Boswell's Bus Pass Part 13

Johnson spent two of his remaining nights in Scotland at Lord Elibank's home in Ballencrief. Elibank, an arch-Jacobite, had been partly instrumental in persuading Johnson to venture North and the two men held each other in high regard. He was a minor writer and patron to several poets of whom he spoke on one occasion with a turn of phrase that could have fallen from the mouth of almost any football manager, 'I saw these lads had talents and they were much with me.' He was also a former member of the Coconut Tree Club which may or may not have been the first establishment to introduce lap dancers to East Lothian.

The 128 from Musselburgh to Aberlady was memorable for letting on board the oldest woman either David or myself had ever seen. Not only was she so bowed as to seem circular but her nose almost met her chin like a child's drawing of a friendly moon. She could probably still remember the night when Boswell propositioned her as she emptied the ashtrays at Ballencrieff and the look of shock on his face as she tipped their contents into his wig. Despite her translucent frailty and great age she was living independently and had just popped out to get her messages.

For much of the route the bus ran parallel to the main east coast rail track. When the High Speed train appeared in the driver's rear mirror his accelerator hit the floor ... one of these days, one of these days ...

A much read Metro retrieved from the floor contained a heart wrenching story under the headline BIG ISSUE CONMAN SOLD MY DOG AT TESCOS FOR 20. The woman had tied her lurcher-saluki outside the store; the man, bored with trying to flog unwanted magazines had simply used his initiative. Next time he will try his hand at shopping trolleys, bags of coal and car-parking s.p.a.ces.

The cold walk from Aberlady to Ballencrieff felt interminable and was only relieved by David straddling a fence to inspect a field of sprouts for reasons I couldn't be bothered asking him about.

We were overtaken by a fire engine with an ice cream van in hot (?) pursuit. The fire engine was approximately 140 years late as Ballencrieff castle suffered a serious fire in 1870 when the house keeper attempted to clear the acc.u.mulated soot from the chimney by setting it alight; a primitive method of chimney sweeping not uncommon in that part of the country, which had literally, back fired. She had little alternative as most of the sweeps had succ.u.mbed to testicular cancer. There is something odd about the number of homes visited by Johnson which subsequently caught fire. Perhaps the trustee of Raasay House had a point after all with her theory of posthumous arson, a scorched earth policy from beyond the grave.

Ballencrieff House is now restored as the centre piece in an upmarket pig farm. As we approached there was no sign of either human or porcine life; just a herd of superior Jacob sheep which nibbled at the manicured field in front of the building. Such a breed can only have evolved after Lucifer stumbled on an ordinary sheep after a night out in Longniddry. I swung on the bellpull which rang down the centuries. A few ghosts stretched but none of them could be bothered to come to the door.

As the return bus to Musselburgh negotiated the last roundabout we saw that a horse race was underway on the track which runs alongside the road into the town. In an instant the bus morphed into a betting shop, the man at the back who had been shouting the odds for much of the journey now did it for real, the ticket machine dispensed betting slips, the driver steered with his knees as he tic-tacked furiously into his mirror. The smaller pa.s.sengers threw off their bobble hats and replaced them with jockey caps of many hues. Nostrils flared and throats whinnied. The whole bus roared and the grandstand stood as the last furlong came into sight.

STAGE TWELVE.

LEAVING SCOTLAND.

Meeting Up with an Old Friend Helpful Advice for Innocent Travellers A lecture on Masonic Mysteries Another Distressing Accident caused by Mud The Annoyance of an Imaginary Sheep A Busy Coaching Inn and a Sad Farewell

Dalkeith Roslin Cranston Blackshiels

It was Sat.u.r.day 20th November 1773. It was Friday 26th November 2010. It was time, 100 days after he arrived in Scotland for Johnson to go back to London. Rather than just putting the old boy on the coach with a travelling rug and a few good books Boswell was determined to squeeze the last dregs of vicarious pleasure from his tour and arranged for them both to visit Roslin, Hawthornden, Cranston and Borthwick Castle on the road South before they parted.

The winter sun shone, my spirits soared. It was partly the prospect of travelling again, partly having Rory as my companion for the first time since the initial foray into Scotland from Berwick. Although limping badly and dependent on his newly-acquired collapsible walking stick he was up for it.

Edinburgh bus station was suffused with an incongruous serenity. Queues moved with a synchronised calm; a traveller nodded courteously as he was swatted sideways by a backpack containing at least a donkey, and possibly other farmyard beasts. Vegans smiled indulgently at the woman flaunting her Hollywood fur coat made from the sewn-together skins of numerous small and threatened species. As a single whistle blew the bus drivers emerged sheepishly from their trenches, shook the caked mud from their boots, wished each other a merry Christmas and started a game of football in the no man's land between stands 7 and 8.

The resumption of hostilities was announced by a girl in her mid-twenties bellowing into her mobile, 'Why didn't I get paid? That's a good question!'

Nanny had left her mark on the 51 to Dalkeith. HANDS UP IF YOU KNOW HOW TO CATCH A BUS JUST HOLD OUT YOUR HAND TO LET THE DRIVER KNOW YOU WANT THE BUS TO STOP ... DON'T GET LEFT BEHIND! At last, an explanation of why all those buses had, for decades, swept past lengthy queues and returned, ahead of schedule and completely empty to the depot. The Samaritans too had noticed a correlation between this new poster campaign and a marked fall in the number of bus drivers phoning in, just wanting someone to talk to someone, anyone, about their feelings of rejection and loneliness.

From the unaccustomed vantage point of the sideways disabled seats it was easier to observe the early fruits of genetic cloning in Midlothian. All of the pa.s.sengers were identical, all were women, seventy plus, all with exactly the same rigid white permed hair. A frozen sea, all waves equidistant from each other, peaks and troughs aligned with the moon. Had any one of these women been strapped to a drilling appliance they would have cut curls off granite. Despite the pleasing symmetry of shape and colour there was a hint of menace about this formidable army of veterans equipped with standard issue beige handbags and bus pa.s.ses that enabled them to travel the land by stealth and wreak a type of havoc only surpa.s.sed by the locust and the mercenary. Four years after his Highland jaunt Dr Johnson wrote, 'If I had no duties, and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman.' He never travelled on the Number 2.

We pa.s.sed through Bonnyrigg and the Orchard Centre in Lothian Road. I was tempted to break the journey and visit the cafe staffed by members of the community many of whom were on the long journey back from mental illness. Johnson could have peeled off his stinking clothes and joined the aromatherapy cla.s.s. Boswell could have exorcised some of his demons by making his own mosaic, each stone representing a betrayal. Both of them would have benefited from the laughter that flowed through the building. A therapy preferable to the self-flagellation that Johnson practised to preserve his sanity, or the head shaving rituals in which Boswell indulged.

The 141 to Roslin carried an open invitation to attend a FIRST BUS USER FORUM which, we were a.s.sured, would raise awareness of all the things pa.s.sengers could do 'to ensure they stay safe when travelling on our buses and address any other queries.' Rory who had never really understood bus safety, took note of the time and place. He was still perplexed by the pelvis injury sustained when pole-dancing in the bus doorway; likewise the fire-eating episode on the replacement single decker and the costs incurred, not to mention the man who died during the let's see-who-can-hold-their-breath-the-longest compet.i.tion on the night bus. He needed answers.

We both needed answers to explain why the doubtless good citizens of Loanhead had erected a statue to a dubious-looking character who was clearly trying to entice a small girl from her horse.

Until Rory lifted the shades from my eyes I had not known that Midlothian is no more than a patchwork of bowling clubs built on clannish adherence to now closed pits. In the same sentence Rory forged a link between the circ.u.mstances of Edward Heath's resignation and an anonymous bowling club manager who was promised a new car in his garage if he patronised a different brewer.

It was Boswell, ever the overeager tour guide, who suggested that they visit Roslin on the journey South. 'We surveyed Rosslyn Castle, the romantic scene around it, and the beautiful Gothic chapel, and dined and drank tea at the inn; after which we proceeded to Hawthornden and viewed the caves.' Johnson makes no mention of the detour, nor does he engage with pa.s.sing professors on the merits of the Da Vinci Code.

The overflow car park was full. The pilgrims clutched large blow ups of the last supper and cardboard cutouts of the chalice. They wore Judas Escariot Sucks and Dan's the Man lapel badges. Film crews battered each other with clappers and empty reel cans. Lines of lawyers and litigants wielded quill pens and precedents by the score. We glanced at the cult followers of the Knights that go Neep, the stalls selling plaster casts of twisted pillars and the relatives of the murdered apprentice boy demanding justice.

Inside the tiny chapel the guide feigned enthusiasm as she repeated the same phrases and made the same jokes. She intoned the litany of religious artifacts rumoured to be hidden in the vaults; the mummified head of Jesus, the Holy Grail, random rivets rescued from the Ark of the Covenant, splinters from the Cross and at least four of the Dead Sea scrolls. It must be more of an underground car park than a vault with shelf upon shelf of neatly-labelled relics all catalogued in strict adherence of the principles of the Dewey system.

The ancient archivist in white gloves gently shook the vial containing the blood of St Vitus to ensure it had not vitrified. He seemed to have mislaid Lucifer's tooth and the desiccated corsets of the Mother Superior from the Convent of Fetid Thoughts were not standing up to the pa.s.sage of time. Ditto the over contemplated fluff from the navel of the Buddha. He didn't have his troubles to seek. Word from head office had filtered down reminding him that the Jedi knights were now a religion recognized for the purposes of the national census. People just decide these things without thinking them through.

The chapel was pleasant enough.

Boswell had been eager to see Dr Johnson standing in the same house where his namesake Ben once held forth. They scurried from Roslin via the castle to Hawthornden, now a writer's retreat. I had previously phoned the centre to see if they would let us visit. After dropping the phone three times the caretaker croaked out the information that new boilers were being fitted and the place was in chaos. I was keen to visit nonetheless and left Rory to rest in the freezing garden attached to the Rosslin Inn. His knees were hurting and he needed to sit.

In the predictable absence of a bus linking Roslin to Hawthornden I decided to walk the two miles or so along the river. This would let me see Wallace's Cave that Boswell also mentions. This was a great mistake. As the riverside path was closed I started to fight my way through the wet undergrowth that clung to the steep sides of the glen. Within minutes I had slipped and was travelling at a fairly constant speed towards the drop into the water. Struck by the total absurdity of being the first person to be fatally injured when following in the footsteps I clutched at every pa.s.sing straw and tendril until the momentum of my decline was halted. 'Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon' played in my head except there was no horizon. As a child I watched older boys dropping into the mud off Southsea pier for money.

FOOLISH PENSIONER RESCUED FROM GLEN.

'The country ranger who found the man said he had been alerted by the sound of sobbing coming from the undergrowth. "I found the old boy curled up like a baby, sucking his thumb. He shouted something like, "Bozzy is to blame for this.'' The man who cannot be named for legal reasons in currently undergoing psychiatric a.s.sessment at St John's Hospital.'

I climbed back up to the road and startled a man who had been staring up at the trees while juggling a calibrated wheel and a clipboard. He had no idea where the road led and proved to be worse than useless. It was strange to think that someone was paying him good money to count trees.

A man with a dog directed me to a distant bungalow which he thought was built above the cave. I succeeded in setting off various alarms sensitive to unauthorized footfalls before climbing the fence. The owners had thought of this too and had carefully disguised a mud-filled elephant trap with foliage.

Eventually I saw a gaggle of people with several prams in the distance. I caught up with them and asked for directions. One of the parents stepped away from the multi-layered pram and pointed towards the horizon. The moment he turned away the pram toppled over hurling a small infant onto the road in a mess of snot, tears and howling. Feeling a kinship with Herod I thanked him and tried for one last time. The woman on whose door I knocked reacted as if Beelzebub was trying to sell her clothes pegs before pointing me down her garden path towards the cave.

It was a nondescript hole in a rock, a manmade construct, utterly pointless.

Having suffered sufficient disappointments and aware of the infrequency of buses from Roslin I decided to forego the dubious pleasure of trespa.s.sing into the grounds of Hawthornden. At least I was sparing myself any unwanted encounter with Ian Rankin foraging for bodies and cliches. It would have been good, though, to meet Alasdair Gray wandering in his pyjamas squeaking in delight at a new thought.

Rory in the pub garden Now Nearly frozen to death.

As we waited at the stop for a bus back into Dalkeith a long convoy of double deckers swept past en route to IKEA. Dreams of Trondheim bedside tables, Figgjo mirrors, Kajsa Trad quilt covers and two pillowcases, not to mention the Malmo black and brown bed frame were about to be consummated, and all those lives would be made better and all those marriages saved.

Possibly because his brain had been addled by Roslyn Chapel nonsense Rory had an epiphany in the bus shelter. He fell to his knees, or would have done had they not caused him such pain, and beyond speech pointed with a sense of wonder in his eyes at a pattern on the stone wall adjacent to the shelter. No wonder his gob was smacked. A face, eyes, nose and mouth with a hint of a sardonic smile were clearly visible. It was a message, a sign that we were the chosen ones.

Boswell and Johnson were due to stay that evening with Sir John Dalrymple at Cranston. They arrived late and their host was extremely grumpy especially as he had allegedly slaughtered a seven year old sheep for their evening meal, and now it was ruined. This sheep was the cause of much private mockery from the guests. Perhaps Johnson's spirits were lifting now that the end of the journey was in sight. Boswell suggested that the sheep, irrespective of how many years it had lived, was a figment of Dalrymple's imagination. An imaginary friend is one thing, an imaginary sheep something else altogether. The sheep fantasist wreaked his revenge on his smirking guests by ensuring that their bedrooms were utterly frozen. Boswell reflects on their less than pleasant evening, 'Our conversation was not brilliant. We supped, and went to bed in ancient rooms which would have better suited the climate of Italy in summer than that of Scotland in the month of November.'

Things were little better in the morning as the sheep was again the main topic of discussion over the breakfast table. Presumably in an effort to stop Johnson from thumping Dalrymple Boswell suggested they visit Borthwick Castle.

This then was our next port of call. The posters on the 141 reminded us that ACCIDENTS HAPPEN WHEN GETTING ON AND OFF THE BUS. Locals of a nervous disposition no longer travel on First Buses, their resolve long since eroded by endless fear laden warnings. Each journey becomes a risk-taking gambit, a lottery ticket to disaster or at least minor injury. The bus company has established clinics for pa.s.sengers traumatised by recurrent thoughts of what might happen to them if they ever again travel by bus.

A shy young girl tried to protect her s.p.a.ce by placing her bag on the seat next to her. It didn't work. An elderly man, his face pocked and picked by cigarettes and an unrelentingly hard life, coughed his way into the seat. She hastily retrieved her bag before it was crushed by a weight too horrible for her to contemplate, and stared out of the window.

In an unguarded moment a small woman positions herself between two poles without touching either and, balancing carefully, enjoys the sensation of rocking from one to the other.

As Borthwick Castle is a fair walk from Middleton Rory continued on the x95 into Stow where he was confident of finding a warm pub while I set off along the track. My breath hung in the air of the cold dusk. Black cattle looked up and then returned to the cud; the birds and bats darted while they could.

Although the castle was officially closed I was welcomed into the main hall and plied with coffee in front of a marrow-warming log fire. The decor was gothic chic. For my entertainment the embers spat sparks and tiny insects of flame onto the hearth. The table was strewn with copies of Scottish Weddings many of which were staged at Borthwick. I read a sample bridesmaid's speech, 'Well she's done it. Nicola has finally found a man who deserves her ...' and an obscure poem about bridal favours.

Boswell, increasingly losing momentum and motivation to finish his journal goes through the motions, 'We went and saw the old castle of Borthwick. I recollect no conversation worth preserving, except one saying of Dr Johnson, which will be a valuable text for many decent old dowagers, and other good company in various circles to descant upon. He said, 'I am sorry I have not learnt to play at cards. It is very useful in life; it generates kindness and consolidates society.' In which of the three drawing rooms did Johnson hover over the simpering biddies, sneaking a glance at the aces up their sleeves?

David Sinclair, a young retainer, provided me with the most enthusiastic tour yet. While he spoke a red hot canon ball lodged itself into the masonry and the siege bound cattle nudged each other closer to the warmth of the fire in the dungeon hearth. With a wave of his hand a whole tree trunk forced its way into the main hall and split the stones, as sack-clad peasants looted every splinter of original wood to house their families.

Borthwick Castle must have been much colder when Johnson visited. Boswell tells us, 'My friend and I thought we should be warmer and more comfortable at the inn at Blackshiels, two miles farther on. We therefore went thither in the evening, and he was very entertaining.' It was his last night in Scotland.

The following morning Rory and I retraced our steps and eventually found Blackshiels hamlet. The visiting district nurse had no idea where the original coaching inn had been but the postman thought he knew. Had this continued we would have completed a whole hand of Happy Families. It is now a farm but the original courtyard is still visible. The farmer who owns the place had never heard of Boswell or Johnson.

Boswell's account ends as if he just wants to get the thing finished. 'We breakfasted together next morning, and then the coach came and took him up. He had as one of his companions in it as far as Newcastle, the worthy and ingenious Dr Hope, botanical professor at Edinburgh.' One more sentence about how Johnson and Hope enjoyed each other's company and that was that.

We managed not to be noticed as we merged into the bustle and chaos of the yard. The new horses bucked and shot gouts of breath into the early morning air as they were harnessed to the coach. The ostler patted his favourite, a large piebald creature and surrept.i.tiously fed it something which the horse snorted up from his hand. A small urchin sidled up to Rory and put his hand out for money. Rory gave him half a sovereign and shooed him away. The coachman tugged irritably at the spring above the rear wheel and gestured at the inn keeper who joined him in tugging at the side of the coach which shook a little.

Johnson stared briefly from the window to see what was going on. A woman holding up her skirts to stop them trailing in the mud ran up to the coach. She was late and fl.u.s.tered. Her maid arrived moments later with a large brown bag which was hoisted onto the luggage rack. Boswell was there, dressed in a large greatcoat which had fallen open to reveal a green flounced shirt. He seemed agitated and took snuff continuously all the while flicking his nose with a large white handkerchief. He shouted at Joseph who was still holding Johnson's day bag. Joseph muttered something and scowled. Among the crowd of well-wishers and hangers on I saw David, Roy and John; I would speak to them later. The driver, a large man, was the last to arrive. He moved slowly towards the coach as if he couldn't really be bothered and flicked his whip in the direction of a small dog. Without a glance at the pa.s.sengers inside he swung himself onto his seat, tugged on the reins and swept out of the yard. I caught a last glance of Johnson's face and saw the merest hint of anxiety; it could have been loss.

Dr Johnson arrived back in London to discover that Lucy, his G.o.d child, had died four days previously. He resumed his complex relationship with Hester Thrale, travelled to Wales and France, declined the challenge of a duel with James Macpherson over the Ossian forgery, toyed with owning a brewery, published A Journey to the Western Isles in 1777 to very mixed reviews, felt increasingly haunted by Boswell, increased his intake of opium to offset his growing melancholy, and died on December 13th 1784. The surgeons at Hunter's school of Anatomy declared on cutting him open that his heart was 'exceedingly strong and large.'

After Johnson returned to London James Boswell sank into a deep despair and fought frequently with Margaret who was again exasperated by his womanising, drinking and gambling; he threw a lighted candlestick at her on one occasion and a chair on another. When his father died he dabbled with Auchinleck politics before being called to the English bar in 1775. Despite Margaret's pleas they only ever returned once to Scotland. In London he dogged Johnson's every step and published the hugely successful The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson LLD in 1785. Six years later he published his masterpiece, The Life of Samuel Johnson. This success could not dissipate his addiction to drink, vice and despair. In The Tyranny of Treatment McEnroe and Simon describe the days leading to his death, aged 54 in 1795. 'He collapsed at a meeting of the literary club, and had to be carried home. His symptoms included fever, trembling, violent headache, and vomiting. A doctor reported that a swelling in his bladder had 'mortified'. A month later he died: his kidneys had failed. Ober's tentative diagnosis is that he died of acute and chronic urinary tract infection, secondary to post-gonorrheal stricture. He had no doubt that Boswell's premature death resulted from complications arising from his many episodes of gonorrhea, exacerbated by excessive alcohol intake over many years.'

Margaret remained at Boswell's side despite the huge challenges in the marriage. She sent a 'marmalade of oranges of her own making' to Dr Johnson by way of a peace offering. She duly gave birth to Effie, Sandy, David, Jamie and Betsy. She tried to understand what drove her husband to other women and on one occasion accompanied him on one of his nightly trawls through the streets of London to keep him away from temptation but 'he went on wrapped in darkness'. On March 8th 1775 Boswell wrote of his wife, 'She was sensible, amiable, and all that I could wish, except being averse to hymeneal rites. I told her I must have a concubine. She said I might go to whom I pleased. She has often said so.' She became increasingly homesick and her health started to suffer. She died of consumption on January 4th 1789. Boswell was not at her side. 'My second daughter came running out from our house, and announced to us the dismal event in a burst of tears ... I had not been with her to soothe her last moments, I cried bitterly and upbraided myself for leaving her, for she would not have left me.'

Of Joseph Ritter we know nothing more.

About the Author.

Stuart Campbell has worked as an English teacher and Advisor in the Lothians, and as a part time manager with Health in Mind, an Edinburgh based mental health charity. He has previously written for the BBC, the Guardian and the Scottish Book Collector, and is the editor of RLS in Love, an anthology of Robert Louis Stevenson's love poetry. For many years resident in Edinburgh, but now living in Glasgow, he is married to Morag with four grown up children.

Also by Stuart Campbell.

RLS in Love.

end.