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Maurice Horsburgh:-
a professional musician, who now lives in Australia and left Ardersier
in 1956 recalls some old cronies. (received 05/01/99)
Joseph Younger
:- a retired
school principal, now living in New Zealand recalls some memories
of Ardersier school, some 60 years ago. (received 22/01/99)
William Johnstone:-
at the age of 75 years, recalls
memories of his native village, Ardersier. Writing from his home
at 85, Primrose Street Gardens, Townsville 830 miles North of
Brisbane, Queensland, Australia.
(From the Northern Chronicle 19th. September, 1956.)
Maurice Horsburg Recalls some old cronies:-
"My most vivid memories of Ardersier
are of the colourful characters and the nick names of the real
Cronies. Being so close to Fort George there was always the military
involvement. Early in WW11 a very large contingent of infantry
leaving for France marched from the Fort to the Railway Station.
The army had erected a dais outside the police station and a General
and some "top Brass" were to take the salute. Just as
the parade headed by the full military band arrived, one of the
old Cronies called the Buckie Plumber joined the General and also
took the salute, much to the embarrassment of the army and the
mirth of the locals, especially as he had rather much of the hard
stuff and managed to fall off the dais.
After Dunkirk there was not a lot to cheer about, but one lady
did her bit for morale. Her name was Maggie Loft and lived above
the Barbers Shop opposite the Alma Hotel. Maggie like everyone
else was very frustrated at the course of events and the way Hitler
was calling the shots. Being somewhat eccentric she decided to
copy Churchill and make a regular Thursday night broadcast direct
to Hitler. We never found out what effect it had on Adolph but
it did wonders for the locals! The "microphone" - supplied
by the Barber - was the horn from an old HMV gramophone and it
was connected to the rainwater downpipe. Maggie would sit at her
upstairs window, and, in front of quite a large audience, would
bellow into the horn and I can tell you she had a few interesting
things to say to Mr A.H.!
At the bottom of the School Brae opposite Geordie Johnstone the
Bakers, there was a little wooden shack and in it lived an old
crony called Jimmock the Mason; he did not have a lot to occupy
his time so any funeral was an excuse for old Jim to dress up
with top hat and tail coat. On the same street lived Thomas the
Tailor who passed away. However the family decided to have a private
funeral which was not very common in the village. That did not
deter Jim from attending, the problem was after the coffin was
placed in the hearse. Jim, as was the custom, fell in and with
reverently bowed head proceeded slowly to follow; he went quite
some way before he realised that the hearse had sped off and he
was left in total amazement in the middle of the road.
Next to the Bakers was Jock Snock the Blacksmith and when the
Prince of Wales was going to become King, Jock made a pair of
beautiful wrought iron gates with King Edward VII ? etc. and sent
them to Buckingham Palace as a Coronation gift. The ungrateful
Royals refused the gift and returned them. When I left the village
in 1956 the gates were still on the garden at the bottom of the
School Brae next to old Jim's Hut.
The army also turned up its share of characters and one which
springs to mind was a Polish soldier called Schuback. It seems
he believed that bicycles were for communal use and to save him
walking the three miles to the Fort used to help himself, but
he would return them. The local Bobby - Mr Allan or Mr Weir -
told him this was not done in the best of society, so a collection
of old cycle bits were gathered and Schuback was then quite happy,
despite the fact that it only had one handlebar and one pedal.
On more than one occasion he passed through the village in the
early hours singing in a very loud voice some rousing Polish Folk
Song, and still not fall off the bike.
Before D-Day there was a massive build up of military personnel
from many Nations and most people did not even lock their doors,
assaults on the locals were practically unheard of, as were break-ins,
which makes me wonder if today we have lost the plot.
At the outbreak of the Korean war Dalcross opened up once more
as No. 8 A.F.T.S. (Advanced Flying Training School). It gave me
an opportunity to gather together some fine musicians and form
an RAF Dance Band. We performed in practically every dance hall
in the north. We also managed to be the first Dance Band with
our own insignia to be officially recognised by the Air Ministry,
as opposed to Dance Bands being part of a Military Band. This
set me on a career which has taken me round the world many times.
Something that I will always be grateful for is the education
I received at Ardersier Public School. I never made it to high
school because, at the age of eleven, I was carted off to the
R.N.I. and spent one and a half years in hospital and that was
the end of schooling for me. Mr MacKintosh was the Headmaster,
and Miss Sinclair, Miss Cowan and Miss Starke were the teachers.
Yes, I got the strap, but I reckon I got a better education than
many pupils get in any school today.
The "Old Camallias", as the very old Cambelltonians
called themselves, went through some very hard times but never
lost their great sense of humour.
Thank you, Ardersier."
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"I am the son of a fisherman and
I can take you back 65 years when the village was a busy little
place with fishing and farming. The farmer depended mostly on
the fishermen and his family to do quite a lot of work on the
farm. We used to get 1/6d. per day for hoeing and dipping 10 hours
a day. At the harvest we got 17/- to 18/- per week. For gathering
potatoes we received 1/6 and a bucket of tatties to take home
every day.
We got our milk from the farmer at 2d. a quart, in the morning
and 1d. at night. We got all the skimmed milk which made girdle
scones, for free and if they killed a sheep, or one died during
a snow storm, those who worked on the farm got a share. The brotherhood
of man was very close in the village. One helped the other among
the fisher folk, they all helped one another and I often think
of those days 65 to 70 years ago.
There was a fine fleet of herring boats, 8 all told. The leading
boat was called the 'Fisher', owned by the Main's family, five
brothers and David Main. Honeyman was the skipper, one of the
finest seamen in the Moray Firth and a very prosperous fisherman.
When the herring boats came home and got all their nets dried
and stored, then they pulled up the boats onto the beach. That
was a day of great excitement. They were hauled up at the bottom
of the village Where Peter Young's house stands. It was not there
then. The steam mill or tractor engine would come from Croy to
pull them up. The leading man for getting the boats up was crippled
Jock Cameron, he had a wonderful command. The whole of the fishermen
looked to Jock and his staff and he did a wonderful job. Where
Magillivary's shop is now, they used to pull up some of the boats
there.
Then the young men of the village went to the farms to take in
the harvest and the line fishing would get into full swing. At
that time there were always two or three line boats which were
worked by the older fishermen.The fishing was a very slavish life
for the village and they never tried to make it easier for themselves.
The fishermen started between midnight and four a.m. and leave
the shore with the tide on half the ebb. They got down to the
fishing ground at slack tide, set their lines and came home with
the flood tide, taking advantage of the tide both ways. then the
women and their families went to the back shore to try to dig
for sand worms - they called them lug -and it was very hard work.
They tried to get home to give the men-folk a hand to bring the
fish ashore. Then the lines had to be sorted and baited, that
took four five or six hours - so it was a long day. The womenfolk
took their turn to go and sell the fish in Inverness. We had a
man in the village, not a fisherman, but a Carter, he was a rough
diamond, the stone that was never polished, but would have been
a wonderful stone if polished. He was at the beck and call of
the fisher-folk any hour of the day and night. I lift my bonnet
too him. His name was Rod Norrie, he was a wonderful man.
This was before the railway line came to the village and before
the Jetty was built. Some of the older fisher-folk still alive
will remember all I write. Madge Smith, then a young girl, looked
after her father and brothers and she was very good at the lug
spade. We had to make our own enjoyments then, especially in the
winter nights. The principle places were Johnie Main the tailor,
Lawson shoemakers and Willie MacGillivray's blacksmith shop on
Windie Hill - that was MacLennan's blacksmith shop. There were
two fires in that shop.
In the spring of the year, the shop never closed till 9 p.m. or
after.
Joe Mackintosh was the smith with MacGillvary. They were experts
at fitting tyres on wheels. Often as a boy I would watch them.
They would time the red hot iron so that just enough water was
required. Never did two men work so well together. They were good
men and very good to us boys. We used to get turns at blowing
the bellows. Joe Macintosh had a brother, his name was Dunk and
he was a gardener. He was the man with green fingers, anything
that he put in the ground came up. He also nursed the flowers
as a mother would care for her child. He could put on a good show.
We had another good gardener, George Grant, he looked after Miss
Gardner's garden. Geordie Grant was a wonderful man with the children.
There was a meeting once a week above Lawson's shop for the I.O.G.T.
(Independent Order of Grand Templars). Mr. Grant led the meeting.
He was a wonderful old gentleman. I can sit down and see all these
things now, just the same as when I was a boy. What a wonderful
time we had. There was some great worthies in the Village. Now
there is not one fishing yawl in the village. All is so changed.
I often wonder if I would ever find that trail of long ago. If
I did all would have changed. From the shattered dreams I'll find
that only ghosts remain to link me with that cherished era I will
never know again.
I have met some of the village boys in America, in Canada, Newfoundland
and Australia and though I have never met one in New Guinea, I
know that there is one there. I was a rolling stone and had a
wonderful life, but I am very often at home - whenever I sit down
with my wife and think things over, my mind goes back to boyhood
days in that lovely place in the Highlands of Scotland."
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