The Song in My Heart
I've always considered early January to be the most dispiriting part of the year. All that remains of Christmas are the remnants of trees, dumped in gutters like the corpses of deposed monarchs. However plump and luxuriant in mid-December, every last one is destined to be unceremoniously removed via a back door and left for the cleansing department. Can anyone passing their sodden remains avoid pondering how closely the existence of a Christmas tree resembles that of a man? The baubles of accomplishment can only distract us from the fact that whatever triumphs we might enjoy are fleeting. As the year dies, we find ourselves forlorn and without purpose. The gifts piled beneath our branches have been found wanting and discarded. The laughter over which we presided turns into the roar of the incinerator. Nothing remains but regret for what might have been.
The most cursory inspection of global suicide rates is sufficient to confirm that those with a predisposition to melancholy, for the most part, fail to be reassured by the opportunity to 'turn over a new leaf.' Those who do enter the spirit of the occasion can only be dispirited by the realisation that feelings of loneliness and alienation survive the traditional application of alcohol. For many, in fact, the illusory glow of well-being instilled by a Hogmanay binge is quickly dimmed by the encroachment of an annihilating darkness.
My research has established the importance of exercise and perspective in the treatment of depressives. Is it necessary to expand on the pointlessness of drugging office workers whose day to day existences are equivalent to those of battery hens? An afternoon in the countryside is often sufficient to trigger the sort of instantaneous catharsis coveted by the manufacturers of 'wonder drugs' whose benefits are nullified by seizures, blind rages and cancer. In Minnesota some years ago, compulsory wilderness rambles were introduced as a response to the growing problem of depression related absences from work. This particular experiment was, unfortunately, abandoned, when a group, lost in a storm, regressed to a state of savagery, tying their leader to a tree and threatening to eat him, an incident that caused an international reassessment of therapeutic treatments of depression. There's a human tendency, of course, to over-react to isolated instances of cannibalism. The seasoned investigator, particularly one with experience of depressives, responds to the Minnesota incident with no more than a wry smile. Throughout history frightened people have attempted to appease nemesis with sacrifices. Sawney Beane and his incestuous brood of prototype hippies had access to any number of alternative food sources: in choosing to exist on a diet of travellers, they were effectively goading the very God they imagined responsible for their creation. Similar offences are still committed against tourists throughout Scotland, particularly in Fife where walkers are occasionally abducted from the coastal paths around Kirkcaldy. Such outrages, however, are rare and we shouldn't let an incorrigible minority deter us from making full use of our countryside.
It's four years since I initiated the first 'Saunter and Song' excursion for Outreach Scotland, the mental health facility whose southern Highland initiatives are administered by my sister. A dozen or so similar ventures have followed that first 'Oliver!' themed outing. Unfortunately, elements within the Drumfeld group, whether oblivious or indifferent to my efforts on their behalf, have turned against me. "Who's Hamilton to dictate what we sing?" has become a constant complaint as my carefully selected themes are resisted. Last year, the entire group dispensed with the pre-agreed Tribute to the Proclaimers, instead singing Pink Floyd's monotonous dirge 'Another Brick in the Wall'. After three or four repetitions, this became so irritating that I walked ahead until I could no longer hear the refrain of "Hey, HAMILTON , leave the kids alone!" For the next hour or so I enjoyed the view of Loch Voil while snacking on the sausage rolls I'd kept in my back pack. About four miles from Strathyre, unfortunately, the weather turned. By the time I reached the visitor centre, I was drenched, my wretchedness compounded by a badly twisted ankle.After waiting for two hours, I checked my mobile phone and found a text from Christine: "2 cold 2 walk. Gone 2 pub." In fairness, this had been sent shortly after I left the group, but it might have occurred to her to make further efforts to make contact. For all she knew, I could have been lying injured somewhere. When I called to remonstrate, it was immediately apparent that she was as drunk as a skunk on his twenty first birthday. "Do you still have the sausage rolls?" she slurred. "We're all a bit peckish." The confession that I'd eaten all but three, relayed by Christine to the others, prompted another chorus of 'Another Brick in the Wall'. They were still singing an hour later when the mini-bus eventually arrived to pick me up.
I'd been particularly looking forward to Sunday's proposed hike from Balquhidder to Killin. Unfortunately, relations with my sister remain frosty in the aftermath of my poorly judged recitation at the Southern General and her determination to undermine me was apparent from the outset. "Hamilton thought you all might like to sing some nice Joy Division songs," she said as we left the rendezvous at Balquhidder Church. "I don't actually know any Joy Division songs," I replied with forced affability, "But I've printed some lyrics from My Fair Lady..." My efforts to distribute these, unfortunately, were met with responses ranging from indifference to overt hostility. Christine, who would normally have attempted to negotiate a compromise, only exacerbated the situation by talking loudly throughout my attempted rendition of 'I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face'. Feeling snubbed and somewhat foolish, I walked ahead, dissembling nonchalance by continuing to sing until confident that I was out of earshot at which point, I'm embarrassed to confess, I briefly abandoned myself to self-pity.
* * *
Whoever assumes the mantle of nemesis must prepare to be ostracised. Over the course of my investigative career, I received forty seven death threats, not counting those dispensed by Spencer on a regular basis. At the time the strength of my conviction rendered me impervious to insult and menace. Just as Crusaders of old entrusted themselves to the protection of the cross, I remained in thrall to my own savage genius. Whenever some thwarted bully started bellowing the odds about wringing Hamilton Coe's neck or sewing him into a sack and beating him into mincemeat, I'd politely repeat the adage of sticks and stones and give the matter no further thought. Subsequent to my illness, though, I'm oppressed by the knowledge of being hated. Having stared into the abyss without flinching, I find myself recoiling from the mundane terrors lurking in every supermarket and garage fore-court. My mind, formerly attuned to a purpose, lapses into periods of rebellion, resisting sleep and creating figments. Rogue versions of myself haunt my thoughts, repeating my blithely offered pearls of wisdom in tones soggy with idiocy. This, it should be noted, is the potential fate of anyone who surrenders himself to the expectation and perception of others. Whatever worth you think you might possess will be obliterated when viewed through prisms of mediocrity and resentment!
As I approached Lochearnhead, my spirits lifted. A direct insult is easier dealt with than a sly glance or insinuating remark: we needn't waste time in trying to interpret its intention, all that we should consider is whether or not it's justified. Clearly, on this occasion, it was not . If I were to board an Inverness bus, I could hardly berate the driver for not taking me to Glasgow. By the same token, if I were to book my place on an excursion specifically billed as a "Song and a Saunter" it wouldn't occur to me to turn on the organiser. Anyone else might have been tempted to find a stout stick, wait for the scofflaws and then belabour them until they entered the spirit of the event. Whatever momentary satisfaction it might afford, little good ever comes of beating depressives until they sing 'Get Me to the Church on Time.' Anger, as I'm often given cause to remind Spencer, is the most disfiguring emotion. While in other respects I'm only too human, a man who tries to goad me into losing my temper will be frustrated. Had I brooded on the slight, the walk would have been wasted. Instead, by the time I reached Glen Ogle, I was suddenly enthralled by the possibilities of existence.
* For several years now, this part of Scotland has been plagued by a host of Rob Roy impersonators who pester tourists and squabble amongst themselves. Their number is mainly comprised of Tartan Army ‘foot soldiers' and absconded mental patients from Glasgow. The problem is particularly pronounced around Balquhidder where McGregor is buried. Andrew Morton, who lurks about the churchyard in full Highland regalia, face daubed in flour, claims to be the actual ghost of Rob Roy and invites visitors to have their photograph taken with him, demanding fees of up to £100 from anyone foolish enough as to capitulate to his badgering. The area's other Rob Roys defer to Morton's heightened lunacy and allow him to intermediate between them. While it could be argued that his allocation of zones and time-tables has partially stemmed the Rob Roy profusion, many locals argue that the McGregor name should once again be proscribed.
Home |
Glossary |
Hamilton Live |
Casebook |
Contact
