Boswell's Bus Pass Read online

  BOSWELL’S BUS PASS

  Stuart Campbell

  Ed Rainy Brown and Will Reynish

  neither of whom made it to collect their bus passes.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  INTRODUCTION

  STAGE ONE: Crossing The Border

  STAGE TWO: Setting Out

  STAGE FOUR: Fife, Angus and Aberdeen

  STAGE FOUR: The Coastal Path

  STAGE FIVE: Into the Highlands

  STAGE SIX: The Great Glen

  STAGE SEVEN: Skye, Raasay and Skye Again

  STAGE EIGHT: Mull, Ulva, Coll, Iona

  STAGE NINE: The Road South

  STAGE TEN: Glasgow and Ayrshire

  STAGE ELEVEN: Edinburgh and the Lothians

  STAGE TWELVE: Leaving Scotland

  About the Author

  Also by Stuart Campbell

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to my fellow travellers, Rory MacLeod, Roy Henderson, David Raitt and John Aitken for their company, insight and general nonsense. I am also very grateful to Ian Chisholm and Jean Taylor for wielding their fine toothcombs; Veronica Denholm from The National Library of Scotland; George Reid for helping out with the Gaelic; Stuart Brett for wrestling with JPEGS and PDFs; Jim O’Sullivan from whom I stole the idea of the Grim Reaper travelling on public transport; the nice couple who stopped to give us a lift in fragrant violation of the unwritten rules of the journey, and above all, to Morag for tolerating her increasingly eccentric husband.

  I would also like to thank my editor, Robert Davidson, of Sandstone Press.

  Principle Sources

  Anon, Directory of Ladies of Pleasure in Edinburgh (Edinburgh), 1775

  Bate, Walter Jackson, Samuel Johnson (London), 1984

  Boswell, James, Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides (London), 1785

  Hill, G Birkbeck, Footsteps of Dr Johnson (London), 1890

  Johnson, Samuel, Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland (London), 1775

  Lewis, D B Wyndham, The Hooded Hawk (London), 1946

  McEnroe, Natasha, and Simon, Robin, The Tyranny of Treatment (London), 2003

  Martin, Peter, A Life of James Boswell (New Haven and London), 2000

  Nokes, David, Samuel Johnson A Life (London), 2009

  Pearson, Hesketh, Johnson and Boswell (London), 1958

  Redford, Bruce, The Letters of Samuel Johnson (Oxford), 1992

  When quoting directly from Johnson and Boswell I use their original spelling and punctuation unless their usage now seems so anachronistic that it is a distraction

  INTRODUCTION

  The journey described in these pages had its origins in a most extraordinary find at my local car boot sale. Nestling just behind the fake Lladro ornaments and several sets of false teeth I caught sight of a pile of old 45’s. Hoping for some early bootleg Beatle tracks I reached over causing several crudely framed prints of smiling dogs in scarves to fall off the trestle table. After my initial disappointment on realising that I had in my hands a six inch tower of sleeveless Doris Day’s greatest hits, I glanced at the sheets of paper being used to separate the discs. The handwriting was distinctly 18th century. The stall holder accepted £4 for the small heap, and started to crumple up the damp paper before I grabbed his hand, in a gesture that he initially misunderstood, and asked him to include them with the records that he was cramming into a plastic bag.

  When I got home I flattened the crumpled sheets with the back of my wrist while idly watching Sky Sports News. Imagine my surprise on discovering that not only was I holding a wodge of original 18th Century letters but that they seemed to be describing a journey through Scotland that was strangely familiar.

  Several of the signatures were just legible Your Loving Servant Joseph, and He Who Would Willingly Sacrifice Ten Years of His Life to Be With You Now JR, and Your Bohemian Rhapsody Joe.

  I knocked the remote control into my pint of Old Peculier as the significance of my find dawned on me. By the sort of good fortune that normally only occurs in the fiction of Fielding and Richardson I was holding with shaking hand correspondence from Joseph Ritter, James Boswell’s servant who accompanied his master and Samuel Johnson on their journey to the Western Isles in 1773.

  All of the letters were addressed to Boswell’s wife Margaret. Overcome by the significance of my discovery I spilled the remaining Old Peculier over my laptop. Mercifully it still functioned and I was able to Google both Joseph Ritter and Margaret Boswell.

  Very little is known about Joseph beyond what Boswell tells us at the start of his account. ‘Dr Johnson thought it unnecessary to put himself to the additional expense of bringing with him Francis Barber, his faithful black servant, so we were attended by my man, Joseph Ritter, a Bohemian, a fine stately fellow above six feet high, who had been over a great part of Europe, and spoke many languages. He was the best servant I ever saw. Let not my readers disdain his introduction. For Dr Johnson gave him this character: ‘Sir, he is a civil man, and a wise man.’

  And what of the woman to whom the letters were addressed? Chauncey Brewster Tinker in his biography Young Boswell said of her; ‘(she) was one of those kindly, long-suffering women whose lives are a quiet blessing to men; unhonoured by the world, but eternally dear to a few who are privileged to be near them. Through a long wedded life, through years in which bitterness must have been her portion, she was a devoted wife to Boswell.’

  Not according to the letters. Even a superficial glance makes clear that Margaret and Joseph’s relationship far transcended that deemed appropriate between the mistress of James Court, Edinburgh, and her husband’s manservant.

  Infuriatingly it is difficult to be precise about their degree of closeness as some of the letters have been rendered illegible by the insistent rain that was falling in the Asda car park on the day of my auspicious discovery. By some censorial quirk of fate most of the ruined sections coincide with what may have been references to a number of amorous encounters.

  The discovery of the letters sent me back to both Samuel Johnson’s Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, published in 1775 and James Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides published in 1785. Re-reading the accounts only added to my determination to see for myself how Scotland had changed in the intervening 237 years and if possible to insinuate myself into the minds of the original travellers.

  Recreating Johnson and Boswell’s journey to the Western Isles is a well-established literary indulgence, but no one has done it with a bus pass. Judging by noises emanating from the Scottish Parliament it seems likely that the free-travel-bonanza-for-old-folk will soon belong to the dim and distant. A one-off opportunity then. I also hoped that the discomfort, inconvenience and frustrations of travelling by bus in the first part of the twenty first century would, in a very small way, mirror the challenges faced by Boswell, Johnson and Joseph.

  At the age of sixty and being the proud owner of a concessionary bus pass that covers the whole of Scotland I had the chance to travel free of charge. I also had responsibilities so, regretfully, was not able to set off for a month or so in pursuit of geriatric adventures and surprises. Like many of my spoiled generation of baby boomers, collectively wondering where all the past years went, I was not yet ready to let go of the day job in case it precipitated a rapid onset of my final journey

  I had thought of travelling alone and conjuring the shades of the earlier travellers to keep me company. On reflection the prospect of communing with non-existent dead people seemed something of a psychotic risk. Apart from anything else I would get lonely. As most of my close friends are in the same boat as myself, old but still working, I decided to deploy them as
a sort of care in the community relay team and asked them to accompany me at some point on the journey round Scotland. This felt like a fabulous indulgence and still does. It was one thing for me to try on Boswell’s often comic and ill-fitting shoes: it was quite another to expect a single human being to occupy the vast intellectual hinterland that was Dr Johnson’s familiar territory.

  The journey that follows took just over a year to complete. This compares unfavourably with the 100 or so days that Boswell and Johnson spent travelling by chaise, horse and boat.

  I managed to persuade a total of four friends to accompany me at some point. That they are still my friends speaks volumes about their charity, patience and shared willingness to embrace the bizarre. I am hugely grateful to Rory, David, Roy and John who will be more fully introduced when they first appear in the narrative. That many of the observations and insights I pass off as my own were, in fact, stolen from them I openly acknowledge.

  I initially feared that scuttling back to the warmth of home in Edinburgh between the various legs of the journey would be self-defeating. In practice this anxiety was unfounded. The journey despite the interruptions quickly assumed its own momentum. Whenever I pushed the pause button I always had the sense that the images on my inner screen were shaking at the edges as if at any time the film would resume of its own accord. I even sensed a grumpy resentment from Boswell and Johnson whenever I met up with them again. Once I let them continue on their way they soon forgave and then forgot me.

  I genuinely had little idea how the narrative would unfold although I was aware of many possibilities: simple tourist guide to modern Scotland; social satire; a critical reflection on Boswell and Johnson; a surreal grumpy old man’s road novel or a new genre best characterised as emotional picaresque. I just didn’t know and in that uncertainty I experienced something of the excitement that should precede any journey into unfamiliar lands.

  I have interpolated Joseph’s letters into my own account of the journey and have provided explanatory footnotes.

  STAGE ONE

  CROSSING THE BORDER

  Dr Johnson crosses into Scotland – Talk of War – A short Discourse on Beggars – Nuclear Moles – An aberrant Old Lady – A strange encounter with a Looter – The tale of Black Agnes – An ill-mannered waiter – an Odious Comparison between Edinburgh and Birmingham – Indelicate talk of Effluent – Sundry Women of the Night – The Misfortunes of a Dog

  Berwick-upon-Tweed – Dunbar – Edinburgh

  Although Boswell and Dr Johnson started their journey together from Edinburgh I wanted to observe Johnson from the moment he entered Scotland. As the rules of engagement did not expressly prohibit travelling by train before officially boarding our first bus, we sped down the East Coast line past telegraph wires, witches and ditches to Berwick-upon-Tweed.

  My first travelling companion was Rory. We are politically poles apart. As a former president of the Edinburgh University Students’ Association he claims to have met – and enjoyed the company of – Margaret Thatcher, Keith Joseph and Enoch Powell. And yet this is the same man who resigned his membership of a football supporters’ club, disgusted at a racial comment overheard in a toilet. He recently gave up his law career to work in a school for seriously disturbed adolescents who latterly referred to him with genuine affection as Big Bastard. He is big of body, brain and heart and, in all of these respects, resembles Dr Johnson.

  While waiting for Johnson to arrive in Berwick-upon-Tweed we ordered a coffee in a cafe that was also hosting an early morning knitting bee. Purls were dropped before swine, stitches were hooked and stabbed into the emerging blanket of ectoplasm threatening to engulf all innocent customers. The knitters’ disembodied faces grinned knowingly above the woollen tide. According to the marginally alarmed waitress the group had recently been banned from a neighbouring establishment.

  Dr Johnson was late. The post-chaise from Newcastle should have been here at least half an hour ago. There had been two false alarms. The occupants of the first chaise were all women which was surprising given the rumours of trouble just north of Durham. Rory had rushed up to greet an especially fat passenger from the second only to be treated with disdain by the portly circuit judge who waved a embroidered handkerchief in his general direction. Rory grunted and wandered off to buy a bacon sandwich.

  Shuffling, shambling, wrestling with troublesome demons in his sleep, snoring and farting his way in syncopation with the jolts and juddering of the chaise, Johnson would not have been the ideal travelling companion. At unpredictable intervals he would jerk involuntarily, a legacy of the king’s evil, a Tourette’s tick, or the same obsessive-compulsive trait that made him count and measure obsessively. His fellow travellers were now covered in a gossamer thin patina of brown snuff spilt from Johnson’s fingers which were too fat for the delicate horn box.

  As Boswell noted, ‘His person was large, robust, I may say approaching to the gigantic, and grown unwieldy from corpulency. His countenance was naturally of the cast of an ancient statue, but somewhat disfigured by the scars of that evil which it was formally imagined the royal touch could cure. He was now in his sixty-forth year, and was become a little dull of hearing. His sight had always been somewhat weak, yet so much does mind govern and even supply the deficiency of organs that his perceptions were uncommonly quick and accurate. His head and sometimes also his body shook with a kind of motion like the effect of a palsy; he appeared to be frequently disturbed by cramps or convulsive contractions, of the nature of that distemper called St. Vitus’ dance.’

  Another chaise lumbered and lurched across the bridge over the Tweed. Although the curtains remained closed I was certain that Johnson was aboard, audibly parsing Latin to drown out the shouts from the wherrymen while stuffing more snuff up his nose to mask the smell of fish. It clattered its way past the line of parked cars but didn’t stop. The coachman waved his whip in the general direction of a traffic warden.

  James Boswell had suggested a tour of Scotland within weeks of meeting Dr Johnson. An early exchange between the pair must have emphasised the extreme unlikelihood of the older man ever agreeing to visit a country still viewed by most in England as barbaric and wild. ‘Indeed I come from Scotland, but I cannot help it’ spluttered Boswell as the cock crowed three times. ‘Sir,’ replied Johnson, ‘that, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.’

  Daniel Defoe some thirty years earlier had observed ‘Scotland has been supposed by some to be so contemptible a place as that it would not bear a description.’ A volunteer with the English army at the time of the Rebellion of 1745 wrote from Berwick, ‘Now we are going into Scotland but with heavy hearts. They tell us here what terrible living we shall have here which I soon found too true.’ Smollett noted ‘all of the inns northwards are scrawled with doggerel rhymes in abuse of the Scottish nation … The English know as little of Scotland as of Japan.’

  Nevertheless in August 1773 Samuel Johnson travelled from London to Edinburgh in nine days. His companion as far as Newcastle was Robert Chalmers, a newly appointed judge who was en route to bid his family farewell before taking up an appointment in India.

  The journey was uneventful; the highlight for Johnson was being shown an impressive set of fetters by a jailer in York. He had, years before, confessed his masochistic tendencies to Mrs Thrale, the young married woman whom he loved to distraction. The lowlight was being ‘much disordered with the old complaints’, presumably a bout of depression or diarrhoea, possibly both.

  He didn’t seem to be in the best of spirits and had low expectations of the journey ahead. ‘You have often heard me complain of finding myself disappointed by books of travels, I am afraid that travel itself will end likewise in disappointment. One town, one country is very like another. Civilised nations have the same customs, and barbarous nations have the same nature.’ In Newcastle William Scott, destined for high office in the Admiralty, agreed to accompany Johnson as far as Edinburgh.

  I leaned over the castle
walkway and wondered where Rory had got to. He was though his own man more than capable of wandering off on a whim and getting thoroughly lost, even in Berwick-upon - Tweed. Overhead a Phantom jet turned and arched, while next to me two elderly woman nodded agreement to each other as they grumped and gossiped. The phrases ‘our young boys’ and ‘a corrupt government’ were audible, presumably echoing a tabloid rant against the mounting casualty figures in Afghanistan.

  Yesterday had been Remembrance Day and every news bulletin had shown footage of the citizens of Wootton Bassett waiting patiently as six more coffins had been carried down from the Hercules. We had noticed earlier the display of wreaths by a church in Berwick’s High street. One of them in the shape of a cross festooned with fairy lights. Armistice Day meets Christmas.

  Outside a newsagents’ the billboard announced BERWICK BOOZE CRUISE FEARS. What were these fears? Presumably the worthy burghers were concerned lest English wide boys despatch flotillas of tankers filled to the Plimsoll line with Newcastle Brown as part of a smuggling racket to ensure that Scottish drinkers could still buy cheap alcohol. There would be Buckfast barges and Somali pirates in the Tweed, gleefully opening crates of Wee Heavy. The paper in question raised the strange spectre of Berwick becoming the new Calais. There were few signs of a burgeoning café culture. Equally anomalous was the prospect of alcohol-fuelled nomads being herded into temporary transit camps set up along the A1.

  The post-chaise was long gone by the time I found Rory with his head in the Daily Telegraph. ‘Unkind prank, nine letters, four letters?’ He asked. ‘Practical joke’ muttered a passerby. As we walked through the town I caught sight of a startled old woman in the passenger seat of a parked car. She reminded me of my own mother in advanced years, with no idea where she was and consumed with panic waiting for her frail husband to return from whatever small errand had separated them for what felt to her like forever. What had Johnson said about his own mother? ‘Of business she had no distinct conception: therefore her discourse was composed only of complaint, fear, and suspicion.’