Haunted Scotland (19 page)

When the major died in 1931, he left Biawa the sum of £200 and instructed his heirs at Glen Grant House to retain him as a servant, ‘so long as he is obedient, respectful and willing
to remain’. By all accounts, Biawa was a quiet soul whose one
passion was Rothes FC, where he was given a complementary seat for life and a cup of tea at half-time
whenever there was a match. Biawa’s contact with the Glenrothes Distillery was through those who worked there, and among these was Paul Rickards, who remembers him as an old man with long
grey hair and a beard which gave him an uncanny resemblance to the Arthurian wizard Merlin.

Paul was later put in charge of spirit quality at the Scotch whisky blenders Robertson & Baxter, a job which involved regular visits to distilleries, at least once or twice a year. On one
such trip to Glenrothes in 1979, the stillman took him aside and warned him that ‘a presence’ had been seen in the newly built still-house.

‘He and several others had noticed an old, dark-skinned man with a straggly grey beard during the evening and night shifts,’ said Paul. ‘When he described him, I knew exactly
who he was talking about.’

Seven years after Biawa’s death, his spirit had obviously been disturbed.

On returning home to Glasgow, Paul contacted Cedric Wilson, a professor of pharmacology who he knew had an interest in the paranormal. Professor Wilson was keen to find out more, and, as soon as
permission had been obtained, the two men drove to Speyside to visit the distillery.

It was over a weekend in the summer, and the distillery was closed for the silent season. After spending a morning on his own in the still-house, Professor Wilson concluded that the problem
originated from the ancient ley lines which run under the foundations of the new building. Ley lines, which in the Chinese culture of feng shui are known as ‘dragon currents’, are made
up of a series of supernatural pathways connecting with preordained sacred sites. From Rothes Castle, for example, these spiritual alignments
run northwards through Rothes
cemetery, and onwards to the old Pictish capital of Burghhead on the Moray Firth.

The professor was absolutely convinced that Biawa’s spirit had been agitated when the foundations were excavated. Moreover, it was unlikely to be at peace until the magnetic force of the
mystical currents had been restored. He therefore recommended that two stakes of scrap ‘pig iron’ be driven into the ground on either side of the still-house.

What happened next convinced Paul that the professor was on to something. ‘He walked straight over to Biawa’s grave and said a few words in the form of a blessing.’

How Professor Wilson knew exactly where to look for Biawa’s last resting place among the hundreds of nondescript tombstones that crowd the terraced slopes of the Rothes Cemetery remains a
complete mystery. But whatever strange forces were at work on that day, no more ghosts have since been seen at the Glenrothes Distillery, and Biawa, the loyal servant and Rothes Football Club
supporter, appears to have now found lasting peace.

A former distillery manager who definitely failed to find lasting peace, however, was Duncan MacCallum of the Campbeltown distillery of Glen Scotia on Kintyre. A member of the
West Highland Malt Distillers’ Society, which he helped to found in 1919, Duncan fell into such a deep depression when Glen Scotia closed in 1928 that he drowned himself in Cambeltown Loch.
The distillery reopened in the late 1980s, and his lonely spectral figure has been a regular visitor ever since.

Over on the far side of the country, in Aberdeenshire, the Glendronach Distillery near Huntly features a far more exotic resident, who was first encountered by one of the
distillery’s warehousemen over thirty years ago.

Glendronach’s original distillery building was destroyed by a fire some ten years after it opened. Since then, it has been rebuilt, resurrected, closed, rescued
again in 1920 and mothballed until finally reopening in 2004. Since 2008 it has been independently owned by the Benriach Distillery Company Limited, but it was under an earlier ownership that
sightings of a Spanish flamenco dancer began.

Those who know about Scotch whisky will be well aware that several factors influence its individual taste and character, not least the type of barrel in which the spirit is left to mature. At
Glendronach Distillery, a large number of Oloroso sherry casks were imported for that purpose during the 1970s.

And it was while one such shipment was being unloaded from a lorry that a mysterious stowaway was spotted escaping from one of the empty casks. Small and dark, she was later described as wearing
a scarlet and black Spanish costume with a full mantilla.

Of course, that was by no means the end of the matter. Since that day there have been numerous reports of a dark-haired beauty lurking in the shadows of the Glendronach warehouse, or seen moving
swiftly through the still-house, her skirts rustling alongside the distillery’s distinctive pagoda-headed malt kiln.

It has even been suggested that she has taken up residence at the nearby Glen House, which the distillery owns. Built in the eighteenth century, Glen House provides twelve guest rooms for
distillery visitors. On a number of occasions, single gentlemen staying overnight have experienced an unexpected, although seemingly not at all unpleasant, visitation in the night.

22

It had been raining for days on end. But then it always rains in Scotland, Naomi told herself. There were times when she felt she was living in a car wash. It had been months
since she remembered seeing a ray of sunlight through the clouds, but possibly that was only because of her mood of resentment. She could barely remember a time when Ewan had walked in and out of
the front door without an umbrella.

Ewan and Naomi Lockhart had been married for six years. He belonged to an old-established Edinburgh legal family; she was born and brought up in Yorkshire. They had met at a mutual
friend’s wedding in Harrogate and, following a frenzied courtship largely conducted over weekends, they had married and set up home together in Edinburgh’s New Town, where Ewan worked
for a venture capital fund.

On Naomi’s part, it had involved a major adjustment to penetrate the tight social circles her husband had been accustomed to since birth. It had certainly not been
easy. With the combinations of shared education and childhood parties, Ewan’s friends formed a solid, self-reliant and, some might observe, self-satisfied clique, suspicious of outsiders.
Unfamiliar with the colloquial names and places to which they constantly referred, Naomi often felt excluded from their incestuous jokes and petty squabbles. There was too much shared past history
from which she felt shut out. Sometimes, she suspected they only tolerated her because she was Ewan’s other half. When she mentioned this to him, he laughed and told her not to be so
paranoid. ‘It’ll be different when we have kids,’ he insisted.

That, of course, was part of the problem. They had been trying since their wedding night, but as the weeks and months passed, it began to look as if there might be a problem. Doctors were
consulted – Edinburgh is well served with paediatricians and experts on pregnancy – but the tests showed nothing obviously wrong. ‘Keep trying,’ was the medical verdict.

While Ewan worked long hours, with trips abroad to meet up with clients, Naomi took a part-time job with an estate agent, supervising valuations. As she thumbed through the property brochures,
she dreamily reassured herself that she was happy enough with her lot.

Then, one day, she came across it: ‘Island of Lewis. Tigh na Hag. Hebridean croft for sale. Spectacular coastal location. Two bedrooms. In need of renovation. Six acres of land.’

The accompanying image showed an oblong, whitewashed one-storey villa on a hillside with a glimpse of sea beyond. Against the backdrop of an azure sky, it looked idyllic. And so incredibly
cheap.

Ewan’s reaction was more cautious. ‘If we’re going to invest in a
holiday cottage, wouldn’t you rather go to the sun – Spain or the Algarve?
It’s very cut off up there.’

‘But isn’t that exactly what we need?’ pleaded Naomi. ‘To get away to somewhere on our own whenever we feel the urge?’

What she did not say was that it would be away from his parents and his friends who constantly, if unintentionally, reminded her that they were childless. ‘It looks so beautiful and I know
we can afford it,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s also not that difficult to get to. I’ve checked it out. Just think, we could drive up for weekends. There are ferry crossings from Uig
on Skye and Ullapool on the mainland, and daily flights to Stornoway from Edinburgh and Glasgow airports.’

Ewan was unconvinced. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll look into it,’ he told her.

The island of Lewis is a place where the treeless, sponge-like earth meets the sky. From the moment Naomi set eyes on Tigh na Hag, it was love at first sight. It also chanced to be one of those
gloriously clear spring afternoons when the sun-soaked moor of peat and heather glowed the colour of biscuit and grape.

‘Just look at that view,’ Naomi enthused as they stepped out of the Callanish Visitor Centre. ‘Come on, Ewan, I’m going to hug a stone.’

They had hired a car at Stornoway Airport and, having inspected Tigh na Hag, which they both agreed was a bargain, discovered that the ancient megalithic standing stones of Callanish were within
a couple of miles’ walking distance. As they strolled gently up the paved pathway towards the circle of stones, a black and white collie dog bounded over to greet them.

‘Good boy,’ said Naomi, assuming it was male and patting him on the back. The dog wagged his tail and dribbled before disappearing behind a fence.

‘You shouldn’t encourage stray dogs,’ said Ewan. ‘You don’t know who he belongs to.’

Naomi ignored him. Nothing could spoil her happiness as she reached forward to run her hands over the smooth pinkish surface of the nearest standing stone. ‘Aren’t they
incredible?’ she said. ‘It says in the guidebook they were transported here from somewhere up the coast near enough five thousand years ago. Nobody knows how or why.’

‘It’s because of the Sleeping Beauty,’ interrupted a voice, and behind them stood a dark-skinned man with the density of jet-black hair usually only found in Spain. He was
slim, wearing faded jeans underneath an equally well-worn anorak. Naomi judged he must be in his mid-thirties.

‘If you look over there at that mountain range to the southwest, you’ll see it resembles the body of a reclining woman with her hair cascading over her shoulders and
breasts.’

Ewan smiled cynically, but Naomi was intrigued. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, screwing up her eyes in the sunlight. ‘But what has that to do with the stones?’

The man approached and stood close enough for her to notice his startling sky-blue eyes, so different from the indecisive grey-green of her husband’s. His face was stippled with stubble,
suggesting either vanity or laziness. Unaware of the discomfort his physicality was causing, he unintentionally pressed against her.

‘The standing stones here are aligned to the moon,’ he continued and she noted a trace of Gaelic in his accent. ‘Seven times a century, the moon stands still on the summer
solstice. If you stand where you are standing now, you will witness the new moon rise from the womb of the Sleeping Beauty, as if she is giving birth.’

‘What a load of nonsense,’ said Ewan when he and Naomi returned to the car park. Naomi glanced sideways at her husband.
Sometimes she despaired of him. He was
such a spoilsport. Somehow it made her all the more determined to buy the croft.

On reaching the road junction, the black and white collie raced ahead of them towards Carloway village, where they were to stay the night. ‘Isn’t that the dog we saw earlier?’
she said.

‘Perhaps he belongs to your anorak friend?’ suggested Ewan.

It was not until the middle of the following year that the Lockharts returned, catching the evening ferry from Uig on Skye to Tarbert on Harris. With their hired van stuffed to
capacity with the basics of furniture, food, utilities and bedding, it was not until darkness fell that they arrived at Tigh na Hag. ‘Bad timing,’ said Ewan.‘We should have booked
into a B&B for the night.’

‘Oh, we’ll manage,’ said Naomi, unlocking the front door.‘Isn’t this fun? You bring in the sleeping bags and I’ll brew us a pot of tea.’

Away from Edinburgh, she felt free to be herself, liberated from the dreary round of Ewan’s friends, the cocktail parties and candle-lit suppers. This deserted cottage was what she had
dreamed of. This was where she and Ewan would conceive their first child.

Fortunately, they had brought torches and a couple of butane lanterns with them. The interior was dry, and it did not take long for them to make themselves comfortable. Exhausted, they curled up
in sleeping bags and fell instantly asleep.

It was making the croft habitable that preoccupied their daylight hours over the ensuing weekend. Having purchased a ladder in Stornoway, Ewan clambered onto the roof to inspect the state of the
slate tiles, while Naomi scrubbed the stone floor and draped oversized curtains across windows. ‘We’ll need to paint the frames,’ she informed Ewan.

So preoccupied did they become with their basic chores that the upsets and differences of Edinburgh rapidly evaporated. Their time on Lewis was measured by the hours of
daylight. For a full five days, they saw only one another. Then the black and white collie dog came to call.

Ewan had set off early that morning to find out if there was trout fishing on one or other of the lochs nearby. Naomi had stayed behind to sun herself in a deck chair on the front doorstep when
the dog ran up to her, breathing heavily. ‘Hello, boy!’ she said, patting him on the head. ‘Where did you come from?’