SCOTTISH PANORAMA

VICKY ALLAN

THE 15th century cobblestone bridge crossing the river Doon at Alloway looks idyllic by day, and in most tourist photographs, or pictured on a crisp fiver but, of course, it has another darker, more dramatic life in the imagination of Scots, and those the world over who have enjoyed our Bard’s terrifying tale of Tam O’Shanter.

It is an icon of the supernatural and local superstition, a beguiling reminder of the weird and uncanny.

In our mind’s darkness, witches tear towards it. A mare pounds, tail flying in the wind and rain. Wicked Nan, leaps to clutch its trailing hair. This is the place, famously, to which the drunken Tam fled on his steed, Maggie, pursued by this “hellish horde”, knowing that “a running stream they dare na cross”.

For Robert Burns great narrative poem wasn’t purely invented. It was based upon a local lore and story, recorded in a letter to his friend, the antiquary Captain Francis Grose. There were, Burns notes in this epistle, three witch stories associated with the Alloway Kirk. Amongst these “authentic” tales was that of a Carrick farmer who saw a devil-led dance in the haunted kirk and fled for his life with witches and warlocks at his horse’s tail.

“I need not mention,” writes Burns,

“the universally known fact, that no diabolical power can pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags were so close at his heels, that one of them actually sprung to seize him.”

By day Brig o’ Doon is almost too neat and picturesque – just above the Brig, an ornamental garden, with nine pillars representing the muses – the setting so manicured in its topiary, it feels as if it must hide something, even now, a little darker. Which, of course, so many places do, when the sun falls over the horizon and we turn to drink, or find our minds a little altered.

The Brig and its horror-filled story seem to symbolise the fine line alcohol takes us to between glory and disaster. As Burns wrote in Tam O’Shanter’s final lines: “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.”

WHERE IS IT?

It’s got to be Galloway. And, in this instance, Joni Mitchell was dead wrong. I lived there for 10 years and knew exactly what I had while I still had it. I can’t claim to have made the most of every day – there were whole weeks of staring out glumly at the plotching rain – but I made the most of every season.

Strolling through the bluebell woods at Carstramon; running into the sea at Knock, blessing the Gulf Stream; drunk on light in the beech avenue between Laurieston and Gatehouse of Fleet when the leaves turned.

And my favourite of all, up a hill on a bright, bitter day in winter, with a flask and a piece, not another soul in sight.

WHY DO YOU GO THERE?

For the cliffs, beaches, forests, hills, rivers, couthie wee towns and empty moors. For belties and blackfaces grudgingly agreeing to share the footpaths. For suddenly finding art in the middle of nowhere without anything so crass as a plaque.

To stand at the site of Alexander Murray’s birthplace and think about him, a shepherd’s son, waiting for the tinker to come round with new books twice a year. Then think about him later in his life as a professor at Edinburgh, wonder what he would have done if he hadn’t died in his thirties. He and Burns both. Most of all I go to Galloway for the peace. I’m sure business owners would love a crush to rival the Trossachs. Selfishly, I treasure the quiet.

HOW DID YOU DISCOVER IT?

We moved to the area in 1996, first to

Durisdeer, then west a bit to Dalry, and west again to New Galloway, where we stayed for a decade. Overshot a bit on the last westwards leg, mind you. Wigtown would have been lovely, but we actually ended up in California.

WHAT DO YOU ENJOY MOST?

There’s wonderful wild swimming in secluded places. The High Bridge of Ken, the Grey Mare’s Tail and the Holy Linn near St John’s Town of Dalry are three of the best.

SUSAN SWARBRICK HOW OFTEN DO YOU GO?

Every summer when I’m back in Scotland on research trips (damn you, 2020.) One of these years I want to stay at a cottage in Dunskey Glen for a month and call it a writing retreat. The baking on offer at the cafe in the walled garden might mean I’d need two seats on the flight home, though.

SUM IT UP IN FIVE WORDS.

Leave the world and enter.

WHAT TRAVEL SPOT IS ON YOUR POST-LOCKDOWN WISH LIST?

My parents happen to live in a picturesque wee town – South Queensferry – so I could claim I want to view the bridges, have a drink at the Hawes Inn, walk through the Rosebery Estates, eat at Scotts … but really, it’s tea and biscuits at my mammy’s I’m after. Once the jetlag lets up, I’ll drive down to Galloway.