One man, travelling far, in search of 'The Grey Man'
The lone figure, draped in a yellow oilskin cape and
hunched over the handlebars of the heavily laden bicycle,
struggles slowly against the driving rain and steep incline
of the narrow winding road. The surrounding hills, shrouded
in heavy mist can be more sensed than seen. The cyclist
presses a cable lever down with wet fingers, slipping the
derailleur and engaging the chain on the largest of the
cogs on the back wheel; the equivalent of first gear in a
car. He accepts that if his tired legs cannot continue to
turn the pedals in this gear, he will have no choice but to
dismount and continue on foot.
He grips the dropped handlebars tightly, and raises his
butt off the saddle. Staring down at the slowly turning
front wheel, he focuses all his energy and concentration on
keeping going. One more pedal revolution, one more yard.
Slow but sure progress.
He realises that he would be as quick getting off and
pushing the bike, but he wants to break his record. Just up
ahead is the ruin of the old lead mine, the place where he
stopped last time. The weather was better on that occasion.
Dry with the wind behind him. Not so now.
He's done well to get this far without resorting to
pedestrianism. His legs ache and his knees cry out as he
sees the dark shape looming ahead to his right - the old
mine.
As another blast of wind drives needles of rain into his
face, he defiantly shakes annoying drips from the cape's
hood, and the end of his nose. He resists the temptation to
stop at this milestone on the climb. The crumbled remains
of the old building retreat behind him, disappearing into
the gloom.
His sense of accomplishment is short lived as he sets
himself a new target. Some hundred yards ahead he can make
out the top of this particular rise. He struggles on. The
rise is taken. He sets another target. Gradually, painfully
Moonwatcher continues the long climb to Scotland's highest
village.
An hour later, the young man stands overlooking
Wanlockhead.
Leaning the bicycle against him, he pulls the plastic water
bottle from its cradle on the down tube, gulps the
contents, then snaps it back in place. The rain and wind
have lessened now.
"Typical!" he mutters to himself. "Now the climb's
over."
He rummages for a Mars Bar in one of the side pockets of
the saddlebag, and pulls back his hood to reveal a head of
thick, dark, wet hair and a face some might describe as
sharp featured. He's in his early twenties and, beneath the
cape, is dressed in sodden Levi jeans, a cotton shirt and
black shoes. The bottoms of the jeans are tucked into long
socks.
His thin nine and a half stone frame belies a fitness and
strength acquired from many miles of cross country biking,
hiking, hauling and scrambling ... and a day job requiring
effort of a different sort. Up and down the tenement stairs
of a city now behind him and far to the north.
As he bites off a chunk of the chocolate, he feels a great
sense of freedom and relief. It's good to be away. Away
from the city, the noise, the crowds, the sirens and the
human debris of urban life. The air here is heavy with the
scent of wet grass, moss and bog. A stream gurgles
nearby.
Here, high in the Lowther Hills of Lanarkshire, he feels
his journey has truly begun.
His quest: to find the Grey Man.
The short freewheel down to Lotus Lodge is exhilarating
after the long climb. The brake blocks screech as he pulls
the heavily loaded bike to a halt at the metal gate on
which a red triangular sign displays the letters
'SYHA'(Scottish Youth Hostel Association).
He wheels the bike around the side of the white, detached
house that overlooks the village. Inside a wooden cycle
shed, Moonwatcher shakes off the wet cape, hangs it from a
hook and undoes the straps of his saddlebag. Dropping it to
the floor, he gathers what he needs from the pannier bags
slung over the rear wheels.
The bike is particularly well stacked this trip: tent,
backpack, boots, sleeping bag and stove. Rigid tent pole
sections are taped to the top frame.
It's early evening as he enters the front door of the
Wanlockhead Hostel, and makes his way straight to the
kitchen, where a coal fired range takes up one wall and
bathes the room in welcoming warmth. A large kettle simmers
gently on the hotplate, steam rising lazily from the spout.
He places his saddlebag and bicycle headlamp on a bench at
one of the two large wooden tables and uses a towel to
roughly dry his hair.
"So it's you that's dripping all over my clean
floor!"
Momentarily startled by the voice, he whips the towel from
his face, and snaps his head towards the kitchen
door.
"You'd better get those wet things off before you get a
cold." says Mrs Young - hostel warden and surrogate gran to
many hundreds of hostellers over the years.
"Oh sorry, Mrs Y, I didn't know you were there."
The old lady, dressed in grey skirt, blouse and long flower
patterned smock, takes off her glasses, letting them hang
from her neck by the attached cord attached. She walks
slowly over to the range and bends down with a soft grunt
and cracking bones. She uses a cloth to open the hot
firebox door revealing the glowing coals within.
"Kettle's boiling. Get those wet things off and hung up
here. Then fix yourself something to eat. We'll book you in
later. You're the only one so far. I'm expecting Bill
Houston and the boys later. Been very quiet of late."
She closes the range door, rises to her feet with obvious
effort, and looks at the dishevelled traveller.
"And how are you? Been a while since we've seen you."
"I'm fine, good to get away again." he says as he finishes
drying his hair.
"Still in the ambulances?" she asks.
"Yep. Still there."
"Dont know how you can do that job. All that blood."
She gives a mock shudder to emphasise her point.
"Oh you get used to it." he lies.
"Where are you off to? Weekend trip?" she asks while
tinkering with the legs of her glasses.
"No, I'm on holiday; just finished night shift this
morning. Heading from here across to Ayr, and then
hopefully down into Galloway."
She shakes her head.
"Night shift! What time did you leave?"
"Eight o clock this morning. Would've left earlier, but we
had a last minute 999 call."
"In this weather as well!"
She shakes her head again as she walks towards the
door.
"What's the forecast? Any idea?" he calls.
"Supposed to brighten up tomorrow, and get very warm. But I
don't trust these forecasters, I think they just tell us
what we want to hear."
Mrs Young disappears out the door, leaving him to get his
wet things off and dried out.
Wanlockhead lies high in the Lowther Hills. A tiny village
- it's height above sea level gives it the distinction of
being the highest in Scotland. In its day, a centre of lead
production. Now, in the early 1970s, the mines have been
abandoned, leaving only scattered ruins as testament to the
industry that once flourished there.
Another metal was extracted from the surrounding hills -
gold!
'There's gold in them thar hills!'
Many prospectors have made their way to Wanlockhead. Armed
with their shallow metal bowls, they have spend spent
hours, days, months, perhaps even years; panning the
streams in search of a glint of the elusive yellow metal.
While enough grains are found to keep hope alive, none have
struck the 'motherload' ...
... yet!
The hostel sits right at the top of the village, virtually
the first building the traveller encounters as he crests
the brow of the hill from the north. It looks over a few
dozen stone and brick dwellings, lined up in stepped rows,
on the steep slopes below Green Lowther Hill. They look
like some Scottish equivalent of Machu Pichu.
The southern end of the village ends abruptly, as the road
drops off to the fearsome descent of the Mennock Pass.
The hostel was one of the earliest to be opened, when, in
the 1930s, the Association was formed to provide cheap
overnight accommodation for deprived city children - many
of whom had never been beyond their tenement streets.
Hostels provided their first experience of the countryside,
and for many it was a life changing experience.
Mrs Young had helped her father run the Wanlockhead (Lotus
Lodge) Hostel - once the doctor's house - for many years.
On his death she took over the wardenship, and became one
of the best loved wardens in Scotland. A no-nonsense woman,
more than capable, despite her advancing years, of dealing
with the varying nationalities, youngsters, hikers, bikers
and (at times) troublemakers, that passed through the
hostel gate.
The pot on the range releases an appetising aroma, as a
meal of canned sausage and beans bubbles away.
Moonwatcher's stomach rumbles and his mouth waters! He tips
in tinned potatatoes for good measure, and gives the
mixture a stir.
Taking a jar from one of the wooden 'dookits' on the
wall, he makes coffee with boiling water from the kettle,
then sips the hot liquid as he looks around.
On a busy day, all the dookits would be full of all sorts
of provisions; each hosteller having selected one for the
storage of their eatables, safe in the knowledge that no
one would stoop to stealing from another.
Hostellers of all shapes, sizes, gender and origin would be
competing for stove space. Those, unfamiliar with cooking
on a range and underestimating the heat generated, would be
cursing as food burned and caked itself to pots.
But this evening only one dookit sees service, housing the
things Moonwatcher has pulled from his bulky
saddlebag.
As he prepares his solitary meal, his wet clothes, strung
out above the range, steam as they dry quickly in the heat.
He feels comfortable and relaxed in his slacks, sweatshirt
and thick, dry woollen hiking socks.
Wanlockhead is a grade three hostel, indicating basic
facilities. Grade threes vary considerably, from those like
Wanlockhead to some that are no more than stone bothies
with the most primitive of resources.
As he sits at the table with his meal, he pulls a book from
the saddlebag perched beside him on the bench. He swallows
the last forkful of beans, washing them down with a gulp of
coffee. Pushing the plate away he examines the book's white
dustcover, frowning at the patches of dampness at the
corners where the rain has penetrated.
The bold title identifies it as 'The Highway Man'.
The cover features the black silhouette of a man sitting
astride a bicycle. The man, its author - Davie Bell.
Davie Bell was a cyclist who toured the rugged, wild
country of the South-West. Ayrshire, Galloway and the
Borders, were his hunting grounds, and during his lifetime
he was a familiar figure on his bicycle as he explored the
highways and byways of southern Scotland.
But what made Davie different from the many other cyclists
of his time, was his desire to get off the beaten track;
often off the road altogether and into the hills and moors
of his beloved country. On these expeditions, he would
man-handle his bike across heather, grass, bog, and rocks.
Although determined to ride the bike whenever he could, he
was often reduced to pushing and carrying it, much to the
consternation of hill walkers and climbers who happened
upon him and his machine in the most unlikely places.
From the summit of the Merrick, southern Scotland's highest
mountain, to the rocky island of Ailsa Craig off the
Ayrshire coast, Davie Bell and his bike became
legendary.
One of the original 'Rough-Stuffers', a term given
to his kind, long before the modern concept of mountain
biking and all terrain bikes. He contributed regularly to
the newspaper 'The Ayrshire Post'. The stories of
his exploits were eagerly devoured by armchair
adventurers.
The book Moonwatcher now reverently leafs through, was a
compilation of many of those 'Post' articles,
brought together after his death by those closest to
him.
Wanlockhead had been one of his favourite hostels. He
visited it regularly, and contributed to its reputation as
a 'cyclist's hostel'. He led the gathering of cyclists from
all over Scotland who congregated in this very kitchen (as
well as filling the hallway and dormitories), on the night
Wanlockhead celebrated its 21st birthday, leaving Mrs Y
embarrassed by the tributes paid to her and wondering how
on earth she would accommodate so many people.
Needless to say, a bed was guaranteed for Davie Bell.
Moonwatcher swallows another mouthful of, now tepid,
coffee. Gazing around the room, tries to imagine the
singing and dancing of that night, before he returns his
attention to the book.
He flicks over the pages to a black and white, full page,
plate and holds the book flat, studying the photo closely.
It depicts a rocky outcrop, immediately discernable as a
human face. The rugged face of an old man, rugged, bearded
and solemn. As though carved out of the solid rock, the
feature would not have looked out of place on Mount
Rushmore, yet no human hand had played a part in the
creation of this ...
'The Grey Man of the Merrick'.
As he runs his fingertips over the glossy page, he feels a
stirring of excitement. He has long dreamt of seeing that
face; of touching the cold, rocky beard; of following in
the steps of Bell and gazing on what he and few others had
seen, or were even aware of.
He knows it will be difficult. He doesn't even know exactly
where the outcrop is located.
Somewhere at the base of the Merrick, in a gully south of
Loch Enoch, in the wild, remote, mountainous region of
Galloway. Far from any road, track or civilisation.
Clues are contained within the book in front of him. Even
Davie Bell, on the few occasions when he visited this
secret place, had forsaken his bicycle and made his way on
foot.
The noise of new arrivals jars him back to the present. Closing the book, he looks up to see a group of damp, chattering cyclists, encumbered with saddlebags, wet oilskins and a buckled cycle wheel, struggle through the narrow door into the kitchen. Unceremoniously, they drop their belongings in the middle of the floor. The room fills with the smell of pipe smoke, as one of the newcomers puffs on the briar clamped between his teeth. Moonwatcher recognises the two older members of the group - the burly Bill Houston and 'Piper' - and it's as though two characters have leapt from the pages of the book that lies before him. Both these individuals cycled with Davie Bell, and remain regular visitors to the Wanlockhead hostel.
"Ah! We've a Glasgow man with us tonight boys." announces
Bill, as he props the buckled wheel against the far wall -
hopefully out of sight of the approaching Mrs Y, who can be
heard coming down the stairs.
"Travel far?" he asks, as he and the others busy themselves
emptying saddlebags, filling dookits, spilling the contents
over the tables and getting pots and pans ready for a
meal.
"Just come down from the city. Headin south.
Yourselves?"
"Just up for an overnighter." explains Bill. "Came up from
Kendoon. Would've got here sooner if it hadn't been for
him."
He points to one of their number attacking a tin of beans
with a can opener.
"Skelpin a bliddy great boulder in the rain an bucklin his
front wheel. Straightened it best we could, but it went
again near the top of the Mennock. Had to walk the last
bit."
They all laugh, revelling at in the misfortune of the
unlucky rider.
As he slides the book back into the saddlebag to clear
space for the banquet that's being prepared, it catches the
attention of Bill.
"Is that Davie's book, ye've got there?"
"Aye it is." Moonwatcher replies.
Bill nods, opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off
by the voice of Mrs Y.
"What's that wheel doing in my kitchen?"
The question isn't shouted out loud, but asked in a quiet
voice, loaded with authority. Everyone freezes, as though
someone had hit a video pause button. Instantly, the room
becomes muted. All eyes turn to Mrs Y and then to the
offending wheel in the corner. It sits in a puddle of oily
rainwater, sending muddy trickles across the floor.
It's Piper who steps into the breach. Removing the pipe
from his mouth, he steps over and grabs the spoked
obscenity.
"Sorry Mrs Y. I'll take it outside."
The old lady purses her lips, and nods, before surveying
the chaos that has overtaken her kitchen.
"I thought you folk had changed your minds." she says,
checking her watch and looking at Bill.
"Had a bit of trouble on the way Mrs Y."
"The wheel?"
"Aye, that's it. But you know it'd take more than that to
keep us away from here, and your warm hospitality, Mrs
Y."
"Ah but you're full of it, Bill Houston." she says, moving
her spectacles to the end of her nose and peering at the
contents of the pots, which steam and sizzle on the
hotplate.
"I take it you'll be going down the club once you've
finished here?"
"Aye, once we've cleared up here and fixed the
wheel."
"Well, I'll give you the spare key, but keep the noise down
and don't forget to lock up once you're all back in."
"No problem. Thanks Mrs Y."
A chorus of thanks follows. Technically this is against the
rules. She would normally lock the hostel doors well before
pub closing time, and woe betide anyone who dared bang on
the door after that. The old lady's gesture is appreciated
by all, and recognised as a measure of the trust she places
in these particular guests.
Moonwatcher smiles, gathers his gear together and heads for
the male dormitory.
The bunk beds are all empty, except for a pillow and a
couple of folded army blankets. Choosing a top bunk near
the window, he pulls a white cotton sleeping sheet from his
saddlebag and spreads it over the mattress. Designed to YHA
standards, the sheet is stitched to form a thin sleeping
bag, with a pocket at the top for the pillow. He stuffs the
pillow into the pocket and spreads the blankets over the
top. A flap of the sheet covers the top part of the
blankets. The idea being that no part of the sleeper comes
into contact with the pillow or blankets - a throwback to
the early days of hostelling, when skin infections and
infestation were major concerns.
His bed made, he grabs the cycle headlamp and a map, and
heads back to the kitchen. Someone is already busy on the
wheel in the hallway just inside the front door; tyre off,
one hand working rapidly with a spoke key, the other
tapping each spoke with a screwdriver to produce a
'pinging' sound. Like a harp player listening to the tone
of each string, the repairer tunes the wheel, bringing it
to the true, ready for the next day's mileage.
"See you guys down the club?" Moonwatcher asks as he pops
his head round the kitchen door.
"Sure thing!" comes the reply from a kitchen, now alive
with activity.
He heads out into the gathering dusk. The rain has stopped.
He fills his lungs with the fresh mountain air, and strolls
off down the steep hill.
Original story and material © 2005 Bob Wilson
Layout, editing and additional material © Dave Sloan
2005, 2012, 2016
'tachras' and 'Winding Yarn' © Dave Sloan 2005, 2012,
2016