Each month we will be featuring a guest writer and this month is Christine Beveridge. She grew up in the Town of Thurso Caithness leaving in 1955 when I married a young doctor from Aberdeen. For most of her married life she lived on small Islands surrounded by turbulent seas, starting over the Minch with Stornaway in Lewis in the Outer Hebrides and ending on the beautiful Island of Tasmania in Australia's notorious Bass Strait.

My father liked nothing better than to find evidence of great or unusual accomplishments achieved by the northern folk. Everything from the sublime to the ridiculous would enthuse him to wax lyrically. He would inform you, for instance, that it was a Thurso-born electrician Alexander Bain, who, over 100 years ago, invented, among other things electrical, the electric clock. "I fear her search will fail to find A man with such a brain, For 'twas but once to help mankind God sent them Sandy Bain." Robert would tell you about the weight lifting blacksmith from Tongue who lifted an anvil of two-and-three-quarter hundredweight by the horn. It was a Herculean deed that very few weight lifters could match. Then he would tell of how very proud the Thursonians were of the Pipers and Drummers in the Thurso Pipe Band. Under the celebrated Pipe-Major Peter Macdonald they won many competitions. "Shades of MacRimmons that sleep now at rest, The Thurso Pipe Band now doing its best, To uphold the traditions that give you your fame And I'm sure they will never dishonour your name." Thurso had a wealth of characters, all "grist to the mill" to a people watcher like my father. His interaction with them fed his imagination. The poem "The Cailleach O' the Glen" is based on stories and tales of a Cailleach (old woman) who believed that ghosts and fairies really did exist. She used to tell how, when she retired for the night, the fairies would come and perch on the rails of her bed, going through all sorts of gymnastic displays and making sleep impossible. "She tauld me o' the little men, Drest in their suits o' green, That ilka nicht cam' doon the glen As midnight 'oor had gane; To skirlin' pipes they danced wi' glee Queer dances o' their ain; This is one tale she told to me- The Cailleach o' the glen." My father left Caithness to further his musical studies in Edinburgh, and it was there that he met, and fell in love with Catherine Doull (my mother). Catherine's parents lived on a neighbouring croft in Stemster. She was in fact the girl next door. They had known each other as children, both leaving Stemster in their early adult life. They met by chance (or was it destiny!) and enjoyed a brief courtship before fate once more stepped in. Catherine's mother became seriously ill and Catherine returned to Stemster to care for her. Robert discontinued his studies and quickly followed her back to Caithness where they were married on September 28 1923. "How weel I lik her nane'll ken, Except hersel' and me" Robert and Catherine made their home in Thurso and started to raise a family. My two brothers, Donald and Hugh, were born in the mid-1920's and I came along later in 1935. By the mid-1930's many folk in the North of Scotland were suffering from the effects of the great depression. Mass unemployment and the threat of another war brought progress to a standstill for many families. It was sad to see the queues of cold and hungry people waiting for a jug of soup from the soup kitchens set up by the Salvation Army and other charities. "Misfortune dour brings nocht but sorrow, And adds a little more tomorrow." In 1939, when the Second World War was declared, Robert Mackay once again volunteered to join the forces and was attached to the Pioneer Corps. This time, however, his health failed him and he was discharged a short time later. Now in his 40's he no longer thought of war as an adventure but as a patriotic duty to "battle for the right". His patriotic poems have the element of a Clan Mackay chieftain rallying his kinsmen to battle. "No tyrant born can make us quail While Freedom' s our delight. Let bullets fall like winter's hail, We'll battle for the right." He wrote some moving tributes in verse to the ships and the men lost at sea. I am thinking of "Heroes of the Jarvis Bay", and the poignancy of "The Loss of The Royal Oak", as well as the moving little poem "Her Only Son" telling of a mother' s grief. The constant theme is his immense pride in the serving sons and daughters of his own native Caithness. Thurso, during the second war, was the end of the line for the troop train, transporting thousands of service men heading out to join the great fleet of ships at Scapa Flow. "The Jericho" as the train was called, travelled from London, and was of vital importance as a line of communications between the British fleet and Whitehall. I was then a small child of seven, immensely proud of the fact that, with my little green cartie made out of a wooden fish box, I delivered the churn of milk needed for the "Cuppies o' Tea" to refresh the troops arriving at Thurso station on the Jericho train. I have always thought that I should have been mentioned in despatches! Thurso, in the early 40s, was awash with service personnel. There was a Polish contingent billeted at Thurso Castle and a substantial naval presence at Thurso's Ormley Lodge. My father's main interest was to contribute, in some way, to the war effort by using his skills as a musician, writer and poet to lift spirits and boost morale. He became a prolific contributor to both local newspapers, writing articles on every conceivable topic, some humorous, some patriotic. He also penned appreciations and poems of condolence to the families of lost loved ones and wrote messages of encouragement to parents of men fighting in the front lines of Europe. His familiar figure, fiddle case under his arm, sheets of papers clutched in his hand, would be seen heading purposefully towards the centre of Thurso's town activities - to "Joe's Cafe" or the Courier Office. He always wore a wide-brimmed hat and in winter a long tweed coat. Herbert Sinclair wrote of him: "There was a touch of the waywardness of the poet about him, but an artist he was, and he looked like one". Joe Cardosi was a "Real Freend" in a small back room behind his cafe, my father would meet with other Caithness musicians. They would gather together in the evenings to play their lively music and engage in lively conversation. There, matters of great importance would be debated with vigour. Sometimes stories would be told and odes sung that might have brought a blush to a maiden's cheek and the laughter and merriment would often challenge the birds' early dawn chorus. How I would have loved to have been the proverbial fly on the wall at some of those Ceilidhs. "Nae tears shall ever weet ma e'e For men or matter While joy and mirth run rim free, Wi' them I'll clatter." One of my father's best known and most recited poems, written in the Caithness dialect, is "The Midgie". There were few Thursonians who were unable to recite a line or two from his verses about this little pest. He recited it in a variety show "Holiday-A-Bout" which toured Caithness and also in a BBC programme on the Scottish Home Service. "The Caithness Violinist" or "Fiddler Bob", as he was sometimes called, was a lover of people, a born entertainer, who loved to touch the heart, engage the mind and tickle the funnybone. "Ah've sailed 'e seven ragin' seas An up 'e Murrumbidgee But roch altho' they were at times, They're neithing til 'e midgie." My parents' marriage, after years of hardship, finally failed, and they decided to part. There were now many moments of "dull care" in his life, but always there was his music making to console both himself and others. "My fiddle wis ma Sweetheart a' ma life Her bonnie music drives dull care away." My father, now in poor health, retreated into the world of his muse. The death of his beloved mother in 1944, his failed marriage and the consequential loss of contact with his children were taken as heavy blows. Now he felt, I think for the first time, that he was alone. It is easy to understand how this could break the stoutest heart. "Life' s composed of joy and sorrow, Hidden snares we cannot see, Who can read unborn To-morrow, Or what it holds for you and me." He spent the rest of his remaining days in a small cottage known as "The Dowager' s Cottage" on the Braal Castle Estate in Halkirk. Braal Castle dates back to before the 14th century, part of a tree-lined estate located by the lovely Thurso River. Braal's tranquillity belies its gruesome history, involving the cruel death of local Bishop Adam who imposed crippling butter tax from surrounding crofters. They marched to Braal Castle, home of the Earl of Caithness, to protest and asked the Earl to intervene on their behalf, which he refused to do. The people turned their anger on the Bishop, killing him by boiling him in his butter. Some think that the Caithness Earl jokingly advised this resolution to the problem, and unfortunately for the bishop he was taken at his word. The Caithness Violinist spent almost all of his life entertaining his "Own Fowk". He always had a ready ear to listen and comfort anyone down on their luck, and he was always there with open arms to lift their spirits. "Nae thought o' self stood in your way, When merth was saught you did not dither With song or fiddle, verse or lay You cheered all Caithness hearts, dear brither." Donald Mackay [Brother] Sadly, my father, the Caithness Violinist, died in January 1952. He was found in his humble cottage on New Years Day, in a serious and weakened condition from internal injuries which he had sustained from being hit by a vehicle whilst returning, on foot, to his cottage after attending an evening function.[This is believed to be his own account of events] How he managed to reach his home is still a mystery.He was taken to Dunbar Hospital Thurso where he died on the morning of the 3rd January 1952, from pneumonia. "Sleep on! dear Bob,sleep on dear friend in all tranquillity, In the calm of death that stills the storm Of life's tempestuous sea" Anon. How poignant an ending to the humble poet's troubled life. This gentle man who had so often used his pen and his music to comfort and console the lonely, the sick and the bereaved, a man who's heart had gone out so warmly to others, was, at the dawning of a New Years Day, alone, unaided and in pain. "Take me Home, take me Home, Jesus take me Home, When my life is ebbing fast be thou with me at he last, Jesus take me Home" On the day of his death the Caithness Courier printed the last of my father's published writings called "Reflections" this piece is almost prophetic of his own passing. Whenever the sand in the hourglass runs out someone slips away from life and is seen no more, It may be you, it may be me, But old father time just doesn't bother to stop and see who it is, He just keeps jogging along, moto perpetuo. How many dear old friends and loved ones have we not laid in their last resting place yet Although Time came to the funerals as he always does he did not stay there long. Time only holds us for a short period, then he lets us go whither. Money, position, fame, mean nothing to time for he has us all when he wants us-until we too pass on. It is clear that there was a warm affection between the "Kaitness Fowk" and "Fiddler Bob" who brought laughter and merriment to gatherings from "Berriedale til Bogswa". The pages of tributes that filled the obituary columns of the newspapers at the time of his death testify to how greatly he was mourned. "We miss you for your music sweet that could so mist the eye, We miss you for your lilting reels, your songs and odes forbye We miss you when life seems so void With sorrow at our door Yours the word and yours the pen To cheer when hurts were sore." Anon He had a light-hearted infectious humour that endeared him to the young. My fondest memories are the dream-like memories of a five-year-old child. I had a small fiddle, my father and I would stand together, as if on a stage, tapping our feet to his music while I mimicked his movements. The natural rapport and affection he shared with the young was fondly demonstrated at the time of his death. At the usual Saturday night dance, the hall packed to overflowing, Bill Jones accordionist and leader of the band performing that night, led the young people assembled in a moments silence in honour and respect for the poet. "How sweet are Nature's rural flowers That bloom in sunny June How cosy are the sheltered bowers That hide us frae the moon. How fair she looks that lo'es me, As we baith go burlin' roon', Dancing to the fiddler in the gloamin'." How enchanting my father's life seems to me and how I admire the spirit of my Highland forebears. They knew hard times but passionately lived life to the full. They were boisterous in their joys and open hearted in times of sorrow. "Faults and failings, love and laughter, Make us what we are I say Happiness is what we're after, Let it come from where it may". My father now lies beside my dear mother in the churchyard at Halkirk, in Caithness.

With the help of the Internet Kristy now communicate with expatriate Scots worldwide and has retraced much of her father's family history. She is keen to make contact with any Caithnessians of my generation or older who may have personally known my father and have memories to impart. She can be reached at here or by snail mail at: Post Office Box 492, Kings Meadows, Launceston 7249, Tasmania, Australia.