My Journey to Burnside Farm

Normally I prepare for my holidays well in advance, but on this occasion I did not. It was to be a week’s walking break in the Highlands of Scotland, staying at a farm that offered bed and breakfast and a packet of sandwiches for my daily roaming over the fells.

The only information I had about the place was that it was called Burnside Farm and that it was reachable from the remote village of Lochanhead, which was fortunate in being served by the railway line to Wick and Thurso.

I therefore turned up, late one Friday afternoon, at an otherwise deserted railway platform within a short walk of what appeared to be quite a small village. However, one thing in my favour was a tattered notice on the gate as I left the station, announcing that a taxi service was available, courtesy of Hamish.

So all I had to do was find and ask Hamish.

The village did not appear to have a lot of amenities, but it did boast a pub called Mackenzie’s Bar. This would surely be a good place to ask where I could find Hamish.

There was a man behind the bar, who I presumed might be Mackenzie, and two customers talking to each other at a small table in one corner. I asked the barman the obvious question, and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the duo in the corner.

I walked over. I felt it would be rude to butt into their conversation, so I waited for a suitable pause, which simply did not arrive. I coughed, gently. The two men stopped talking and slowly turned their heads in my direction, after which they stared straight at me, saying nothing.

“Are you Hamish?” I asked one of the heads.

A pause.

“Aye”, said the head.

“Are you the taxi driver?”

Another pause, slightly longer this time.

“Aye”.

“Can you drive me to Burnside Farm, please?”

The head named Hamish stared at me, unblinking.

“I could.”

But Hamish gave no indication that he was going to do anything further. He just sat there, motionless, for maybe half a minute. It was clearly up to me to move things further.

“Then might you …”

“If you would nae be so rude at interrupting a body in the middle of his sentence,” said Hamish with unexpected speed, “I was about to say that I could run ye t’ Burnside Farm were it not that I’ve just had five whiskies and am about to start on number six. You would nae want a drunk man behind the wheel of a taxi, now would ye?”

“No, I don’t suppose I would”, I said. “What should I do then?”

Hamish thought for quite a long time before giving his answer.

“At times like this,” he said eventually, “I call on a man I know called Dougal to help out. So maybe I’ll ask him.”

“I’d be grateful if you would”, I said. “Can you do so now, please?”

Hamish went back to staring at me.

“Ye Sassenachs are so impatient”, he said. “Wait till I’ve had me next whisky, then I’ll see about asking him.”

Hamish turned his head away. I noticed that the glass on the table in front of him was empty, but that he was not making any move that looked as though he was going to get it refilled. He stared silently at the glass for what could have been a whole minute.

“Would you like me to get you a whisky?” I asked, hoping that this might hurry things along.

“For a man who is so hasty in interrupting a fellow’s train of thought, you’re mighty slow at taking a hint”, Hamish said.

So, with Hamish now getting outside whisky number six, the time seemed right to broach the subject of contacting Dougal.

I coughed, even more gently than before. The two heads again swung in my direction.

“So … err … you were going to get in touch with Dougal”.

After the not unexpected pause, Hamish once more gave voice. “That I did”, he said, “and I always keep ma promises, don’t I, Dougal?” 

This last comment was asked of the second man, who had remained completely silent up till now.

“You do that”, said the man I now knew to be Dougal. “Ye may be a fearful sinner, Hamish, but ye have always been a man of your word, I will say that for ye.”

Eventually Hamish replied with, “Then would ye kindly do what this Englishman wants and drive him tae Burnside Farm?”

“Aye”, said Dougal, “That I will.”

And – much to my surprise – Dougal stood up. I noticed that the glass in front of this second man appeared to contain nothing more innocuous than water, which was a great relief. The prospect of being driven along a narrow, twisty Scottish lane by a man who’d been knocking back the hard stuff for hours in Mackenzie’s Bar was not one that I wished to contemplate.

We made our way outside to where a car stood at the kerbside. 

“Is this your taxi?” I asked.

“Aye”, said Dougal.

We got in.

“So do you often drive it for Hamish?” 

“I always drive it for Hamish,” said Dougal. “I am a member of the Kirk, with a mission to turn sinners like Hamish away from the Devil’s Brew, and I spend many an hour persuading him tae mend his ways, but I fear with little effect. He will surely roast in the fiery pits of Hell, but not for want of trying on my part.”

I had heard of people like Dougal before. He clearly belonged to the Free Presbyterian Church, known colloquially as the “Wee Frees”. I had heard them described as following a less jolly variety of Calvinism, with a strong aversion to sin in all its forms. I reckoned that doing nothing to offend Dougal would be in my best interests if I wanted to get to Burnside Farm.

I therefore said nothing when we sat in the car, doing nothing and going nowhere. Eventually, Dougal spoke up.

“Let us offer a prayer for our safety during this journey”, he said, and proceeded so to do.

The prayer was mercifully short at only five minutes, and did include a request to the Almighty to protect from sin the soul of the stranger – i.e. me – who was to be Dougal’s companion for however long this ride was going to take.

With the prayer over, I had assumed that we might actually get going, especially as it was now getting dark. But Dougal had other ideas.

“There is one thing I must do”, he said “Tarry a wee while, will ye? I’ll nae be long. There is a shop I must visit.”

So saying he stepped out of the car. When he came back I was amazed to see that he was carrying a large bottle of whisky. I did not dare to ask him why he was buying what appeared to be a particularly good brand of single malt, but fortunately he explained anyway.

“There is nae point in resisting temptation unless ye have temptation tae resist”, he said. “I like to keep a bottle of temptation in my house at all times, so I can practice resistance.”

I could not help but ask him why he needed to buy a bottle tonight. Surely he must already have one at home?

“I am sorry to say that my resistance was broken last night”, he said. “On numerous occasions”.

“And now”, he said, “the most important moment of all”.

“You mean we’re actually going to get going?” I asked.

“Not so hasty”, said Dougal. "I mean that I need to ask you to pay the taxi fare. I’ll be good tae ye, despite your impatience, by only charging you the minimum fee. I’ll trouble ye to pay me now, before we start, just in case you try to do a runner when we get there. Thirty pounds, please”.

Thirty pounds? That was half of all the cash I had on me for the week! However, I really had little choice if I was going to get to Burnside Farm tonight, so I duly paid up.

And then the miracle happened. Dougal started the engine, put the car into gear, and we began to move. The noise of the engine rose to a whine, and I fully expected Dougal to change into second gear. 

But he did not. Instead the engine noise, having reached a deafening peak, declined as the car slowed down and came to a halt. This was not what I had expected.

“Is there something wrong with the car?” I asked.

“There’s nae rang with the car”, Dougal said, and he pointed ahead to where the headlights picked out a board at the side of the road that read “Burnside Farm”.

We had travelled all of a hundred and fifty yards.

© John Welford