Where Did He Go?

It's a vile grey winter's day, the rain drizzling against the windows. What's better and more traditional in the bleak midwinter than a ghost story?

This is a page from a photograph album which belonged to my father. I was flicking through it this morning and came across this page. I'd forgotten about this incident, famous in our family folklore...

Gather round everybody, by the fire. Pull your cloaks around you. (Oh alright then, your fleeces).

The year is 1972. It's the day of my grandfather John's funeral - my father's father. He's been cremated and his ashes are being scattered at Creag Dhubh, near Newtonmore in the Highlands. A cairn has been started for him there. My dad has hired a piper. You can see dad talking to him in the picture top right. All goes to plan.

And then, towards the end of the ceremony, an old boy in full highland dress - rather old-fashioned highland dress - bearing pipes, comes up from the road and speaks to my dad. He says that he knew John when both of them were young and that he loved him. With dad's permission, would it be alright to play a lament? Dad says that would be wonderful. The old boy plays a lament - it's Dark Island, John's favourite old tune. My father takes a photograph of him playing.

You can guess the rest. My dad's writing, in faded blue biro, is just visible on the top left photograph.