Smugglers - Johnny Cullen

This wee story sees a hapless local criminal trying his hand at smuggling down in Inverkip...


Johnny Cullen - A Smugglers Tale by Auld Dunrod


If you want to see a wee bit of local history, Gourockguy's channel on Youtube has loads of videos of Inverclyde's nooks and crannies, including the Shielhill Cave, believed by some to have been used by smugglers

Smugglers

Whisky Galore

These days, Inverclyde markets itself as "Scotlands Export Capital". Central to this impressive title is our position on the river, which has long served a commercial purpose for the people of the area. For hundreds of years ships have traded with the ports of Greenock and Port Glasgow and placing the area at the heart of Scotlands economy. However, three hundred years ago, Inverclyde was more famous for its imports, though not everything that came ashore was legal. Indeed, during the 18th and 19th centuries, smuggling was a significant part of the economy of Scotland, and the Firth of the Clyde became a favourite haunt of merchants dealing in Contraband. Completely unlike today of course. Duties imposed on goods such as tobacco, whisky and tea after the Union of the Crowns in 1707 meant that illicit trade in duty free goods became a particularly profitable endevour for anyone with a boat.

           

By the barrel and crate…

The trade found a foothold in Inverkip where the bay provided the perfect location for landing goods. It seems that in this quiet little village "whisky was landed by the barrel, and tea by the crate." And just like many other parts of Scotland at that time, if it meant cheaper whisky, everyone was content to be involved, sometimes even the local minister! Normally, watertight bundles of contraband would be floated in the bay after nightfall. Then the smugglers would go ashore and check the area for customs officers. If the coast was clear, the float would be retrieved. From here, the goods could be stored safely in the numerous cellars of sympathetic villages, or quickly transported to Greenock or Glasgow by coach.

The Increase of Smuggling

John Galt in his famous work of fiction Annals of the Parish, widely believed to draw heavily on the history of Inverkip, gives an interesting account of smuggling in the mid 1700’s:

“It was in the year 1761 that the great smuggling trade corrupted all the west coast, especially the laigh lands. The tea was going like chaff, the brandy like well-water, and the wastrie of all things was terrible. There was nothing minded but the riding of cadgers by day and excise men by night – and battles between the smugglers and the king’s men, both by sea and land. There was a continual drunkenness and debauchery; and our session, that was but on the lip of this whirlpool of iniquity, had an awful time o’t.  Before this year, the drinking of tea was little know on the parish, saving amoung a few of the heritors’ house on a Sabbath evening; but now it became very rife.”

3 Pints and a dram

The incidents of smuggling in Inverkip are numerous and well documented. One well known case is that of Thomas Finnie, a local milkman, whose tale is recorded in the records of the Innerkip Society:

“Early in the morning of the 22^nd of December, 1809, about 6 am, Thomas Spence, Supervisor of Excise in Greenock, could have been seen – suitably armed with pistol, etc – riding through the slush to Inverkip accompanied by two other officers. Almost exhausted and perished with the cold after their unusual errand they espied Thomas Finnie’s milk cart. They lay in wait near the Daff burn and when Thomas had reached that point on his way to the “big house” with his morning delivery, the command to halt came from Spence. Mr Spence immediately searched the cart and in addition to the usual and necessary commodity of milk, he found three casks of Highland whisky containing in all 30 gallons. The horse, cart, milk and whisky and, of course, Thomas, were seized and taken in charge when, suddenly, Spence spotted Robert Cochrane some distance off. Cochrane was also searched and his cart was found to contain 50 gallons of Whisky. Both carts, their contents and their owners were marched on to Greenock Bridewell.”

Pistols at the ready

While many of the incidents at Invekip were tame and relatively free from violence, this as not always the case.  Encounters between the excisemen and smugglers or their customers for that matter were at their worst when the cargo consisted of food, and people  were hungry.One account tells of riots at Greenock when a ship tried to land a cargo of food from Ireland.:

'...a most violent and outrageous mob has risen at Greenock and by force broken open the hatches and carried away the sails of the vessels laying in that harbour laden with oatmeal...and taken and carried away all the said meal despite of whatever could be done to prevent it...'

The complement of 20 dragoons stuggled to  control the mob of several thousand locals. The intervention of a local magistrate almost ended in tradgedy, and would surely have resulted in his death, were he not dragged off to the custom house for his own safety.

Another case also tells of violent side to the smuggling industry, when during an encounter with smugglers at Lunderston Bay, a revenue officer was brutally killed as he tried to prevent the criminals from escaping.

Customs HQ

The extent of the smuggling industry on the west-coast was in part responsible for the creation of the new Custom House at Greenock. The building was finished in 1818, and stood as a warning to all on the Clyde that the excise men were present in force.  It is thought that this is the last of a long line of custom houses sited in Greenock; previous ones included a building in Cathcart street and an office at the West Quay. The Customs service of Greenock sports some famous connections; Burns spent some of his career as an excise man in Greenock and while the location of the very first excise office remains unknown, it is recorded as having been in operation during the cattle raids of Rob Roy, when local men were sent out to deal with the Highland rogue on a number of occasions.

Inverkip – Import Capital of Scotland

The last reported case of smuggling occurred in Inverkip in 1888, when a large amount  of tobacco was seized. However, the customs maintained a presence in Inverkip for many years to come and until the 1900’s, tow coastguard officers were a familiar sight in the village, keeping watch over the bay with a keen eye and polished binoculars. Today, there is little to link the village to its days a smuggling den, only the romantically named, though somewhat unimpressive Smugglers Cave stands as a memorial,  a few miles behind the town. Some people have speculated that the mysterious skull and crossbones headstone in the villages old cemetery marks the final resting place to one of Inverkip’s shadowy smugglers; a fitting monument to this dark and romantic chapter in the history of this little village.

(text by Neil Bristow)

Saint Fillan

January 19th sees the feast day of a Celtic Missionary associated with the area, Saint Fillan...

After the victory of the Christian forces at the epic Battle of Arderryd, the growth of Christianity continued unabated in Scotland. The Celtic saints played a great part in this, Saint Columba having unified the many disjointed missions into a whole. For the next 150 years, the Christian word carried to the furthest reaches of Scotland. It was against this background that St. Fillan arrived in this country, some time around the early 700s.

Fillan, whose name literally translates as ‘wolf cub’ was born to Federach, a prince of the race of Fiatach Finn, and Kentigerna, a princess of Ulster. As the legend has it, he was born with a stone in his mouth. Federach saw this as a sign that this child was a curse to him, and threw him into a lake. However, Fillan was kept safe by angels, who watched over the child until he was discovered by Bishop Ibar. The Bishop raised him as his own child, in the Christian faith. Kentigerna kept a distant but watchful eye on her son, and was thankful to Ibar and his monks for caring for her son. Fillan’s mother, too, would later become a missionary.

When Fillan landed on our shores, his mother and cousin Comgan accompanied him, they first settled in Lochalsh, in Wester Ross; later Fillan would travel to Glen Dochart, his mother retiring to Inch Cailleach, ‘The Nun’s Isle’, on Loch Lomond, where she died in 734 A.D.

The Exploits of St. Fillan

To this day, stories are rife of Fillan’s trials and adventures during the years when he was founding his missions. One such famous tale tells of a wolf who attacked and killed one of Fillan’s oxen while he was ploughing his fields; the wolf subsequently returned and allowed himself to be yoked. The animal would go on to aid Fillan in his ploughing, and help him build his priory. This tale is seen by some as an allegory for Fillan ‘taming’ the wilder elements of ancient Celtic culture.

Another legendary tale speaks of Fillan’s battle against a fearsome boar in Killin. Fillan arrived there having parted company with St. Columba’s biographer, Adoman, at Tyndrum, only to hear the town’s tales of woe concerning this hideous beast, said to have ‘tusks the size of plough shares.’ Fillan set off into the forests to hunt down the boar, accompanied by his dog Dileas. Finding the enormous creature three days later, rooting beneath a rowan tree, Fillan held onto his simple wooden club as the boar turned on him and charged. Fillan brought the club down on the monster’s head, killing it with one blow.

Tales of saints killing great beasts are far from uncommon; it is said that St.Columba defeated a mighty boar on Skye in a similar legend. These stories, true or not, play a part in idealising the saint figure, making him almost Godlike, and ensuring that his name will carry on through history; such is the Ossianic tradition of the hero in Celtic culture.

Kilallan

The focal point of St. Fillan’s labours in Scotland appears to have been Strathfillan in Perthshire, where a long stone known as St. Fillan’s seat still remains. Nearby in a mill thought to have been built by the saint, seven holy stones, believed to have healing powers, are still preserved to this day. Strathfillan is not the only site with strong links to the saint, and during his many travails throughout the country he seems to have founded churches in both Skelmorlie and, more importantly, in Kilallan, near Kilmacolm.

The name itself seems to be a corruption of Killfillan, i.e. Cella Fillani - the Cell of Saint Fillan. Here, on the Kilmacolm road to Houston, stand the ruins of a medieval church said to have been established by the saint during a long period of labour in the area. Nearby, a large stone with a hollow in the middle is also remembered as St. Fillan’s Seat, the place where he is thought to have preached to a small number of followers. Such frequent and personal references to the saint certainly attest to the significance and impact of his work in the region.

However, the most famous shrine with a connection to the saint is St. Fillan’s Well, a stone’s throw from Fillan’s Seat in Kilallan. Here, under a rock, shaded by overhanging bushes, it is said that countrywomen would bring their weak and sickly children to be healed by the holy waters, leaving a small keepsake or offering hanging from the bushes. A similar practice was followed at Fillan’s well in Skelmorlie; the plethora of wells associated with Fillan testifies to his reputation as a healer. In Kilallan, pilgrimages to the well went on until the end of the 1600s when the local minister, one Mr. Hutcheson, had the well filled with stones. Fillan’s feast day was still celebrated with a fair on the same day for many years to follow, and in the nearby village of Houston the parish church still bears his name, as does the episcopal church in Kilmacolm. There are loads of great images of the church here at Derelict Places.

St. Fillan’s death is recorded on the 9th of January 777 (this, of course, is a date on the Julian calendar; on the Gregorian calendar, Fillan’s death is marked as the 19th of January).

Fillan’s followers preserve many relics associated with the saint; the most famous of these is the Mayne, the arm-bone of Fillan, which was kept in a silver case after his death. Such is the significance of this object that King Robert the Bruce requested it to be brought to him on the eve of the Battle of Bannockburn; however, the keeper in charge of the relic feared it would be damaged or lost, and brought the Bruce an empty case. As the king meditated over the case, praying for guidance during the coming battle, a mighty crack was heard from the silver box, and when opened it revealed the Mayne. The keeper, dumbfounded, admitted that he had not brought the bone with him. Whatever the truth of this story, the bone was undoubtedly carried into battle the next day, and the story may well have inspired the Scots to new bravery in this battle which liberated Scotland from the English rule.



http://www.derelictplaces.co.uk/

Some Art Is Useful

It's a typically grim New Year Monday, so here's just two things that have cheered us up over the weekend.

We were delighted to see the arrival of a facebook page to celebrate the legend of The Greenock Giant Squid. And it wasn't even us that set it up. What legend? Well..the legend printed in popular music paper NME in a live review for the band Tailgunner in Rico's Wine Bar...an event now itself the stuff of legend. We reckon the squid might be a wee bit of a retake on the Legend of the Gourock Monster....which this year, celebrates it's 70th Anniversary of being dead and buried under some Gourock school or other.

Also down in Gourock, we've been slowly won over by the arrival of the new Gourock statue "Girl on a Suitcase". It's dead easy to be cynical about public art, I've done it myself loads of times. Generally though, it works best when it connects with people, whether that's about involving community in the design, or selecting a subject that resonates with the community that surrounds it. That's why a wood nymph and a big daft dead horse might reasonably struggle in Greenock town centre, but a wee lassie on a trip "doon the watter" fits just right at the Gourock riverside. And apparently the kids involved on the day of the unveiling called her Annie...not sure if that's official, but it has a nice ring...Annie Kempock.

Nope. Not everyone likes it. Why would they? It's art. But it's nice, just for a change, to see at least some people liking something, making her part of the community by dressing her in hats and scarves for winter...

Wee Annie Kempock, watched over by her Granny up on the hill.

Gaun yerself.

The Green Oak Tree

Hey. How ye?

Just wanted to take a wee moment to say "thanks very much" to all the new readers who have joined us this month...December is always good fun on the blog. But stick with us! Next year we have smugglers, saints, more arthurian legends Inverclyde style, the strange histories of local buildings and more.

Y'know, with Christmas behind us, and only the long dark January ahead, it would be easy to feel worried about what the next 12 months have in store; in fact, its probably the most logical response to the information in front of us right now. But this is a folklore blog; logic isnt really on the agenda. So first up. here's a message of hope for life and the New Year.

And bringing our year to a close and rounding off our Downriver folksong collection, here is a wee tune to be singing after the bells. (the whole playlist is down below)

The Gringos - The Green Oak Tree by Auld Dunrod

Have a good one whatever yer up to. And remember...

"Despair is a black leather jacket that everyone looks good in. Hope is a frilly pink dress that exposes your knees." - Rebecca Solnit

See you in 2012 for the apocalypse.

The Green Oak Tree

I’ll sing a song about a toon that stands upon the Clyde

And every time I here it’s name my heart is filled with pride

My mother often told me as she soothed me on her knee

That Greenock took its name from the Green Oak Tree

So here’s tae the Green Oak that stood upon the square

And here’s tae its roots that still lie slumbering there

And here’s tae my toonsmen wherever they may be

For I’m proud to say that I’m a branch of the Green Oak Tree

Now Greenock’s no a bonny toon I’ve heard some folks complain

For every time they go doon there there’s nothing to see but rain

But let them say what e’r they may with them I’ll no agree

For Greenock toon and Greenock folks will aye be dear tae me

Downriver by Auld Dunrod

Govan Ghost Story

Everyone likes the classic trappings of Victorian / Edwardian Ghost Stories, but it's sometimes more chilling to see traditional terror in more modern settings. Earlier in the month, I remembered a late 80s TV play called "Govan Ghost Story", which was all set in a highflat, and while searching for more information online, I came across this other short film made by the social enterprise arts organisation Fablevision.

Have a wee look at Fablevision's very own Govan Ghost Story

And if anyone else has a copy of the BBC Play on One Govan Ghost Story, drop us a line.

In a similar vein, my Greenock Sugar Sheds industrial ghost story "Candy Bones" has made it into the final ten of the Woman In Black Ghost Story Competition. If yer still feeling festive, I'd very much appreciate you going over to give it a wee watch and if you like it, a thumbs up. Support yer local ghost story writing folklorists I always say.

There's 9 other really good videos on there as well right enough. Why not watch em all?
But be warned...you can only vote once...

The Bowmen

Arthur Machen is as fascinating a character is he is a writer; a pagan mystic, who after dabbling with the Order of the Golden Dawn, returned to the orthodox ritual of the Anglican church; a neo-romantic, deeply opposed to materialism and suspicious of science, but who achieved great success with a series of deeply patriotic World War 1 stories, the nost famous of which we reprint below. Machen has influenced many other creative types, from HP Lovecraft and  Stephen King through to Current 93 and The Fall.

The Bowmen is often controversial, many regard it as a factual account of a miraculous event at The Battle of Mons, perhaps because when Machens story was originally published in The Evening News, it was not labelled as fiction. There is also suspicion that the story was deliberately commissioned as a British propaganda exercise. You can read a full account of the folklore and legend surrounding "The Angel of Mons" here at Fortean Times. Regardless of the veracity of the event, Machen conjures up a totally unforgettable war story...

It was during the Retreat of the Eighty Thousand, and the authority of the Censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. But it was on the most awful day of that awful time, on the day when ruin and disaster came so near that their shadow fell over London far away; and, without any certain news, the hearts of men failed within them and grew faint; as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had entered into their souls.

On this dreadful day, then, when three hundred thousand men in arms with all their artillery swelled like a flood against the little English company, there was one point above all other points in our battle line that was for a time in awful danger, not merely of defeat, but of utter annihilation. With the permission of the Censorship and of the military expert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as a salient, and if this angle were crushed and broken, then the English force as a whole would be shattered, the Allied left would be turned, and Sedan would inevitably follow.

All the morning the German guns had thundered and shrieked against this corner, and against the thousand or so of men who held it. The men joked at the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with scraps of music-hall songs. But the shells came on and burst, and tore good Englishmen limb from limb, and tore brother from brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did the fury of that terrific cannonade. There was no help, it seemed. The English artillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it; it was being steadily battered into scrap iron.

There comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another, "It is at its worst; it can blow no harder," and then there is a blast ten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these British trenches.

There were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of these men; but even they were appalled as this seven-times-heated hell of the German cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and destroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendous host was moving against their lines. Five hundred of the thousand remained, and as far as they could see the German infantry was pressing on against them, column upon column, a gray world of men, ten thousand of them, as it appeared afterwards.

There was no hope at all. They shook hands, some of them. One man improvised a new version of the battle-song, "Good-by, good-by to Tipperary," ending with "And we shan't get there." And they all went on firing steadily. The officer pointed out that such an opportunity for high-class fancy shooting might never occur again; the Tipperary humorist asked, "What price

Sidney Street

?" And the few machine guns did their best. But everybody knew it was of no use. The dead gray bodies lay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on, and they swarmed and stirred, and advanced from beyond and beyond.

"World without end. Amen," said one of the British soldiers with some irrelevance as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered--he says he cannot think why or wherefore--a queer vegetarian restaurant in London where he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On all the plates in this restaurant there was printed a figure of St. George in blue, with the motto, "Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius"--"May St. George be a present help to the English." This soldier happened to know Latin and other useless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the gray advancing mass--three hundred yards away--he uttered the pious vegetarian motto. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill on his right had to clout him cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did so that the King's ammunition cost money and was not lightly to be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead Germans.

For as the Latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a thunder-peal crying, "Array, array, array!"

His heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him, as it seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons. He heard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting: "St. George! St. George!"

"Ha! Messire, ha! sweet Saint, grant us good deliverance!"

"St. George for merry England!"

"Harow! Harow! Monseigneur St. George, succor us!"

"Ha! St. George! Ha! St. George! a long bow and a strong bow."

"Heaven's Knight, aid us!"

And as the soldier heard these voices he saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout, their cloud of arrows flew singing and tingling through the air towards the German hosts.

The other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no hope; but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley.

Suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English.

"Gawd help us!" he bellowed to the man next to him, "but we're blooming marvels! Look at those gray ... gentlemen, look at them! D'ye see them? They're not going down in dozens nor in 'undreds; it's thousands, it is. Look! look! there's a regiment gone while I'm talking to ye."

"Shut it!" the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, "what are ye gassing about?"

But he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the gray men were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the guttural scream of the German officers, the crackle of their revolvers as they shot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the earth.

All the while the Latin-bred soldier heard the cry:

"Harow! Harow! Monseigneur, dear Saint, quick to our aid! St. George help us!"

"High Chevalier, defend us!"

The singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air, the heathen horde melted from before them.

"More machine guns!" Bill yelled to Tom.

"Don't hear them," Tom yelled back.

"But, thank God, anyway; they've got it in the neck."

In fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before that salient of the English army, and consequently there was no Sedan. In Germany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the Great General Staff decided that the contemptible English must have employed shells containing an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds were discernible on the bodies of the dead German soldiers. But the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew also that St. George had brought his Agincourt Bowmen to help the English..


Read more from and about Arthur Machen here.