they made their brose in high delight. 'It was braw brose,' said one of them. At last they made off, laden like camels with their booty; and Swanston Farm has lain out of the way of history from that time forward. I do not know what may be yet in store for it. On dark days, when the mist runs low upon the hill, the house has a gloomy air as if suitable for private tragedy. But in hot July, you can fancy nothing more perfect than the garden, laid out in alleys and arbours and bright, old-fashioned flower- plots, and ending in a miniature ravine, all trellis-work and moss and tinkling waterfall, and housed from the sun under fathoms of broad foliage.

The hamlet behind is one of the least considerable of hamlets, and consists of a few cottages on a green beside a burn. Some of them (a strange thing in Scotland) are models of internal neatness; the beds adorned with patchwork, the shelves arrayed with willow- pattern plates, the floors and tables bright with scrubbing or pipe-clay, and the very kettle polished like silver. It is the sign of a contented old age in country places, where there is little matter for gossip and no street sights. Housework becomes an art; and at evening, when the cottage interior shines and twinkles in the glow of the fire, the housewife folds her hands and contemplates her finished picture; the snow and the wind may do their worst, she has made herself a pleasant corner in the world. 

The city might be a thousand miles away, and yet it was from close by that Mr. Bough painted the distant view of Edinburgh which has been engraved for this collection; and you have only to look at the etching, to see how near it is at hand. But hills and hill people are not easily sophisticated; and if you walk out here on a summer Sunday, it is as like as not the shepherd may set his dogs upon you. But keep an unmoved countenance; they look formidable at the charge, but their hearts are in the right place, and they will only bark and sprawl about you on the grass, unmindful of their master's excitations.

The Sunday Post #5 One Mid-Summer Morning

Pentland Hills and T Plantation circa 1914 (Photographer Unknown

Edinburgh Libraries, Museums and Galleries Collection)

This wonderful old photograph from a century ago shows three schoolgirls walking down Swanston Road through the farmland and fields. 

Swanston Farm, Robert Hope

There is no sign of Swanston Farm or Swanston Golf Club. 

The Old Schoolhouse in Swanston Village was in existence, so perhaps the girls are heading off to school in the morning. 

The Pentland Hills and the T Woods can be seen clearly in the distance. 

The scree slopes of the hills were no different fifty years later come the 1960s when the Blades; the Hoggs; and the Hoffmanns stood at their living room windows looking out for the number 16 bus coming down Oxgangs Road North.

There are hay stacks in one of the distant fields and one of the girls is only wearing a blouse, so we might surmise it is late summer. 

They are all dressed smartly in their straw hats; skirts; and dresses and each of them is carrying a metal case perhaps containing their school-books and lunches. 

On a fine summer morn or in early autumn the walk would be refreshing and enjoyable. However, on a bitter winter's morning, in the semi-darkness or in the cold of a March morning with a biting wind it would have been a very different story. But, at least they walked together which would have eased their passage and no doubt they will have enjoyed each other's company. Still, it's a long exposed country lane and one which we at The Stair often travelled along on our adventures to the Pentland Hills half a century later and half a century ago.

I wonder where the girls are coming from as back then, there wouldn't have been many houses in Fairmilehead. 

Perhaps they were sisters and lived at the old Hunters Tryst Farm. 

It's certainly a very lovely photograph capturing a moment in time. 

I also wonder who the photographer was. Was it set up or just serendipity? Perhaps their mum and dad wanted to capture that special moment in time to treasure and hold dear in their hearts, before the girls grew up, left home and moved on to follow life's journey. 

They are all smartly dressed and don't look poor. Their outfits - straw hats, skirts and dresses remind me very much of the two girls in The Railway Children. They all look quite lady-like - composed and serene, but not prim. If there had been a companion photograph taken at the end of the school day, it might have been quite different. We would of course see their faces and perhaps being the end of the school day and free from their lessons, we might have seen them un-lady-like taking to their heels, racing downhill from Swanston Village to head homewards for their tea and back to the welcome bosom of the family home.

Because we can't see the girls’ faces it adds to the elusiveness of the subject material. It forces the viewer to use their imagination.

You can't but help wonder what happened to each girl. The First World War was a matter of months away. Did they go on to become wives and mothers or follow a career in nursing or teaching? Did they remain in Edinburgh or move on to other towns or even make a life for themselves abroad?

In a way, the photograph reminds me of the cover of the novel Three German Farmers On The Way To A Dance by Richard Powers which was based on an old photograph. 

It seems to me that in the hands of a fine novelist such as Joan Lingard a rather good story might be weaved.

Postscript: In late 2017 I came across an update that revealed the premise on which I based the vignette was false - if you look closely the girls are actually carrying milk carriers!  Still, much of my musings on what happened to the girls remains true so I thought I would leave the vignette as it stands!

The Sunday Post #5 One Mid-Summer Morn

Pentland Hills and T Plantation circa 1914 (Photographer Unknown

Edinburgh Libraries, Museums and Galleries Collection)

This wonderful old photograph from a century ago shows three schoolgirls walking down Swanston Road through the farmland and fields. 

There is no sign of Swanston Farm or Swanston Golf Club. 

The Old Schoolhouse in Swanston Village was in existence, so perhaps the girls are heading off to school in the morning. 

The Pentland Hills and the T Woods can be seen clearly in the distance. 

The scree slopes of the hills were no different fifty years later come the 1960s when the Blades; the Hoggs; and the Hoffmanns stood at their living room windows looking out for the number 16 bus coming down Oxgangs Road North.

There are hay stacks in one of the distant fields and one of the girls is only wearing a blouse, so we might surmise it is late summer. 

They are all dressed smartly in their straw hats; skirts; and dresses and each of them is carrying a metal case perhaps containing their school-books and lunches. 

On a fine summer morn or in early autumn the walk would be refreshing and enjoyable. However, on a bitter winter's morning, in the semi-darkness or in the cold of a March morning with a biting wind it would have been a very different story. But, at least they walked together which would have eased their passage and no doubt they will have enjoyed each other's company. Still, it's a long exposed country lane and one which we at The Stair often travelled along on our adventures to the Pentland Hills half a century later and half a century ago.

I wonder where the girls are coming from as back then, there wouldn't have been many houses in Fairmilehead. 

Perhaps they were sisters and lived at the old Hunters Tryst Farm. 

It's certainly a very lovely photograph capturing a moment in time. 

I also wonder who the photographer was. Was it set up or just serendipity? Perhaps their mum and dad wanted to capture that special moment in time to treasure and hold dear in their hearts, before the girls grew up, left home and moved on to follow life's journey. 

They are all smartly dressed and don't look poor. Their outfits - straw hats, skirts and dresses remind me very much of the two girls in The Railway Children. They all look quite lady-like - composed and serene, but not prim. If there had been a companion photograph taken at the end of the school day, it might have been quite different. We would of course see their faces and perhaps being the end of the school day and free from their lessons, we might have seen them un-lady-like taking to their heels, racing downhill from Swanston Village to head homewards for their tea and back to the welcome bosom of the family home.

Because we can't see the girls’ faces it adds to the elusiveness of the subject material. It forces the viewer to use their imagination.

You can't but help wonder what happened to each girl. The First World War was a matter of months away. Did they go on to become wives and mothers or follow a career in nursing or teaching? Did they remain in Edinburgh or move on to other towns or even make a life for themselves abroad?

In a way, the photograph reminds me of the cover of the novel Three German Farmers On The Way To A Dance by Richard Powers which was based on an old photograph. 

It seems to me that in the hands of a fine novelist such as Joan Lingard a rather good story might be weaved.

Postscript: In late 2017 I came across an update that revealed the premise on which I based the vignette was false - if you look closely the girls are actually carrying milk carriers!  Still, much of my musings on what happened to the girls remains true so I thought I would leave the vignette as it stands!

School Summer Holidays

Many books which recall childhood and youth remember the school holidays as a time filled with sunshine-literally and metaphorically-I'm no different. It was always a delicious moment awakening on the first few days knowing that I didn't need to attend school.

For many of us at The Stair-those of us in our teens it didn't mean a long lie in bed as we would always have a job on the go, either delivering milk or newspapers-usually the latter. However, out-with our paper runs and Sundays when we visited our grandparents at Portobello, there was no structure to each day. Games of football would occur spontaneously, but mainly in the early evening. During the day we’d go jumping the burn, following the burn from the lower part of Redford, through Colinton Mains, Firhill and on to Braid Burn Valley.

Small villages would appear at the back field when the girls draped blankets on the fence to form tents. Sometimes families packed a picnic and some blankets and headed to Braid Burn Valley for an outing. We’d go far into the Valley toward the grass steps-an outing wasn't an outing without the children rolling over and over down steps from the top to the bottom. The picnic wouldn't include anything more than a sandwich.

As we got a little older there were other adventures to be sought out-Happy Valley at Craiglockhart; the Craiglockhart Hills and the Pentland Hills too. Once deep into the Pentlands apart from the occasional plane overhead, we had entered a different kingdom-it was a world where the air was fresh, light zephyrs blew through the long grass-sheep grazed in parts-birds flitted through the air-Stevenson wrote of the whoop of the curlews and they continue there to this day. On a visit to Swanston last autumn I ventured there for old times' sake and watched them float on the breeze.

The Craiglockhart Hills are a delightful small set of hills just a fifteen minute walk from Oxgangs across the Colinton Mains Park sports fields and the burn. As with the Pentlands we only visited these hills during the summer months-although in later decades Alison and I used to visit the Merchants Golf Course when the winter snows were there-indeed she was the most exuberant sledger there when around seven months pregnant with Atticus much to her sister's and my concern!

And as with the Pentlands I always felt a certain sense of apprehension and excitement when I ventured to The Craigies, because they always felt both familiar and unfamiliar-this was because we would only visit them once or twice each summer. Part of the excitement of the Craiglockhart Hills was that we (always visited as a group) might bump into other older, bigger boys who could be menacing and second the grounds men who looked after the Merchants Golf Course who often spotted us when they were out on their tractors. They would chase us away-this gave us a real frisson of excitement. On the blind par three third hole we'd sprint on to the green, place a golfer's ball in the cup as if they'd achieved a hole in one and then hide in the woods. The golfer would search all around for his golf ball before taking a desultory glance in the cup followed by a merry jig!

Another memory was the hypnotic effect I felt whilst standing high up on the top of one of the hills, quite close to the edge, and looking down at the long grass on the valley floor which was gently swaying in the wind-I thought how easy it might be to be drawn over the edge such was the effect.

It was great fun being up on the Craiglockhart Hills because it would have been a sunny day which had attracted us up there-and sitting up high, on the dry ground, with the grass gently swaying and the sun beating down, looking over 360 degree views enabled us to take in the panoramic view and enjoy everything that is wonderful about the city. The whole of Edinburgh was laid out before us and being a clear day we could see clear across the River Forth and to the north and the Highlands; turning around we could look to the Pentland Hills and to the south.

As a boy I was getting my bearings, locating and fixing the world-it was a moment of meditation and contemplation.

Pentland Hills and Swanston Village

Caerketton Hill (Dave Henniker)

Swanston Village Cottages with thatched roofs (Undiscovered Scotland)

After wandering through Swanston Village with its thatched roofs, which was a revelation to me, we followed a small burn set amidst a sylvan green pasture. From there we came across the army’s firing range. If there was a red flag flying we needed to make the difficult decision about turning back or somehow reconnoitring. By-passing the T Woods-not really a T, but actually a cross which was disguised from the northerly Edinburgh direction. One of the group said the T stood for the Trotter family who had planted it. From there we then had to climb and scramble up the scree slopes of the northerly side toward the summits of Caerketton and Allermuir. I found this quite scary indeed. I had to keep up with the party so forged on. The climb was worth it, because once at the top we could survey and take in the whole panorama of Edinburgh and where our home, Oxgangs Avenue and The Stair fitted in-it was an early opportunity to take one's bearings-to look at the bigger picture and realise there was a world beyond Oxgangs.On one of these early adventures we had forged deep into the glens beyond the hill tops. For some reason my wee brother, Iain (2.5 years younger than me) and I had to turn back to go home. I didn’t really know my way home. We were both in tears. Eventually we found our way back to the summit. What a happy relief it was to be able to again survey the whole panorama of Edinburgh and to say to Iain that we’re fine and I think I know the way home. From the heights it was all downhill to Oxgangs through Robert Louis Stevenson’s Swanston Village.