The Curious Incident of the Bog in the Night
With apologies to Mark Haddon and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
‘
Twas but two weeks ago that Hickey, the Scottish Sunday Mail diarist,
queried – somewhat pretentiously, given his own, limited, knowledge
of English and grammar – what a “Hen Night” was, although
he had no difficulty with the concept of what a “Stag Night” was.
With Carnethy – the concept – like the participants – remains
simple. It’s an excuse for another jovial jaunt out into the hills
with people conversational and convivial.
As Jon and Lorna sat mid-run with the assembled
company sipping champagne, in the lee of a drystane dyke, it was all
too easy to reflect back to
another special Carnethy Hen/Stag night…
With a huge swell of Boys (ooer) the Girls were
seriously outnumbered and only a dozen people or so blamed our current
President who had advertised
the run as the precursor to the wedding of Jon and Linda … I dropped
several work commitments to see the fight, when both Lorna and Linda
turned up with what I thought was going to be a huge “run off”,
as they say, or dictate, in Zimbabwe, but like Hue and Cry we were left “looking
for Linda” … well, at least before we actually did run off,
with at least our current President apparently still in charge.
Of course, none of the proceedings took place
in the normal order, or usual way—group photographs took place first; not on Church or
Chapel steps but on the garden steps at the back of the Steading. The
traditional wedding breakfast/meal didn’t happen either (we were
back five minutes late, so again not the normal order, in fact as we
were told quite forcefully, “no orders”). Steading, not wedding,
note. The toasts happened in the middle although the “advice” was
before and the prospective groom saw the bride in her dress before the
ceremony.
So the run itself: Superb as usual. Some turned
up for a serious hill run – in fleeces, four layers and four season gear; nonplussed
but not quite four plussed. The rest of us were more (OK, much less)
suitably attired in suits, evening wear (kilts, dinner suits, tails,
dress shirts, a Top Hat, recently acquired from Armstrong’s, and
bow ties, oh aye, and a tea towel/handkerchief hat); and (the girls)
in bonny bonnets and resplendent in a mix of short skirts and dresses
that would have had Tam O’Shanter crying out all over again; although
it was to be more than an instant before all was dark, or that anyone
could say … well done.
The Boys headed off in the, now, traditional
clockwise route—Steading-Boghall-Castlelaw-meeting
point-Allermuir-Caerketton-Hillend-Steading. The Girls took the shorter “Swanston” route
(hopefully observing the new thatching on the cottages).
It is a tradition that those of the Boys who
are/were long married give the prospective husband a few hints and
tips on how to remain in the
same sort of happy domestic bliss that they live in. Stopping at the
top of the first climb we almost had to resort to taking our shoes and
socks off to count of the collected number of years of married bliss
there was amongst us. Given that there were around a dozen of us, with
a third not married, we came to what we thought was an impressive tally
of 145 married years, although I’m not sure if that included Shane’s
less than helpful “minus three years”.
With lots of oh, so, secret sage advice passed
on, we headed over to Boghall briefly joining the traditional handicap
route before dropping
down to cross the stream and to make the long ascent up Woodhouselee
kicking up ash from the recent and extensive moor burning. Some catastrophe
had befallen the two earthenware sinks which have lain for a long time
on the summit as they were in bits, though filled with a bag of Moi’s
bottles of Bucks Fizz; carried up there by Willie G just before the run.
Whilst the assembled male company headed off
for the summit of Castlelaw, Colin P headed over to the traditional
meeting point with a bit more
fizz than he’d had before. On the final climb, we looked back to
see the Girls heading towards the same hill. At the “Sentry’s
Hut” above the firing range, there was a barrage but luckily of
hip flasks only, being offered and proffered around A gentle but brisk
descent brought us to the Girls and a very cold Colin P. before we headed
back over some of their route to the cattle grid. At this grid reference
the real ceremony took place and the assembled company huddled behind
a crumbling dry stane dyke; not to get out of the cold but to enter the
warmth of the occasion … aye, ok, it was Baltic up there.
A couple of bottles of champagne appeared from
a secret stash and champagne flutes were passed round as I popped the
first cork and charged Jon and
Lorna’s glasses. After a hearty toast to the bride and groom from
all assembled, strange words of wisdom were imparted for Jon and Lorna
to consider. “Marriage is what confirms that you love someone although
and not because” … A cynic in the background said shouldn’t
that be despite. After further banter and a glass or two of bubbly, it
was off up Allermuir and across to Caerketton before the descent in the
increasing darkness down to the Steading for ale and anecdote. A fine
way to celebrate the future nuptials and perhaps appropriately World
Autism Day.
Oh, and you still probably want to know what
the curious incident was … Well
the bog was dry, the dog didn’t bark, although it ran with us all
the way; the only silver blaze was one lone and pointless headtorch beam
as we climbed and descended Allermuir, Caerketton and Hillend in glorious
twilight and like both books , a truly, successful ending was achieved,
with a gamble left in the air and some horsing around too…
Now as Holmes himself said in Silver blaze “…“I am
afraid, Watson that I shall have to go”.
Nick Macdonald
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