Haunted Hometown

Everything in my life has always been a tad spooky. Some of my earliest memories have been formed around encounters with the macabre. From my papa letting me watch the latest horror films when I was four, my dad telling me creepy stories that would always have a bedtime appropriate twist ending (remind me to tell you about the trail of blood that ended in a monkey eating ketchup). My gran letting me watch her play Resident Evil and my mum hosting back garden fires where we tell scary stories, true and otherwise. I have never been far from something scary, and never discouraged from seeking it. And while I hold my own in my house with my non-believer husband who doesn't have a spooky bone in his body, I never feel more in tune with the paranormal than at my family home.

There's a guilt free aspect of being at home. Where my mum and my gran encouraged me to join a group where I learned how to speak to ghosts. Where we celebrate Halloween every year with a festival dedicated to our hometown hero, Robert Burns. Where I can sit in the garden with my mum and watch a strange light among the stars, both of us monitoring it and speculating, with no fear of judgement or ridicule for wanting to believe.

And my hometown plays a part in this too. I left as soon as possible, something about not wanting to be born and die in the same place inspired by too many idealistic movies. And the fact that I have no emotional ties to anyone there other than a deep seated hatred for some and blinding indifference to others. Can you tell how much I hated my school years?

But it has a certain charm that comes from it's only redeeming quality: it's history.

Ayr is a large town on Scotland's West Coast, boasting a population of 46'000 most of the year, and seemingly 350'000 when the Glaswegians come down for their summer holidays on the archaic beachfront. We have a race track (which is apparently actually famous), a Town Hall, a McDonalds, a beautiful theatre, a struggling town centre and poverty. We also have, across the river, expansive parks, golf courses and the posh houses.

But across that river, in the now gentrified area of Alloway, we also have what should be our pride and joy. The Robert Burns Birthplace Museum.

For the purposes of the continuation of this post, I would like to state some things first. Robert Burns was a mad shagger. Absolute womaniser. He participated in the kind of behaviour that would land a contemporary man in a big heap of trouble, rightfully so. But, he is most certainly of his time, so I tend to afford a certain leniency. His poetry is beautiful, and some is still as relevant today as it was in his time. And he has had a global effect on our collective culture. Hate the bard, not his words.

Within Burns' collection of works lies one of the most perfect ghost stories ever written, she said, with no hint of biased or opinion. Just spitting straight facts.

Kings may be Blest - Alexander Goudie

Tam O'Shanter follows the main character, Tam, on his journey home from the pub one night. The tale is one of supposed warning, a fable to stop you from chasing women and getting drunk. That after merriment in the safety of a warm inn, there's always the journey back to reality.

"We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Where sits our sulky sullen dame.

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm"

Tam, completely and utterly hammered after a night in the pub, gets on his horse and trudges home through fields and farmland in typical Scottish weather. Not before hearing a word of prophecy from one of his drinking partners, who warns him his carefree, drunken ways will soon land him in trouble. Specifically mentioning Kirk Alloway.

"She prophesied that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk"

Ayr Bound - Alexander Goudie

And, the folly of most men, Tam is so self-assured and filled with bravado, that he fears nothing in the first moments of his journey. Though this is slowly replaced by dread. No feeling of immunity strengthened by alcohol is everlasting.

"But pleasures are like poppies spread,

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white--then melts for ever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;

Or like the rainbow's lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm"

Tam seemingly sobers up, only expected given that the weather has taken a turn for the...norm in Scotland. The rain and wind pick up, followed by thunder, echoed by the thundering of the hooves of his horse, Meg.

"The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd

Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:

That night, a child might understand,

The Deil had business on his hand"

Holding Fast his Gude Blue Bonnet - Alexander Goudie

And, inspired by the terrifying weather, the fear of ghosts and spooky beasties starts to set in. Tam begins to contemplate what his drinking partners had told him, specifically fearing his approach of Kirk Alloway.

"Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares:

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,

Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry"

As he continues on his way, he spooks himself further, recounting the true stories of horror and crime that have occurred in the surrounding areas.

"By this time he was cross the ford,

Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd;

And past the birks and meikle stane,

Whare drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane;

And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,

Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'"

And, just as his fear reaches fever pitch, he notices that Kirk Alloway, the source of his worst fears, appears to be lit up. From a distance he can hear music playing, with the sounds of laughter echoing through the woods.

"When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,

Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;

And loud resounded mirth and dancing"

An Unco Sight - Alexander Goudie

Against all things sensible in this world, and in true horror movie style, Tam pulls his horse over towards the church. He steps onto a stone outside of one of the windows and peers in to an amazing sight.

"Warlocks and witches in a dance;

Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,

But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge:

He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl,

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl."

The room is decorated in your typical everyday goth/suburban mum on Halloween style throughout.

"Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;"

Upon further inspection, it appears that those at the party, these witches, ghouls and the Devil himself, have prepared an HGTV home episode worthy level of thematic commitment. (Please also try to imagine the sheer joy I experienced when we practiced this verse at choir when we were learning a musical version of the poem. Repeating "murder's banes" over and over and over again with a nasty little smile...)

"A murders's banes in gibbet-airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;

Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted;

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;

A garter, which a babe had strangled;

A knife, a father's throat had mangled

...

Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out,

Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;

Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,

Lay stinking, vile in every neuk."

Amidst the revelry and throngs of older witches, Tam spots one young witch in a fiendishly short skirt giving it the proverbial laldy. Both he and the Devil seem to be taken in by her 18th century sex appeal. And completely incapable of expressing his opinions on women, like most men, Tam shouts a word of encouragement and gives away his location in an all too comical moment.

"And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,

And thought his very een enrich'd;

Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark:"

He jumps back onto Meg and they flee from the church, knowing that the one way to escape a witch is to cross water, which witches cannot do. They get across the bridge in the nick of time, but just as they approach is, the witch grabs on to Meg's tail and pulls it off as the horse tugs to get herself and her master to safety.

"Ae spring brought off her master hale,

But left behind her ain gray tail;

The carlin claught her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump."

Claught by her Rump - Alexander Goudie

In true fable form, we are left with a warning. To take heed when getting completely wasted or else a witch might take your horses tail. Or something more poetic than that.

"No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,

Ilk man and mother's son take heed;

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,

Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear -

Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare."

At one point I knew most of the words to this poem, and can still recite a fair chunk of it from memory. But I know the basics. And I've walked the trail. I've been to Kirk Alloway, walked the grounds and seen the graves. I stepped onto a stone and peered through the windows of the roofless building. My prom was held at a hotel right next to the bridge Tam crossed. No one else seemed particularly interested in that on the night, but I was. I've always been fascinated by it as a completely macabre and gruesome little story, with vignettes of horror and the absurd moral caution of being a 18th century alcoholic.

I remember once traipsing around the cemetery attached to the kirk with my papa, and he told me and my sister to go look at a grave. Upon closer inspection, we noticed it had his name on it (an incredibly common name I now realise) and then he crept up behind us and grabbed our shoulders while shouting "BOO!" I almost cried, but I didn't. And now, I think about that moment a lot. I don't remember what I was wearing, but I know I was cosy, and I know that the ground was wet and slippery with dead, rusty leaves. I know that the atmosphere was one of excitement and terror, electrical almost. I knew it was important. And I was all too familiar with the story of Tam O'Shanter to not be tense and on high alert for spooky goings on. But I still jumped.

Tam O'Shanter is one of my favourite stories, and being set in my home town it gives me great pride knowing that horror is in my history, not just my flesh and bones.

If you want to read Tam O'Shanter, you can do so here. And if you want less of a challenge, which I do recommend upon second reading, you can read it here with a translation!

And for an illustrative telling of the tale, you can see the full collection of Alexander Goudie's works here and more information on the artist here.