The prequel to Roddie’s fabulous story available in our latest anthology ‘Are You Sitting Comfortably?’. Launching at Bookmark Festival 10/10/2026!
The track from Kinaird to the top of the brae was steep; the air was already warm in the early morning sun. Under my hat, the sweat trickled down my forehead; I paused to sweep the salty sting from my eyes and to allow my horse to regain his chuffing breath. A weariness dragged at my limbs and a boulder weighed down on my hammering heart. Yet it had nothing to do with our trot up that long uphill track, rutted with wheel furrows. I was just the factors clerk ‒ why could Airlie not come out to do his own dirty work? But then, he had given me his word…
Below, blue-green hedges outlined the buff and ochre rhombuses of fields that stretched out towards the Tay. The river widened east, merging into the pale golden sky, crowned by the burning globe of the recently risen sun. As I rounded the shoulder of Guardswell Hill, I saw the twin summits of Balgay Hill and the Law rise from the prostrate body of the carse. Looking right, across the river, the sienna and umber scumbled hills of Fife rose to the twin-peaked plateau of the Lomonds; the so-called “Paps of Fife”. Ahead, the village nestled like a sleeping babe in a hollow under the slopes of Pitmiddle hill.
The track bent to the right, passing through a gate in a dry-stone dyke flanked by a windbreak of ash trees. A barely audible swish drew my attention to their gently waving branches, as if, ironically, they were welcoming me to the settlement. As I clattered over the burn on the wooden bridge, I glimpsed a wraith of smoke rising from the treed slopes of Pitmiddle and heard the cry of disturbed grouse. The breeze brought an acrid whiff of usquebaugh. I smiled; that dodger Jamie Baxter was still up to his old tricks. For three years I had turned a blind eye to his shenanigans, after all, live and let live.
At the two cross lanes, the cottages stood, rough-built of drystone and thatched with heather. Their gable ends faced the main street, casting languid shadows across the lanes in the early light of this warm March morn, in the year of our Lord, 1851. I dismounted and tied Bucephalus’s reins to the base of a currant bush.
Last season had been a good year for the fruit, and if this gentle spring held, the women folk would make a good return from the tangled thorns of gooseberry and shrubbery of currant bushes that occupied the strip of gardens by their cottage doors. My foot caught in a fresh hoof print in the brown earthen roadway, softened by and still glistening with dew. As I stumbled, I caught a glimpse of my face reflected in a cottage window. I had seen cheerier faces on the condemned being driven away in the black marias going from the Dundee High Court. The cows had not long been driven by the lad to graze on Pitmiddle Hill, I realised this as I looked down, cursed and extracted my foot from a steaming cow pat. As I did, I noticed a torn and hoof-printed sheet of paper. The familiar copper plate script drew my attention as I stooped to pick it up and dusted it off against my plus fours. I thought so. It was Archibald McKinlay`s hand drawn sketch for the fencing off of Outfield and Guardswell. I was too late, the news was out.
Most of the village were not up and no one had appeared yet at the wells at either end of the street. A creaking door behind drew my eye to the gardens behind the cottages; no… it was only someone going back indoors after throwing out the meal for the hens nodding and clucking in their wire-fenced pen. From two of the chimneys, thin grey clouds were already meandering and the smell of a recent bonfire reminded me of a happier time last Guy Fawkes night on Magdalen Green with Elsie. It displaced the earthy smell of manure newly spread over the rigs on the Outfield.
“So ye are nae blate to show yer face here Maister McGilvary?”
My reverie broken, I turned to face the source of the rasping voice. Aye, It was Sandy Reid, my lass`s father.
A ruddy-faced man in his fifties blocked my path, his hands clenched in front, gripping a horn-handled walking stick of bumped blackthorn. The breeze flicked grey locks of hair against the sides of his stained flat cap as he emerged from his home.
“Sandy, I beg your pardon, for that is why I am here n-n- now to tell you and your neighbours of the laird`s new arrangements for leasing the pastures. I don`t know what Archibald ….”
“Aye, maybe so,” he snapped, “but at least he was man enough to tell us and no tae come skulking in after the fact. Just when were you – oor supposed mid man ‒ going to tell us that Allan of Errol was taking away maist of our land?” He grimaced and turned sharply away.
My throat was dry, my voice croaked. “Sandy please, don`t turn your back on me. Please let me come into the house… it needn`t be as bad as you think”.
“No Davie. Ye`ll be welcome intae ma hoose nae more ‒ neither by me nor by Elsie. Good day to ye sir!”
He slammed his door so hard that the currant bushes danced. Heads began to appear around open doorways. I sighed heavily and fumbled in my pocket for the laird`s proclamation as the curious crowd assembled.
***
I read the proclamation, aware of the quiver in my voice, “On this twenty-third of March, eighteen Hundred and fifty one…” The details of the fencing operation were explained. Looking up from the parchment, I saw their faces first blank with shock, then taut with anger. Fists were waved and I felt the sweat on my spine as the circle narrowed. I heard their angry muttering around me like the howling of a feral pack. Hamish`s voice boomed over the clamour “So the laird wants to fence off Outfield? Where are we to graze our beasts? This enclosure will tak away the best pasture land”.
I coughed and fingered the proclamation. “Hamish, his lordship needs to ensure that the estate pays its way, by renting Outfield, he will increase his rental income from the estate and in the long term, this will provide security for you all”.
My words fell like ash into the breeze. They were not convinced, and neither was I.
“McKinlay`s men will complete the fencing by the middle of the week. I am sorry, there is nothing more I can say. Any cattle found inside the fence after Monday will be impounded on his lordship`s orders. My friends, these are hard times for laird and tenant alike, it is the only way forward, and there it is.”
I heard the spittle splat onto the ground behind me as I edged through the crowd, unhitched Bucephalus, mounted, and rode out over the clattering bridge. Pausing briefly, I tacked the proclamation to a tree trunk by the bridle track. I deemed it too risky to fix it to the well head as I had intended. Sandy`s door remained shut as I glanced back before riding downhill to Kinaird.
***
I had completed my rounds of the carse tenancies early on the Friday evening a week later. It had been sad work right enough, bringing notice of rent rises to folk barely scratching a living as it was from that heavy, dank clay. I had repaired to the change house in Raitt village for a beer to slake my thirst from a long sweat-drenched day in the saddle. I hoped to raise my sagging spirits before the journey back to my room in the factor`s croft at Abernyte.
The inn was quiet, being early, many were still afield, and the acrid fog of pipe smoke had yet to fill the room. I was staring into the depths of the pewter tankard at the last suds of ale when the door clattered open. A chubby-faced man of stocky build stood in the doorway.
“Ach Davie McGillvary, ye look like a man thit hae lost a shilling and found a bawbee!”
“Jamie Baxter, ye don`t seem to me to be a man that would be in need of the services of the change house, or maybe ye are here in some official capacity?”
“Just a traveller in need of rest, like yersel,” he came up to my table.
“And perhaps ye could be a wee bit more discreet, Maister Davie,” he whispered.
“Will ye have a beer Jamie?” I placed my purse on the table.
“Aye, well… I have a drouth right enough; that is very kind of you Maister Davie.”
As the landlord walked back to the bar, Jimmie reached for his tankard, I barely let him take a mouthful before I launched into my question.
“How are things in Pitmiddle?”
Jamie paused and wiped the froth from his greying beard.
“Folks are angry, aye, but resigned. They realise that there is nothing they can do, the laird`s word is law.”
I shifted uneasily in my seat. Jamie noticed and continued.
“Ye muna blame yerself Maister Davie, the villagers dinna, we all ken it was a job ye didna want.”
I sighed heavily.
“It is kind of ye to say so Jamie… this duty has been hard on me … it has driven a wedge between myself and Elsie.”
“Aye, aye, hard it must be for you. Sandy is a stubborn beast. All the more pity, for she obeys his every word.”
“It is true what you say.”
“Aye.”
“Jamie… could you do me a great favour? Could you get a message to her?” My quill and paper was already out of my saddle bag.
***
Two days later, I was waiting for her, my cloak wrapped against the cold south-westerly wind. Bucephalus was grazing in the shelter of Pitmiddle wood above the village. I took out my pocket watch –it was after noon, she was 10 minutes late.
For reassurance, I turned and looked over at Jamie Hay’s empty croft on the brae above the village, awaiting re-leasing. The sun kissed the rough stone walls and flecks of mica glistened like dewdrops. Many times I had been drawn up that beckoning path to gaze over the Carse. In my mind’s eye, I could see Elsie on the doorstep, the weans at her feet With the conifer bowing to me in the wind, and that pungent scent of rosemary tumbling down the path like an unrolling carpet, I could feel that comfortable sense of home wrapping around me like a soft, warm blanket as I walked, weary from my days toil, over my own yard, …over my own land to my own door. This place we could restore, when I got the lease. Airlie had promised me. Or was that my forty pieces of silver?
Then I caught that glimpse of gold, the reflected sunlight on her wheat-coloured hair and her elfin face as she pushed aside the shadows and brambles on the path side with her shawl.
“Elsie, my darling, it is grand tae see you, sit down and let us work this out.”
She hung back and I had a sense of foreboding.
“Davie. I canna stay long, Faither thinks that I am at Window Mauchline`s.”
“How is it with Sandy ‒ has he come round any?”
“Na Davie,” her voice was breaking, “he thinks that this will destroy the village in time.”
“Lass, I know that this is not the best of things, but Airlie has promised me the cottage; we would have what we have dreamed of; our own home; we could be wed by Candlemas. I could spend the rest of the summer getting the house ready.”
“Davie”, her eyes moistened and glistened as her voice cracked, “My faither has always thought ye an honourable man, a good man, but he cannae thole this ‒ folk will lose their livelihood. He says are there no enough young folk leaving for prospects in the carse? This enclosure will strangle farming here.”
“Elsie, but WE will not be farmers. You can mind the berries around the croft for the jam man, but we will have my wage, and maybe when Airlie is too fat to sit a horse, I`ll be the factor.”
She sobbed and turned away. I ran to her. She was enclosed by my arms, but her litheness was gone. Stiff, like lumber, she was, propped against me.
“Davie, ye`ll be a factor of nothing, Faither says wi the farming gone, the village will die.”
“But the Laird says that this is needed, for progress otherwise the estate will wither.”
“Aye, maybe. Lairds mun dae whit lairds dae but Faither was telt by McKinlay that the enforcement was a job that Airlie was sly enough to pass on …and ye were not hard persuaded to take it on.” She wiped her eyes as a tone of despair buckled her voice.
“Wid ye really tak ma cousin`s beasts when they let them graze the Outfield?” That`s what it wid mean Davie.”
“My lass I did it for us, for our future.”
“We have no future now. Can ye no see that? He will never forgive you now, nor would the village- we would be shunned! YOU have killed our future”. Her tears flowed.
“And all this time I dreamt of the day when you would free me from him.”
She gathered her skirts and ran down the path, heedless of the thorns. I thought to follow but was rooted, pole-axed by her last remark. Damn Airlie! He said it would be an exercise of my initiative. She was out of my sight when I heard her heart-wrung sobbing.
As I came down the hill, towards Abernyte, I glanced ruefully over my shoulder. The village seemed entrenched behind that stockade of Ash trees. As the sun arced to the south, shadows filed like sentries into the thickets behind the dyke and behind the gate. It was no use, that way was barred and lost to me now. Damn Airlie to hell!
***
I remember less of the following months, the days passing like so many petals dropping off the passing summer blooms, the letters that I wrote to her, and the replies that never came. My days passed in a daze, mainly in the depths of Pitmiddle wood with Jamie Baxter. Soon the croft, horse and job passed like so much smoke from the still, out through the trees and away, high over the carse. The best made plans o` mice and men… I never went back to Pitmiddle. Yet whenever I met any of the villagers in my stupor, I remembered no bitterness or hatred ‒ all passion was spent, instead there was nothing but pity in their shocked, staring eyes.
Then, in late August I had had enough.
***
The Baleana twisted at anchor in the morning swell. We were waiting in mid-channel to hunt out the stowaways and for the Polar Star to clear the Victoria Dock. Then we were to be underway for the Arctic. My gear was stowed below in my berth. Jimmie Baxter`s pal Erchie Hay had put in a good word for me, and I was signed up for the eight-month voyage. I leaned on the taffrail holding the cromach I had found the day I woke in the bog, my only means of support, as the ship creaked.
The clump of seaboots on the planked deck caused me to turn and see Erchie approach. His tattooed forearms leaned beside me on the polished rail. I was aware he was looking at me as I stared landward.
“Are you no coming below Davie? Eck has opened a braw cask.”
“No Erchie, I`ll stay here for now”.
“Aye, aye…nae regrets then Davie?”
“No Erchie, no regrets, I`ll be glad to be away.”
I picked out the green cap of Pitmiddle wood above where the village sat and stared into the far distance of the Braes of the Carse.
“Ye`ll be thinking of home, eh? A lang time before we see it again, a lot of lads find it hard on their first voyage, that last look at the hills of home.”
“No Erchie, the sense of that place is lost to me now.”
“Whit? But ye will have friends and family ye will be leaving behind; does that no bother ye?”
“No, Erchie, there was a place that was home to me once and a home that could have been, but when the people have gone, what is a place but a space and a time that once you peopled with memories. When the people have gone, the place is just an empty eggshell. There is nothing there for me anymore and it`s time to be moving on.”
Erchie looked long at me, before drawing his gnarled hand over his brow. He flicked up his head and laughed aloud.
“Ach, are you na the deep one indeed, and me just a simple tar.”
He turned and shook his head, laughing like the bark of a sealion as he clambered down the aft hatchway.
***
Author’s Notes
My story “Sinderin” is set in the deserted village of Pitmiddle, Perthshire. I came across the legend “Deserted Village” while looking over an Ordnance Survey map of the Braes of The Carse and was intrigued. A trip up there revealed the fantastic views from the site and being autumn, I could make out the site or the walls of most of the houses. Some of the houses still had artefacts lying in them, which gave a human presence and poignancy to the location.
The splitting up of the farmland was the beginning of the end for Pitmiddle, a community which had been recorded since the 12th century. The lack of sufficient grazing land killed the village which in its heyday was home to around 200 people. The young left for work in the factories and big houses of Dundee and Perth and finally the last person left in 1938.