Leith Walk Reflections

The Moss of Misery

In which Daftie sinks, despairs, and is rescued by a Highlander with a hip flask and a good line in blether

He had been walking for the best part of an hour when Daftie McChristian thought of something quite crucial to his quest. He had no idea of how to get where he was going. Whilst the Holy Loch pamphlet was inspirational it was extremely vague on actual directions. Any directions given were more riddles than road names, Instead of something like follow the B5497 to the next junction it said something like

'Walk ye east until the wind changes, then follow yer spirit – unless yer a bit hungover, in which case follow a sheep.'

Daftie had taken this literally. This was why he had ended up deep in a mist enshrouded, lumpy bog known to locals as the 'Moss of Misery' – or more generally just The Moss. Now The Moss could hardly be described as a place. In truth it was more of a state. A state of slow sinking despair. It certainly looked like land, but smelt more like a wet dog's sock drawer. Every step promulgated a sort of 'glorp' sound. Each step taken had the feeling of mild betrayal. Trudging forward he muttered to himself words of encouragement
'It's no that bad. Could be worse. Could be Glasgae on bin day.'

Then he slipped.

And sank.

Letting out a strangled yell he sank knee deep, then thigh deep, sucked down into the squelching moss. His large rucksack, filled with all of the emotional baggage of a Scottish upbringing, only pushed him down faster. He shouted out
'Help! I've nae got the thighs for this."
No answer was the stern reply. Nothing but the squishing  sounds of the bog, and the distant sound of a sheep judging him silently. After some struggling, swearing and the consideration of making peace with Death he heard a voice through the mist
'Och, for heaven's sake, ye daft eejit, that's nae a path, that's a puddle with ambition.'
A tall figure appeared through the haar, broad in the shoulders, a true Highlanders beard, and wearing a somewhat battered tam o' shanter at a jaunty angle with a feather stuck in it. In one hand he held a walking stick carved with numerous Celtic symbols, and in the other a battered hip flask. This was Rabbie Reformer – part time Highland mystic, part time shepherd, and full time master of blether.

Rabbie peered down at Daftie with a slightly raised eyebrow.
'Ye stuck son?'
Daftie huffed
'Naw. Just doing a little spontaneous peat immersion. Aye, of course I'm stuck.'
With a motion, seemingly from years of practice, Rabbie reached down, slid his hands under Daftie's armpits, and tugged him free with a slurping 'fwopp' noise. Daftie landed on firmer ground like a very old, very wet suitcase.
'First time on The Moss?'
Rabbie asked, removing the cap from his hip flask and handing it over. Daftie too a good swig, and spluttered
'That's... that's nae water.'
Rabbie chuckled
'Naw lad. That's courage in liquid form.'
Daftie wiped his mouth.
'Thanks. I thought I was done for there. I began to think this journey was a mistake.
Rabbie sat beside him, staring out over The Moss.
'That's The Moss fer ya. It gets in yer heid, not just yer socks. It makes ya think every step was a daft one. Makes you feel like you should have stayed at home eatin' crisps.'
Daftie nodded glumly. Rabbie continued
'But here's the trick lad. Everyone falls into The Moss. Everyone. It's the first step of any proper journey – despairin' slightly, and smelling like a pond'
Rabbie stood up. Brushing off his kilt he said
'Now, you can sit here and sulk 'til your soul turns sour, or you can get up and follow the path to find the Loch. What's it gonnae be?'
Daftie looked at the proffered hand. Then looked at The Moss which was still gurgling as if it were ominously chewing on someone's other dreams.'

He took Rabbie's hand.

Rabbie began to hum a tune as they walked, then began to sing it, then demanded that Daftie sing the harmony – which he did, badly. And that is how The Moss disappeared into the mist behind them.

Somewhere in the bog behind them a sheep was watching. It shook its head and muttered in Gaelic 'Fear eile' ('Another one').