Boswell's Bus Pass Part 6

Birkbeck Hill had the same thought. 'That an Englishmen could travel in safety, unarmed and unguarded, through a country which only seven and twenty years before had been so mercilessly treated seems not a little surprising.'

Johnson's namesake, an eye witness to the battle and the subsequent shambolic retreat describes this particular stretch of road. 'Having been pursued by the English cavalry, the road from Culloden to that town was everywhere strewn with dead bodies. The Duke of c.u.mberland had the cruelty to allow our wounded to remain amongst the dead on the field of battle, stripped of their clothes, from Wednesday, the day of our unfortunate engagement, till three o'clock in the afternoon of Friday, when he sent detachments to kill all those who were still in life. A great many, who had resisted the efforts of the continual rains which fell all that time, were then dispatched. He ordered a barn, which contained many of the wounded Highlanders, to be set on fire and the soldiers stationed round it drove back with fixed bayonets the unfortunate men who attempted to save themselves, into the flames, burning them alive in this horrible manner, as if they had not been fellow-creatures.'

Johnson, smelling the flesh and hearing the screams, ignored his companion jabbering about injustice, shivered, sunk deeper into his greatcoat and feigned sleep.

Just as Johnson and Boswell visited an Inverness castle under the misapprehension that it had once belonged to Macbeth so I visited another castle under the equally erroneous a.s.sumption that it was the castle that Johnson and Boswell had visited. Anyway it was a castle and it was in Inverness. It now serves as the Sheriff Court, a function confirmed by the sight of two hooded youths grunting to their friend who was stripped to the waist having escaped from Culloden. His arm was heavily bandaged after a glancing blow from a broadsword. They were joined by their begowned lawyer who did not look over hopeful of his clients avoiding deportation. As a salutary harbinger of what lay ahead another man, his crest decidedly fallen, was led away in handcuffs to the attendant Reliance van.

Boswell's father had been a familiar figure on the Northern legal circuit with his full-bottomed wig, gown of purple cloth and crimson velvet with white cravats.

Their sightseeing took in Oliver's Fort. Johnson later seized the opportunity to provoke the country whose hospitality he had enjoyed. He suggested that 'what the Romans did to other nations, was in a great degree done by Cromwell to the Scots; he civilized them by conquest, and introduced by useful violence the arts of peace.' The concept of useful violence is one that has not travelled well. Adding insult to prejudice he continues with a species of illogicality he would have derided in others, 'I was told at Aberdeen that the people learned from Cromwell's soldiers to make shoes and plant kail. How they lived without kail, it is not easy to guess: they cultivate hardly any other plant for common tables, and when they had not kail they probably had nothing. The numbers that go barefoot are still sufficient to shew that shoes may be spared ...' it reads like a nostalgic Billy Connelly rant about deep fried Mars Bars and welly boots.

There now follows a party political broadcast on behalf of the British National Party. 'Til the Union made them acquainted with English manners, the culture of their lands was unskilful, and their domestick life unformed; their tables were course as the feasts of Eskimeaux, and their houses filthy as the cottages of Hottentots.' It is easy to see why the Tartan Army swung from the goalposts in 1775.

I traipsed out in the general direction of Oliver's Fort through the docks where a small steam tug puffed smugly, blissfully unaware that it had been caught in a time warp and dropped back into the River Ness a hundred years after setting out. The skipper chewed on his plug of baccy and spat into the water. I made the mistake of asking a parked van driver if there was a commemorative plaque somewhere. I would have received a better response if I had asked if his mother gave good oral s.e.x. Eventually I found an oddly squat runt of a tower covered in scaffolding. It was surrounded by a township of DIY warehouses the combined contents of which would have been more than sufficient to rebuild the original garrison.

The pair of them held court in Mrs MacKenzie's inn, the Horns situated at the north-west end of Bridge Street and described by Boswell as 'dirty, and ill-furnished', although he conceded that 'the entertainment was good.' The nearest licensed premises to the original tavern is the Gellions, reputedly the oldest pub in Inverness and dating back to 1820. Its only claim to fame apart from a dubious vending machine in the gents, of which more later, was the fact that William McGonagall read his poetry there to a suitably startled audience towards the end of the 19th century.

Fifty years ago Dr Johnson came to this town With James Boswell, A biographer and his pal.

Both of them writers of some renown.

Patrons were warned that any person found either possessing, using or distributing any type of drug would be banned from the premises and reported to the police. This explains the ugly scenes when Johnson cut a line of snuff with his credit card.

The vending machine promised Naughty Toys for Boys and Girls. For five pounds you could buy either a set of vibrating Bunny Lugs or an artefact called Wild w.i.l.l.y. Dr Johnson stood alongside Boswell and shook a leg of his breeches, 'No James, Oi won't lend yow a sovereign, and watch where yer pointing that thing!'

On the Sunday they worshipped at the 'English Chapel' which was a single room in a house in Baron Taylor's Street. It was not easy peering at Cactus Jakes Cougar Bar or Ladbrokes (Ross County 7/2 to win the Scottish Cup, not bad odds) to work out which of the properties might be using a neglected chapel as a storage room.

Sadly I had to leave the pair of them at prayer and return home. I was also growing increasingly disillusioned with travelling on my own and vowed to persuade some other charitable soul to join me on the next stage.

Inverness August 28th My Dearest Fragrant Margaret, The Doctor in his room writing, the master too is writing, I think to you. I also write you. Life is strange that two men write to same woman. I know my Margaret, this is letter you wait for, not silly letter from master full of pretend sighs for you and boring things doctor say, and more clever things he say in reply.(1) We travel over empty lands and my master and the doctor talk about Macbeth. They have compet.i.tion to see who can say most lines. I too know Macbeth, famous play but I do not say they get some lines wrong, I am servant only and know my place.(2) Then very strange thing happen. Again we stop as doctor wishes to make water, it takes him very long time, I hope he is not a sick man. While he wait for water to come my master rush off to see dead man hanging from gallows. The man is falling apart and smell very bad but my master stand beneath him and make sign of the cross. He shakes a lot but will not take eyes from dead man's face. Sometimes I think my master is not well man.(3) Later we visit fort, it is biggest in world. Vlad he left forts in my country but they are small and fall down. This fort go on for ever and reaches to sea. They must have very big fear of natives if they build fort like this. When we wait for supper the drums go loud and my master, thinking I sleep, he look round and puts on red soldier hat and marches round room with his arms very stiff. He has proud look on face. My laughs they shake me and I am very sore in stomach so I pretend to wake up and stretch arms loudly.(4) My master send for me when they are eating big meal that feed all my family and friends. He has forgotten black book and needs pen to write down things they all say though their mouths are stuffed with chicken and other birds and lots of meat. They talk about drinking blood of camels. I think this not nice to talk about but I am not important person.

Always my master worry about little Veroni. He keep thinking she dead and he cry a lot. I tell him letters do not come easy to this place and, as they say in my country, no news is not bad news. Still he worry. I think he has conscience, when he do things with women he know he is bad person and bad things will happen to him. He is very odd man but I do not like to see him not happy.

He cry too when we pa.s.s place called Cullodi where there was big battle. He shake with crying and he mutter prayer under sobs, then he sing sad song in strange voice not his own. The doctor get very angry, even Joseph have big fear as he bang big k.n.o.b stick on floor of carriage. His face go strange colour like he struggle with stools. The master look full of shock and he shake his fist at doctor. Bad thing to do. The doctor make bull noise and hold master in strong bull grip. Joseph put himself between them both and get hit on head. I see stars in carriage sky but master and doctor stop fighting and sit not saying, not looking at the other. (5) My candle is nearly down (my big candle is not down when I think of my dearest Margaret I know you like my joke). It winks at me. I want to be your house again in James Court, I want to breath the air escaped from your mouth and smell perfume from you. Even if I am in the dark downstairs, at least I would be fond and close to my best love, My (how I wish and prey G.o.d) Margaret, Your Bohemian Rhapsody, Jo.

(1) The journal confirms that Boswell wrote to Margaret from the inn, while Johnson sent letters to Mrs Thrale and his house keeper, Miss Williams.

(2) Boswell records that 'In the afternoon, we drove over the very heath where Macbeth met the witches, according to tradition. Dr Johnson again solemnly repeated, "How far is't called to Forres? What are these, So wither'd and so wild in their attire?'' He repeated a good deal more of Macbeth. His recitation was grand and affecting.'

(3) 'The sight impressed me with a degree of gloom,' is Boswell's comment on the event.

(4) This is not quite the version we get from Boswell, 'At three the drum beat for dinner. I could fancy myself a military man, and it pleased me.'

(5) This astonishing account of the two men coming to blows contributes to the ongoing debate over Dr Johnson's political sympathies. Although it has long been a.s.sumed that he was initially attracted to the romanticism of the Jacobite dream his att.i.tude appears to change on the journey. After all he later makes a joke when as Flora Macdonald's guest he sleeps in the pretender's bed, 'I have had no ambitious thoughts in it.' Boswell also records the doctor reflecting that if he could have secured victory at Culloden by holding up his right hand, he was not sure he would have held it up. (Some critics have seen in this statement a reference to Johnson's non jurist status. According to this theory it was his refusal to take an oath of allegiance [holding up his left hand] at Oxford University that prevented his graduation, not his poverty). Joseph's anecdote gives credence to the view that, along with many others, Johnson came to appreciate that sentimental adherence to Jacobinism counted for nothing in the face of brutal vengeful ma.s.sacre. This would explain why he was so sorely provoked by Boswell's tears.

STAGE SIX.

THE GREAT GLEN.

A Sad Chinaman A Hopeless Love A Tasteless Episode featuring an Old Woman An Attack of Vertigo A Patriotic Song The Interrogation of a Guilty Couple A Monstrous Goat Dispensing Charity to the Natives A Frightful Apparition in a Bed

Inverness Foyers Fort Augustus

The intervening weeks before I could travel again weighed heavily on me. I knew that Boswell and Johnson were waiting for me frozen in time. I was the only one who could release them from the spell and let them move on. Only by travelling north again could I breathe life and animation into Rowlandson's black and white cartoon figures and let them jerk alive and finish the strident conversation abandoned in mid sentence.

Roy, now grizzled and wiry as a whippet, joined me when the Inverness train stopped in Dunkeld & Birnham. We had also known each other from University days. After a long career in teaching Roy had moved north to run a private hostel where, in the absence of neighbours, he was able to develop his musical talents and by interrogating guests, further hone his talent for inquisition. I had missed him since he left Edinburgh. Most Sunday nights for at least a decade had besen marked by increasingly awful geriatric squash and three pints of much needed real ale during the consumption of which we would confide, confess and support each other in a way that defied gender stereotyping. I was not surprised to learn subsequently that he had chosen to give his time to a helpline that offered succour to the distressed and lost.

'We were now to bid farewell to the luxury of travelling, and to enter a country upon which perhaps no wheel has ever rolled ... At Inverness therefore we procured three horses for ourselves and a servant, and one more for our baggage, which was no very heavy load ... We took two Highlanders to run beside us, partly to show us the way and partly to take back from the seaside the horses of which they were the owners. One of them was a man of great liveliness and activity, of whom his companion said, he would tire any horse in Inverness.'

It must have been one heck of a run for the unfortunate Highlanders trying to keep up with the horses all the way from Inverness to Fort Augustus, the pair of them staggering along, flailing in their plaids and cursing in Gaelic at the privileged travellers. Spare a thought too for Johnson's unfortunate horse which must have increasingly resembled a Thelwell cartoon pony, its legs progressively buckling and splayed under its corpulent burden.

Boswell provides a more humane insight into the situation of their departure. 'We should have set out at seven. But one of the horses needed shoeing; the smith had got drunk the night before at a wedding and could not rise early; so we did not get off set off til nine.' He at least humanises their running companions by revealing their names, John Hay and Lauchlan Va.s.s.

Roy has always inclined to interrogation as a mode of conversational engagement and had soon extracted a full life history from the diminutive Chinaman waiting at the bus stop with a full sized lawnmower in a box. The cardboard package which claimed to hold a Bosch Rorak 34 was the size of a small tractor and may equally have been housing all of his grandchildren from the Far East. He happily waved his 'Old Man Pa.s.s' and told us that its equivalent in Singapore would ensure that he would never again have to hand over money for goods, chattels or services including prost.i.tutes, casino chips and gardening magazines.

The box competed for the s.p.a.ce colonised by two elderly women at the front of the shelter who were clearly marking their private fiefdom with an entourage of Lidl and M & S bags. They discussed the forthcoming general election with a lack of comprehension and outrage in equal measure. They were both engaged by Gordon Brown's gaffe when his errant microphone caught him referring to a pensioner as a 'bigoted woman'. 'I had to go and look it up in the dictionary ... m' mither, she's 92, saw yon boy from the anti-immigrant party. He's got the right ideas she said.' The Chinaman looked over his shoulder fearful of forced repatriation at the hands of a spittle flecked army of racist nonagenarians.

When the 302 bus to Foyers arrived the driver looked at the midget JCB and shook his head.

As we left Inverness Roy pointed out his primary school, the house where his parents lived and the old folks' home where his dad died. Even in your sixties the loss of parents hurt; we all become aging orphans.

The driver's quiff and dark gla.s.ses identified him as a member of the Roy Orbison fan club, northern branch. He knew the only other pa.s.senger and spoke to her in increasingly confiding tones. After small talk he nonchalantly introduced the name of a woman he had seen at a party recently. His quiff sank noticeably when she told him the woman was married. She ended the brief silence that followed with 'Are you smitten?'

He replied with one of the great answerable questions, 'Why am I always attracted to married women?' In his head he played Pretty Woman, Beautiful Dreamer, A Love so Beautiful, All I need is Time, I Can't Stop Loving You, It's Over and several reprises of I Drove all Night. The overtime from driving all through the night would enable him to renew his lapsed subscription to the Lonely Hearts (Bus Drivers) site.

The pain of heartbreak was slightly alleviated by the pleasure of gossip, 'Nancy told me he just showed his wife and kids the door.'

As we faithfully followed Johnson and Boswell's route down the East side of Loch Ness Roy pointed out Dochfour House on the opposite bank where his mother used to visit when young to pick daffodils. She and her companions were allowed to pick as many as they could carry and would all travel home by bus. The astonishing image of a flower-festooned charabanc superimposed itself on the functional interior of the 302; a travelling funeral parlour, a moving meadow, Wordsworth's wildest fantasy.

The bus developed a peculiar squeak as it accelerated past Dores. Initially an irritating tinnitus it gradually a.s.sumed a celestial quality until Aeolian harps and Pan Pipes sang us on our way; a special service offered by D & E buses, oddly not mentioned on their website.

Explaining how Loch Ness functions as a wind tunnel Roy described how seagulls are swept down the water, impotent wings swept back, helpless to resist before being impaled on the trees at the far end. A strange harvest of dead birds hanging from the branches, gulls splayed and crucified by gale force winds.

He mentioned a family tale about how his father's cousin had been a war-time crew member of a small boat whose mission was to patrol the Moray Firth and look out for German aircraft flying low to bomb the aluminium smelting plant at Foyers. Steaming drunk, he had to be rugby tackled to the deck as he aimed his shotgun at the marauding Dornier which, if provoked by a spray of ill-directed grapeshot, would have enjoyed the additional diversion of blowing the small craft out of the water.

As the 302 only pa.s.sed this way once a day we decided against requesting an earlier stop so that we could search for the remains of the cottage where Johnson and Boswell had one of the strangest encounters of their journey.

With hindsight Enid Blyton owes a debt of grat.i.tude to Boswell. He introduces the adventure with 'A good way up the loch, I perceived a little hut with an oldish woman at the door of it. I knew it would be a scene for Mr Johnson. So I spoke of it. 'Let's go in,' said he.' Appet.i.tes whetted by nursery rhyme evocations of gingerbread women and elderly single mothers who lived in shoes, they dismounted.

'... we and our guides went in. It was a wretched little hovel, of earth only, I think; and for a window had just a hole which was stopped with a piece of turf which could be taken out to let in light. In the middle of the room was a fire of peat, the smoke going out at a hole in the roof. She had a pot upon it with goat's flesh boiling. She had at one end, under the same roof but divided with a kind of part.i.tion made of wands, a pen or fold in which we saw a good many kids.'

The idea still has potential. POOR PEOPLE TOURS. COME AND GAWK AT REALLY POOR PEOPLE IN THEIR HOMES, AND SEE WHAT THEY EAT. TWICE DAILY. BOOK EARLY TO AVOID DISAPPOINTMENT.

'Mr Johnson asked me where she slept. I asked one of the guides, who asked her in Erse. She spoke with a kind of high tone. He told us she was afraid we wanted to go to bed with her. This coquetry, or whatever it may be called, of so wretched a like being was truly ludicrous.'

This from the same Boswell who by his own admission when on the grand Tour in Dresden, flirted with 'easy street girls and by way of sport sought out the 'ugliest woman I could find'.

'Mr Johnson and I afterwards made merry of upon it. I said it was he who alarmed the poor woman's virtue. "No, sir,'' said he. "She'll say, 'There came a wicked young fellow, a wild young dog, who I believe would have ravished me had there not been with him a grave old gentleman who repressed him. But when he gets out of the sight of his tutor, I'll warrant you he'll spare no woman he meets, young or old.'''

The social tourists took snuff and whisky from the old woman and salved their consciences by giving her a shilling.

We had to abandon our post-chaise at the falls of Foyers. Although the West coast of the Loch is well served by buses this was as far as we could go by public transport on the opposite bank.

We delayed starting the fourteen mile walk to Fort Augustus by ordering impressively expensive rolls in the one shop that services the intermittent tourist trade. On sale was an eclectic range of goods; a tube of Migibite rubbed shoulders with a bottle of whisky last seen on the bridge of SS Politician and a packet of contraceptives; a still life tribute to a blissful one night stand in a tent. The same goods were also worth having at your bedside in case two condescending 18th century travellers should drop by to inspect your goats.

A notice in the window of the Wells Fargo store advertised a service that guaranteed to exterminate Rats, Mice, Wasps, Bees, Ants, Rabbits, Moles and Birds. An entire eco system eradicated at a stroke, a precursor to a nuclear winter and the formation of Mole Appreciation Societies across the empire.

Johnson was impressed by the Falls. 'We desired our guides to shew us the fall, and dismounting, clambered over very rugged crags, till I began to wish that our curiosity might have been gratified with less trouble and danger. We came at last to a place where we could overlook the river, and saw a channel torn, as it seems, through black piles of stone, by which the stream is obstructed and broken, till it comes to a very steep descent, of such dreadful depth, that we were naturally inclined to turn aside our eyes.'

We eschewed the red squirrel trail in favour of the zig-zag decking descent. After all we felt no need to demonstrate solidarity with squirrels as they did not feature on the exterminator's list.

Every corner of the staircase was occupied by similarly dressed men talking on mobile phones. This was a synchronised event beyond explanation.

Johnson was not wrong about the falls. The drop viewed by leaning over the protective railings was conducive to vertigo, lightness of the head and a tumbling of the bowels. Roy idly tossed his apple core into the water. Boswell makes no mention of the Falls whatsoever. He probably feared a repeat of the cowardice that disabled him at the Bullers of Buchan.

The road out of Foyers pa.s.ses one of the st.u.r.diest and underused of public conveniences in the Highlands. On the other side of the path its overgrown and obsolete ancestor is still visible. In its time it doubled as an air raid shelter which is why, by straining our ears, we could hear someone singing Keep the Home Fires Burning in a tiny distant voice. The Public Convenience Replacement, Renewal and Upgrading Programme by far surpa.s.sed anything that general Wade achieved by building roads.

Lord grant that Marshal Wade May by thy mighty aid Victory bring May he sedition crush, And like a torrent rush, Rebellious Scots to crush G.o.d save the King!

We followed one of his better efforts for the first four miles. Newly minted lambs were doing what lambs do, gambolling for high stakes and head b.u.t.ting the nearest available set of udders.

A single crow fretted in a cage surrounded by the new families of sheep. Its function was to lure other birds down to join it by entering through the one-way opening whereupon it would become trapped, squashed against its potential mate before being removed, its neck snapped then tossed aside. The cycle would then be repeated; attractive bird in cage flirts with stranger who is then executed. Blinded by love they fail to see the growing black heap of corpses.

Johnson enjoyed his first day on horseback, 'Most of this day's journey was very pleasant. The day, though bright, was not hot; and the appearance of the country, if I had not seen the peak, would have been wholly new.' Up to his old tricks again, having compared Edinburgh with Birmingham he now pretends that the sight of a poxy hillock in Derbyshire had prepared him for the grandeur of the Highlands.

The remaining ten miles on the tarmacadammed A82 was for the main, more attritional than rewarding. Having grown used to scenery changing by the moment from the window of a bus this stuff stubbornly refused to alter. Same old, same old. I was acutely aware of the wind playing on a continuous loop in my ears and the increasingly painful meditation of boot on road. The fault must be mine I should be enjoying all this. The road kill yielded one distorted hedgehog, a stiff frog with its legs in the air, presumably it died of boredom rather than a brush with an intermittent 4x4, and a bird's skeleton toothpicked clean.

Roy claimed to have spotted a dead sheep in a field, a supposition based more on the fact that the animal refused to respond to his line of gratuitous sheep abuse than much else.

The haul of hubcaps in the vicinity of cattle grids suggested a different type of road kill. If anyone was sad enough to collect hub caps as a hobby this was the place to look. Every make was there, tens of them lying in hedgerows, and lining the ditches. Under cover of darkness the hubgoblins would pile them onto carts and trundle them away.

At Invefarigaig we climbed down onto one of the few remaining Wade bridges. Totally unmarked it seemed to be incrementally lurching to its inevitable collapse under the new road. Shedding stones from the parapet it impressed because of its smallness. Miniature masons, dwarf engineers and knee-high conscripts swarmed over a road network that would ultimately subdue and subjugate their equally tiny enemies.

The long gradual descent into Fort Augustus proved as hard as going uphill. As the town emerged from the twilight we speculated as to the precise nature of the pleasure that lay in store. We settled for a pub and a B & B.

Johnson and Boswell spent the night in the Fort as guests of the deputy governor, 'It was comfortable to find ourselves in a well-built little square, a neat well-furnished house with prints, etc, a good meal (frica.s.see of moor-fowl etc); in short, with all the conveniences of civilized life in the midst of rude mountains.' The frica.s.see of moorfoul was consumed a few hours after their road side snack of mutton-chops, a broiled chicken, and bacon and eggs, and a bottle of Malaga. Johnson's long suffering horse must have been about to give up its horsely ghost.

Instead of being well-furnished with prints our B & B gave pride of place in the centre of the dining table to an intimidating hybrid monster constructed entirely from the recycled components of a large motor bike.

The remains of the original fort, torched for fun by the Jacobites, were incorporated into the foundations of the abbey that replaced it. At the time of trespa.s.sing it too was being transformed into bijou apartments. As we wandered round the croquet lawn wondering who in these straitened times could afford to live there, we met a middle aged couple leaving with suitcases. The interrogator pounced. Soon he extracted details of both the dimensions and price of the room they had just left and much more besides. They were both from London allegedly revisiting their roots. Mercifully the one big question was left unasked. Had Roy persevered they would have confessed to their weekend of adultery and peppered their explanation with our-spouses-don't-understand, no-harm-has-been-done, we-are-soul mates, we-can't-leave-our-respective children. Roy would have nodded gravely, exhorted them not to sin again, given them absolution with a truncated blessing before lying his old bones down on an empty plot in the adjacent monks' graveyard.

The Curios and Collectables displayed in the window of the closed local shop consisted of several trays of model Loch Ness monsters made from curls of green ceramic poo.

As we checked on the bus timetable an elderly man came up to explain the purpose of his journey. His wife had died a fortnight previously. The information was delivered in a matter of fact way masking profound shock and denial. He was going to Brighton. Would he look for her among the beach huts? Would he talk to her reproachfully in the same teashop where they courted fifty years previously? 'Why didn't you tell me you were going away, I have been so worried.'

Fort Augustus Glenelg

To pick up the trail from Fort Augustus to Glenelg we doubled back to Inverness to catch the 917 which would drop us off at Shiel Bridge. The bus route is only an approximation to the original journey as much of the original road lies drowned beneath reservoirs.

At the bus station I checked with the hugely tall man in a crisp white shirt that we were in the right queue. 'I hope so,' he said, 'I'm the driver.' He explained how his vehicle was in the garage to 'drop its toilet.' This mystifying phrase brought several unwanted scatological images to mind. Evidently it also needed more blue additive in its fuel tank. This was a legal requirement to deter cowboy drivers from siphoning off the fuel in a lay-by and selling Molotov c.o.c.ktails of cheap diesel to impoverished motorists, potential arsonists and deviant sniffers who had grown out of lighter fuel.

Two j.a.panese youths entertained the queue by staging an impromptu sumo wrestling match with their rucksacks hidden under cagoules, a new event in the Pauper Olympics. Roy drew my attention to a young woman picking stones from her crocs. At least I hope that's what he said. Either way I chose not to look in case I had misheard.

When the bus arrived a woman in her 70s fought her way to the front of the queue, clicked her arms into a position that suggested she had been paralysed when cuddling a wheelie bin, and maneuvered herself into the front seat.

The journey itself was dull as most of the pa.s.sengers slept, mouths open and rag doll heads lolling. A young woman jolted awake disconnecting her earphones and leaving the lyrics 'map of the world, map of the world' bouncing round the aisle. At a command from the driver all pa.s.sengers would be required to swap one on their ear pieces with their neighbour who would in turn pa.s.s theirs to someone in the seat behind. Soon a complex lattice work of thin white wires would strangle everyone on the bus, a fatal cat's cradle, a Babel grid of crossed wires as Mahler meets grunge and hip hop enlivens the Dow Jones Index. There would be several fatalities as pacemakers realigned themselves to a thumping ba.s.s.

A full bottle of water fell from the luggage rack and landed hard in Roy's groin. He shouted and then admitted it was his own bottle. Attention seeking.

He spoke for a while about his part-time work with a crisis helpline. He described how the individual voices with their unique stories gradually coalesced into a sense of ma.s.s helplessness, ebbing and flowing down the phone line into the night. There was no helpline for Boswell or Johnson when their hearts choked with melancholia. No help but prayer or confiding in the journal, occasional purgation, a restorative bloodletting. Perhaps scourging in Johnson's case, and s.e.x or drink in Boswell's. When all else failed, go on a journey.

At some point not far from where the current road pa.s.ses through Glenmoriston Boswell and Johnson encountered a party of soldiers. Johnson fearful lest they drank his blood to slake their obvious thirst gave them two shillings to spend in the nearest off licence. As the inn where our travellers were to spend the night was the only purveyor of strong liquor in the vicinity they all arrived together, whereupon the soldiers retired to the barn to drink themselves into a quarrelsome state.

Eager for further entertainment Boswell and Johnson popped out to the barn and gave the soldiers even more money. The plan worked as effortlessly as putting coins into a juke box. The record arm dropped the disc neatly onto the turntable and they listened to the soothing sounds of the soldiers knocking five bells out of each other. 'Some of them fought and left blood on the spot.'

As always Boswell faithfully recorded every morsel that they ate at Anoch, 'We had a broiled chicken, mutton collops or chops, mutton sausage, eggs of which Mr Johnson eat five and nothing else. I eat four, some chicken and some sausage, and drank some rum and water and sugar.' How did Johnson eat five eggs? Was it a party trick, did he pop then into his bulging cheeks like a conjurer? Did he line them up in a row? Perhaps the horses had shaken his bowels into a state of flux and this was the remedy.

They talked with MacQueen their landlord about emigration and press ganging. Johnson presented his daughter with a book of arithmetic. The perfect gift for a young girl. 'Put aside the Barbies, forget the subscription to Jackie, look at these sums!'

The sleeping arrangements left much to be desired. 'There were two beds in the room. A woman's gown was hung on a rope to make a kind of separation between them. Joseph had the sheets which we brought with us laid on them. We had much hesitation whether to undress or lie down with or clothes on. I said at last, "I'll plunge in! I shall have less room for vermin to settle about me when I strip!'' Mr Johnson said he was like one hesitating whether to go into the cold bath. At last he resolved too.'

Boswell then provided a touching cameo of them chatting in bed before Johnson said, 'G.o.d bless us both for G.o.d's sake. Good night.' I p.r.o.nounced "Amen''. Mr Johnson fell asleep immediately. I could not have that good fortune for a long time. I fancied myself bit by innumerable vermin under the clothes, and that a spider was travelling from the wainscot towards my mouth ...' That's what you get when you stuff yourself full of mutton.