As we all get older, it is normal to reminisce on life past with more than a little nostalgia. I suppose this is what this blog is; a nostalgic look-back some 50 years or more with more than a wistful hope that someone recognises the people in the story and get in touch. The young girl who stars in this tale, will now be a more mature woman in her mid-late 60s, or may not even be with us. There's too much water travelled under many bridges over the years for rekindled relationships, but it would be nice to touch bases and find out how life panned out for the young woman remembered here. That, and the opportunity for an older gent to apologise for less than appropriate behaviour.
This Scottish blog began life as a post about my visits to Fort William in the early 1970s and was intended to rekindle memories of good times. Times of freedom, cheap travel and food, almost untouched countryside, and hospitable people. All in a period of relative innocence. It eventually had me pondering about wild swimming, running, tumbling down mountains, falling in love with a Fort girl and how that worked out, and Jimmy Savile – not in that order.
Fort William of the early 70s
Wild swimming. I suppose that I was a wild swimmer before wild swimming was a thing. I realised this when I was musing about the summer of 1973 when I found myself on one of my annual pilgrimages to Fort William, the real ‘gateway to the Highlands’, to take part in the annual Lochaber Highland Games. Instead of this being the usual ‘up one day, race, then back home the next day’ round trip… I stayed for a bit.
At this time, I was a wild camper, as were many others in Scotland. Pitch your tent wherever you needed to do so, look after the environment, and in turn there was freedom. I camped on the banks of the River Nevis, close to some trees in a little clearing, albeit a clearing that was hidden from prying eyes or the general public. I returned recently and the place was now covered by thick bushes and mature trees (below), probably the trees that were previously the bushes that hid my tent from sight over 45 years ago.
The area at the side of the River Nevis that I used to pitch my tent.
Now overgrown and partially flooded but the bridge is still there
The ‘campsite’ was convenient being only about ½ mile walk to the edge of town. More to the point, it was only about 100 yards from Claggan Park, the host venue for the Lochaber Highland Games and even closer to the road that led to the Half-Ben course. Ben Nevis accommodated two main races every year – the Ben Nevis Hill Race aka the Full Ben, that took place usually in September, and the Half-Ben (an obvious half of the Full Ben), that took you more or less halfway up the mountain track of Ben Nevis whereupon the athletes would turn and half run, half stumble at speed back to Claggan Park and the finishing line. I stayed at my little haven of a campsite for a few days in 1973.
Claggan Park, Fort William or New Town Park as it is now known
Scene of the Lochaber Games
Swimming there was a means to an end. There were no glamourous facilities. Showers just weren’t available. Toilets were the public loos in the town centre, and the only running water was from the river that passed quite literally on my doorstep. Thus, my wild swimming; how else was a teenage boy meant to keep himself clean. Not that that was a big thing then. However, (hopefully) there were some local ladies and there was always the hope that they would find a clean(er) Glasgow boy appealing. So, the River Nevis became not only a recreational swimming area for me, it was also the location for my body to be cleansed prior to any hopeful rendezvous with a desirable woman. Oh, the optimism of youth.
My 1973 swimming spot as it is now
I should say that this year I wasn’t camping alone. In previous years, I had camped solo, but this year a friend, let's call him John, a Paisley 'buddie' from my athletic club accompanied me for a week. John was a similar age to me, a faster runner than me, better looking than me, and much more confident around the opposite sex than me. His companionship boded well for after the Games when the festivities would start and ritualistic eyeing-up and romancing would begin.
An example of Scottish traditional romancing - not me unfortunately
As luck would have it, we did meet a couple of young women; a bit younger but of a similar age, and with the appealing freshness that only Highland air and the fair skin of youth can offer. They shall remain nameless (although I will call my young lady 'Izzy' as by now they will have have had lives that might have been lived in the local area and it is not my intention to embarrass anyone. If they read this, they might recognise themselves, but we all have a history and deserve to have that history stay as private as possible. The two girls were still students at Lochaber High School. Young, but then so were we. 'Izzy', the one that fancied me most and that I liked, was small and slim, came from what I think was the Inverlochy area of Fort William (or possibly Caol, definitely around that area), while I believe that her best friend came from the posh houses up the hill from the town. The two girls invited us to Kilmallie Hall in Corpach for a teenage dance (pic shows Kilmallie Community Centre as it now).
That evening, we duly met up with our dates and walked in the sunshine to Corpach, talking the usual small-talk of young people who are a bit unsure of each other but trying desperately to look and sound cool and still make an impression. The girls entered the hall first with us lagging behind. The place was relatively barren, except for some chairs that were dotted around and a congregation of young lads of about our age in a corner at the top of the hall. They eyed us, and we eyed them. Cautiously. But, the girls assured us that everything would be fine.
'Izzy' told me, "Don't worry. We know all of them." Prophetic words indeed.
Eventually the music started and many of the girls in the hall began to dance, as did John and I. We didn't drink but were a bit high on life at that time and I think it is fair to say that our dancing became (slightly) outrageous. There was plenty of room so we showed off as well as we could, danced with our partners for the night, and anyone else that came along, but always making sure that our partners came first. Meanwhile, none of the other boys were dancing and we became acutely aware that their time was not being spent eyeing up the girls but watching us. And, some of the looks didn't appear too benevolent.
Being the centre of attention, we were still enjoying ourselves when 'Izzy' came up and whispered in my ear, "The boys are looking for trouble. You will need to watch out."
I wasn't too alarmed as we were with local girls and, as they said earlier, they knew everyone and to some extent I thought that would be enough. Naïve or what? Dancing the night away, I kept a weather-eye on the boys, many of whom had been disappearing in ones and twos to the toilets where there was an obvious hidden stash of alcohol. Gradually, the atmosphere became more tense as the lads got a bit drunker, until finally, a group of them left the main hall en bloc. At that point I was dancing with 'Izzy' when a friend came up and whispered something in her ear. Immediately, 'Izzy' took me aside and said, "You had better get out of here now! They are away to get sticks. They want to give you two a doing [bashing] for being with us."
Knowing that the boys had gone out of the front door, blocking our path, I asked, "How do we get out?"
"Quick, follow me," as she grabbed and dragged me to a fire-escape, which she then opened. John followed and we bolted.
We heard the clamour behind us as the boys realised what had happened and took chase. But, both of us were comfortable that we could outrun most people and we did, only stopping about 1/2 mile along the road to Fort William. Close escape.
It was still light and the two of us now wandered back to town. With our two partners having to stay behind and quell an angry crowd, we wondered what to do. "I know, let's go to Jimmy's party."
Jimmy Savile (yes, that Jimmy Savile) had been the Chieftain of the Games and as such was hosting a party to which I (possibly we) had been invited.
To give some context, Savile had been running the Half Ben Race for charity and as he ran around the track before exiting the stadium with the other Half-Benners, he called on me to hold this little square electronic box ‘thing' until he returned. He never knew me from Adam but obviously trusted someone who looked moderately sensible and who was warming up on the inside of the track: I was an ‘insider’ so to speak. Anyway, that little box was it was a sophisticated and expensive Sony cassette recorder, possibly the precursor to the later Walkman that went out on general release. Saville was using this to record conversations with athletes, spectators, and organisers for his next Sunday show, Savile's Travels. I remember Savile saying as he ran past me, ‘Here, can you look after this for me, it’s over £500 and I don’t want to run up the hill with it.' Gobsmacked, I put my hand out and accepted it as he continued, ‘I’ll get it when I finish.’ Very trusting. Had he asked many other Possilpark boys, it might have been the last he saw of it, but true to my nod, I gave it back to him. In return, I was invited to the party that he was hosting that night in the Milton Hotel, sited on North Road on the edge of the town (pic below).
He took the role of Chieftain of the Games seriously, as can be seen on his misspelled gravestone, and this seemed to be his annual Chieftain's Highland Party.
Now in retrospect, it makes you wonder if that was the sole reason that he came to Fort William year after year. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
Savile would park his enormous camper van that looked like something from a movie set, in a space to the left of the hotel (see phot), but so far as I was aware he partied inside the hotel; or maybe he partied in the hotel then outside for privacy. We will probably never know unless anyone who reads this has a better memory than me. John and I did go along to the party out of nosiness and a sense of duty, and, having been run out of Corpach we had nowhere else to go. We didn’t stay too long: too fuddy-duddy if I remember correctly and we had other things on our mind: The two girls who we left behind at the dance. We went out to try and find them, but no luck.
Fortunately, on the Sunday afternoon they both came down to 'hang around' the bridge that overlooked our campsite and we spotted them. 'Izzy' and her friend apologised about the behaviour of the boys, but we had already got over that and the four of us laughed about the experience, albeit, it might not have been a laughing matter if the girls hadn't been on our side, looking out or us.
We walked about a bit, talked a bit, showed them our home for the few days in Fort William, our wee tent, but nothing more. Just, four young people enjoying each others' company, but nonetheless, hoping for more.
We parted as night fell, still not even having as much as held hands. Shy or what? Mind you, not before we made arrangements to meet the girls for something to eat and drink in town on the Monday. There was a nice wee café that did a great pie and beans, and it had an eclectic selection of records on its jukebox. Sophistication indeed. Nonetheless, that was our planned destination for date-night, with a wait-and-see attitude to what happened once our appetites were satiated. Suffice to say, our intentions were not fully honourable. If memory serves me well, the girls’ intentions were not fully honourable either as they had suggested meeting and staying at the tent until they needed to go home. Having already seen the splendour in which we were living, they knew what they would be letting themselves in for.
Spacious and luxurious it was not. In fact, it was rudimentary at best with no sewn-in groundsheet then, just a sheet that was tucked inside the tent, high enough to stop marauding beasties (as if) but low enough not to touch the walls of the tent and let in water in the event of rain (as if). It would have been a tight squeeze. Two young men, and two young women in a two-person tent. But, if nothing else, we were young and adaptable. It seemed like a squeeze was well within any set boundaries.
The type of tent that I used in the 70's - rudimentary at best
If I remember correctly, the girls had summer jobs, or at least one of them did, and worked in the morning and early afternoon. That left John and me foot loose and fancy free for the early part of the day. He was happy to mooch about the campsite, catching some rays. Me, I decided to go for a run. Not an ordinary 4- or 5-mile easy run; I took it upon myself to tackle the Half-Ben. It can’t be too hard, I thought, I mean Jimmy Savile had completed it on a number of occasions.
On that Monday, I departed for my sojourn up the Ben. I remember running along a still roadway with only whistling birds for company. This was the self-same road that the athletes had followed a couple of days previously. At the end of this tarred section, I crossed over a rough patch of tussocky ground that led to the lower slopes. Needless to say, I started steadily as I had no hill-running experience. Not only that, but I also hadn’t run further than six miles previously and this was going to be further than that… and uphill. I was both excited and a bit nervous.
The ascension was no bother. Well, it was but I was young and fit. I ran, clambered, and occasionally stumbled upwards. Apart from the needles of pain that were being hammered into my thighs with the strain of uphill running and my gradually belaboured breathing, I felt stronger than expected. Reaching the turning area, I casually did a 180 degree turn and began the downward journey.
"This will be easier," I thought.
Loping casually downhill as one does, I had some time to glance below me. The River Nevis snaked through the glen, trees on the opposite banks swayed gently in the breeze, and Meall an T-Suid (also known by athletes as the Mellantee) stood proudly in front of me. Idyllic.
A movement below caught my attention.
Some 300 yards away were three runners who had obviously had the same idea as me – a hilly run, in beautiful environment, on a lovely summer’s day were on the same track below me. They had turned earlier and were heading back to wherever their base was. As athletes often do when they see other athletes, my response was to set off off in pursuit. This is when it all went wrong.
I was running downhill fast, skipping with an assuredness of foot that belied my lack of experience on the hills. I felt nimble and able to take quick decisions as I ran and hopped from sound terrain to boulders and back again.
Not me running (Bobby Shields was much better than me)
but the photo offers an indication of the terrain in these days
Glancing downwards in front of me, I could see that I was gaining on those below me, so I pushed on. At that same point, I was approaching a bend at speed and too late realised that the stoney path underfoot was very loose. I was beginning to lose traction. Arms flailing, I attempted to regain my balance but the edge was approaching fast. As it loomed ever nearer, I took the immediate decision to ‘deck it’. A fall would hurt but not as much as sliding off the edge of a mountain and falling perhaps 40 to 50 feet below. I was correct. It hurt. Like hell. My right knee and hip took the brunt of the fall and the jarring, tearing pain was immediate. Unfortunately, my thrashing right arm took even more of a bash as my forearm and elbow cracked onto a rock.
I lay prone for a while, shocked, in pain, and slowly running a mental rod over myself, assessing the damage. Hip sore (tick), knee sore (tick), shoulder sore (tick), elbow agony (tick). Gently, I began to move. All working (double tick). My arm was very painful and as I surveyed the problem area, I realised that I was bleeding just around the elbow, and quite profusely too. Deep breaths. Don’t panic.
I knew that I had to get off the hill quickly and seek help. I was only in vest and shorts and between the shock of the fall and my sweat beginning to dry in the wind, I had started to shiver. So, very gingerly, I got to my feet and even more gingerly, I set-off. Seeking the shortest and quickest route, I headed almost at right angles downwards towards the river and a commercial campsite that sat on the opposite bank. I had no idea how I was going to get to the campsite but decided that I would deal with that if and when I made it to the water's edge.
Intuitively, I lifted my arm above my head to try to stop or at least stem some of the bleeding, and stumbled on my way, weaving between large clumps of ferns and even larger boulders. Somehow, I made it to the river, and crossed it. I’m not sure how but I do remember there being quite a strong current and worrying that I might be swept away as I was up to my waist at times.
Entering the campsite, I called for assistance at the first tent I came across. No answer. At the second tent, I called again and fortunately a woman stuck her head out of the door. Her face immediately turned ashen, and she shouted, "My god. Help! Help!”
Apparently, I looked much the worse for wear, with blood having dripped from my arm, all over my head, face, and body, mingling well with the cuts on my knee and upper thigh. I appeared as though a butcher's apprentice had been practicing his carving on me.
The woman’s yells brought others to her tent. My recollection is cloudy with the passing of years but I know that eventually I was wheeched away in an ambulance to the local Belford Hospital where I was met by the A and E team. My main memory was that it was quiet, peaceful, still, and had that disinfectant smell that permeated everywhere and everything.
The treatment was immediate, comforting, and friendly. X-rayed, cleaned-up, bandaged, injected twice (one as a painkiller and the other to apparently ward off potential diseases from horse flies on the hill), and arm in a sling, I was ready to leave.
Belford Hospital, Fort William - scene of my treatment
It was dark as I walked out of the hospital doors and down the few steps to terra firma. John was there having found out somehow that I was in hospital. He had already spoken to the two girls – I think he found out where I was earlier in the day but waited to speak to the girls before coming to look for me. Priorities? Thanks, John.
Despite my travails, I hadn’t forgotten the two girls either, in particular I had been lying on my hospital gurney/trolley thinking about 'Izzy'. John’s actions saved the day and left the door open for the next evening where I could present myself as a brave hero.
We trundled back to the tent slowly, stopping for two fish suppers as I hadn’t eaten since before lunchtime. That journey through the centre of the town and out at the other side, was very uncomfortable. Arm in a sling, sore hip causing me to limp, or was that my knackered knee, and heavy heart from missed opportunities with the girls. Then again, it wasn’t all bad, there was the next night to look forward to. The flutter in my stomach at that thought made me realise that I was a bit smitten by my young date.
Arriving at the tent, I semi-shuffled and semi-crawled on one arm and one knee to almost collapse on my sleeping bag. That night was very uncomfortable as the painkillers wore off. Every part of me hurt, and each time I rolled over, I woke up, wincing in pain. The morning couldn’t come quickly enough. At least I felt that I wouldn’t hurt myself standing up, as much as I did laying down. Little did I know.
Memory fades but I recall meeting the girls in the afternoon of the next day (Tuesday) and went for what was euphemistically termed ‘a romantic walk’. Me limping so badly that I was almost hopping, my arm being jarred with every step/hop, with 'Izzy' showing concern for my condition. John, well he sang. He sang the same lines of a song time-and-time again:
“I'm so alone, my love without you You're part of everything I do When you come back, and you're beside me These are the words I'll say to you”, followed by a rendition of the song’s chorus, ‘Welcome home… etc’.
Peters and Lee - singing for us and the girls
John wasn’t a Peters and Lee fan, but he thought that the words bore a hint of romance and unrequited love: lost times. 'Izzy's' friend sniffled when he sang it and held him closer. Perhaps that was the effect that John was seeking.
It was around tea-time (Scottish tea-time aka dinner at around 6ish) that Highland hospitality came into its own. 'Izzy' invited me to her home for ‘something to eat’. I thought that it was very generous of her and her family, especially as I didn’t know them at all. Now, as a family man, I think that them not knowing me was the reason for the invite. Her mum wanted to cast her eye over the boy, a ‘city boy’, that had seemingly stolen her daughter’s mind and possibly her heart. I seemed to pass muster and 'Izzy' got the nod to go out with me that night. Either that, or her mum took one look at the broken me and realised that I wasn’t in any fit state to challenge her daughter’s virtue. In my mind though, the world still loved a trier. I hadn't given up yet.
Light was fading as we left her house and, lo and behold, our meanderings through the Fort took us, as the song goes, down by the riverside, and along the riverbank to my tent. John was there already with his girlfriend. Now to try to squeeze 4 people in a 2-person tent.
It might actually have worked except for my injured hip, sore knee, bashed up shoulder, and generally damaged body. Especially my now badly swollen, cut, bruised, and otherwise beat-up elbow. We kissed a bit and tried to canoodle, but every time I moved, it was agony. I certainly wasn’t sexually experienced, or even aware enough to propose other options and neither was 'Izzy'. We were flummoxed; well, she was flummoxed and possibly a bit frustrated. I was flummoxed, a lot frustrated, but also in pain. This was to be our first and possibly last night together and it was a disaster. The next day John and I had to leave to walk to Newtonmore, some 45 miles away.
To cut a long story short. The evening was ruined in my eyes, albeit 'Izzy' understood my pain. What she didn't know was that I wasn't as experienced as she thought, and I also had some scruples. By then I knew that she was under 16 (15 possibly), and even though I wasn't much older, I didn't want to take advantage of her. Although, given her keenness, it might have been her taking advantage of me. We parted after I walked her part of the way home; apologetically if I remember, and she saw us off the next morning. To my deep regret, 'Izzy' wrote to me regularly. Almost weekly in fact. I answered a couple of times. She also ‘phoned me, again regularly. Again and again. This was more regretful as I rarely replied, getting my younger sister to answer for me. I should say that sis was not at ease with this role of gatekeeper and was always apologetic to the young woman on the other end of the 'phone. I was both embarrassed at the attention but also too immature to take things further.
To my distress, even now in this present-day, a year passed and 'Izzy', my girl from the Fort, never forgot me. We met briefly the following year at the self-same Lochaber Games. This time, I body-swerved a date, not because I didn’t want to meet up but I really was embarrassed and to some extent a bit disgusted at myself and my actions. As they say, actions have consequences and my ego was fragile. I really wanted to be with her but didn't want to seem too keen either.
Every so often, I think of my life and inevitably this period of time is rekindled in my memory. My experiences of Fort William have been fulfilling and impactful, and at the same time not something to be proud of. We can't always look back and blame ourselves for our past behaviour as a less than mature youth, but I knew that what I was doing was mean spirited. Yet, I did not, could not, do anything about it, other than play and act dumb, and I did that well.
As we all age, opportunities for reflection are provided it seems. At times, I wonder how 'Izzy' got on in life. A lovely girl, in a small town, in a beautiful part of Scotland. The last I heard of her, oddly enough was when I attended another Lochaber Games. Her friend told me that 'Izzy' was engaged to a young man who was the assistant manager of one of the town’s larger hotels. I'm not sure if that was the case or whether her friend was trying to protect her as she had told me previously of how much I had hurt her. I truly hope that she had a wonderful life and forgives the behaviour of a less than mature young man. I guess I'll never know unless we simply bump into (and recognise) each other the next time that I am up in the town, or someone recognises the story or the people in it and get in touch at glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com Now that would be amazeballs as the kids say nowadays.
Contact: glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com or use the chat function on this blog and leave your details - I promise to contact everyone who does so.
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