Ferry’s last journey

Bob Macdonald of Abernethy supplied the photograph on the right and says: “Some years ago, my late sister Jean was involved in the production of a book entitled Our Village produced by the Stanley branch of the then SWRI, which I now have in my possession.

“It includes the following poem, recording the last journey of the Burnmouth ferry boat. Locals will no doubt recognise the locations named along the route to disaster. Like Waulkmill ferry farther down the river, I recall that the fare for crossing was one penny.

The Boat o’ Burnmou’

Here I lie baith high and dry,

An’ sune will be forgot;

Here I wait to learn my fate,

A helpless, broken boat.

I’m still in hope, and this I’ll say

Ye Stanley folks tak’ note:

It’s drawing near election day,

When ye for the Council vote.

I’ve dune guid service in my time, Which I’m willin’ tae renew,

Should ye wish me back again

Tae my place at Burnmou’.

“Twas on a wild and wintry day,

The Tay rose mountains high,

I got a shock, my chain it broke

So I doon the Tay did hie.

Ower the Dam Dyke I did toss,

An’ through the Cat Holes passed, Through the Hell’s Hole whirlpools

An’ ’gainst the rocks I dashed,

Past Inchbervie and Auld Nairne House An’ Stanley’s Mills an’ a’,

As I passed by Stanley toon

The Auld Kirk clock struck twa. Past Summerhill I drifted on, Through the ‘Skellies’ I did dig, Still hurryin’ on, wi’ mony a groan Till I reached the Auld Thistle Brig. I windered as I drifted on What is my fate tae be?

Will naebody try tae rescue me Ere I reach the sea?

Mile efter mile I floated on

Till Perth cam’ intae view

I jinked through the Auld Brig But was held up wi’ the New. Here I lay until next day, My fateful journey o’er,

Sae, efter some manoeuvring They towed me tae the shore. Sae heer I lie, baith high and dry, A helpless broken boat;

Sae Stanley folks remember me Ere ye cast yer vote.”

Similarity to story

“As a young boy growing up in the 1950s,” says Dundee reader James Pirie, “I always looked forward to a Friday evening. That was the night my father brought home the glossy Eagle comic. I was mesmerised by the adventures of Dan Dare, pilot of the future and his sidekick Digby and also the very shapely Professor Peabody.

“I remember the journey to Venus where he fought the Treens and the Mekon in his hovering chair. I also think one planet they visited had a language based on the musical stave.

“I cannot recall which planet it was, or perhaps it could even have been our Earth, but I seem to remember there was some kind of plague or disease causing illness and death and factories had to be set up to turn out large numbers of medicines to stop it spreading.

“There is a similarity in that story with

Covid which we are experiencing today. Perhaps Craigie readers will be able to possibly confirm this or add a little bit more to my memory of the story.”

Vic’s Tip illustrated

“I was interested to see the recent item about the cartoonist George Thornley,” says a Dundee reader. “Although your reader mentions a ‘plummy’ English accent, George was actually Welsh.

“As well as providing cartoons for some of the columns, he also did the drawing which accompanied the horse racing information in Vic’s Tip every day in The Courier.”

Episode 68

Cal takes the loup away from his eye and gazes at the ring for a moment or two without it, then holds it out to her again. He seems both puzzled and intrigued. She takes it back, relieved, and sits it on the palm of her hand. It already feels warm from his fingers. She can see that there is a design on the outside, and lettering of some sort inside.

He breathes out. “I keep wondering what next? What are we going to find next?” “Tell me what you think it is!” “Well, I’m not 100% sure, but it looks to me like a posy ring.” She frowns. “Wasn’t that poesy, originally? As in poem.”

“I think so.”

She’s peering more closely at it. “Is that a hare on the outside? A running hare and flowers. There are flowers.”

Love token

He offers her the lens and she squints at the ring through it. Suddenly, the design springs to life in vivid detail, the yellow metal impossibly warm and bright for something that might have lain hidden for years. It makes her think of the brightness and warmth of the portrait of Lilias. The pattern is in shallow relief, the hare bounding around the ring’s circumference through a border of flowers. Inside, there is an inscription, in tiny, precise lettering. “Vous et nul... autre?” she says. “That’s what I think it says as well.” “You and no other.”

“That’s right.” He’s looking at her solemnly, his face shadowed. The sun has gone behind the wall and there’s a chill in the air.

“It’s a love token then.”

“I think so,” he says, carefully. “Weren’t they given as love tokens between courting couples? Or perhaps to mark a marriage.”

“But it was a time when marriages were often political or convenient, so sometimes they were secret gifts. This is a real love token, I think. A talisman.”

“How old is it?”

“Old. I think so anyway.”

“You mean very old? Like the picture?” “Well, there are plenty of modern copies. Lots of jewellers started making them and they still do. We’ve had them in the shop occasionally. They can be 15th or 16th Century. Sometimes even older.”

“And this one?”

“Could be.” He shrugs. “You’d need to get a jewellery specialist to have a look at it. We could take some pictures. I can give you some contacts. You don’t need to let it go.”

“Right,” she says, still holding the ring, peering at it. “I think it might have been enamelled.”

“I think you’re right. But the enamel will wear off with time, leaving just the gold. When you look at it through the magnifier, there’s just a tiny bit of colour, microscopic really, here and there.”

“I can see. And there seem to be two phrases, not just one. You and no other, and then another one. Even smaller. Un temps viendra.”

“That’s what I thought was…”

“On the picture of Lilias.” She almost whispers it. “Is this for real?” He shudders suddenly. “I think it’s spooky,” he mutters.

“Does it bother you?” She’s surprised. He doesn’t seem the type to be spooked.

“A wee bit, it does. I don’t know why. I don’t like this kind of thing much. Coincidence. It’s just coincidence, isn’t it?” He seems to need reassurance, so she nods.

“I suppose so. Why would it be in French? It must mean that the ring is French, mustn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I mean they may have been imported. People may have had them made and perhaps the goldsmiths were foreign. I’m not sure. I know you tend to find them in England rather than here.”

A mystery

He’s thinking aloud, as puzzled as she is, but feeling that he ought to know more. It strikes her how much men like to be seen as experts.

“How would it finish up here?”

“I have no notion. It would almost make more sense if it was in Spanish.”

“You mean the Armada?”

“Aye, I do, Daisy, but it’s a mystery.” He reaches over, takes up the ring and slides it onto the third finger of her left hand. “I had a feeling it would fit,” he says dreamily, and it does.

She looks at it for a moment, seeing the ring on her finger, the hare leaping forever round and round, leaping with the sun, clockwise, circling the ring of gold.

“Clockwise,” he says. “You know they won’t turn their boats against the sun here, don’t you?” it said. But that

“How do you mean?”

“You ask Donal Mcneill. If you’re putting a boat in the water or taking it out, you have to make sure you turn it with the sun. Otherwise ill luck will follow you – as somebody here once said to me! So I always turn with the sun too.”

She slides the ring off her finger. “I don’t think I should wear it,” she says. “What if it really is four or five hundred years old? But I don’t know what to do with it!”

“Let’s take it back to the house at least. Find a safe place for it. Maybe it’s a ring whose time has come.”

They both seem to find the ring disquieting, albeit for different reasons. For Daisy, it’s one more responsibility. She can’t quite fathom why wearing it made her feel so strange, nor why Cal is so apparently discomfited by it.

Trinket box

29

Inside the house, she looks around the big room and finds a carved wooden trinket box. Inside there is the usual guddle of receipts, string, elastic bands, some paperclips and a half-used book of stamps. She tips them out, although they make her think of Viola all over again, puts a tissue in the box and sits the ring on top of it, covering it with another layer of paper.

“Don’t forget where you’ve put it,” he says.

“I’m hardly likely to do that! safe, I’d be locking it away.”

“You should maybe just wear it.”

“I can’t risk losing it.”

“The way somebody once did?”

“Do you think it was lost or hidden? Don’t you have to report finds like this?”

“I’m not sure. Mum would know, if you don’t mind me telling her about it. You’re supposed to report treasure trove, but I don’t know if a single ring like this would count. If you’re not going to wear it, you should probably sell it.”

“I might not want to sell it. And I certainly don’t want some government official to carry it off to a museum.”

If I had a

He reaches over, takes up the ring and slides it onto the third finger of her left hand. “I had a feeling it would fit,” he says, and it does

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.

“The scenery in and around the Sidlaw hills makes for lovely walking and cycling country,” says Eric Niven, who sent in the photograph. “I think this part of the world was a favourite of the artist Mcintosh Patrick.”

The Burnmouth ferry features in the poem on the left. It crossed the Tay at Stanley. Read more on the left.