~ April 1st, 1773 ~
It was that most particular of days, April 1st, when I found myself trudging through the muddy tracks of Bearnock, a quaint hamlet sitting square in the middle of Glen Urquhart, deep in the midst of the Highland pass between Cannich in the west and Drumnadrochit, eastwards on the banks of Loch Ness.
Caledonian pinewoods stretch across the landscape, edging the open moorland beyond, such unspoilt splendour! And cutting a path through its midst: the river Elnick, feeding the mighty loch with its meagre flow.
The imposing Bearnock Lodge would have been, to many eyes, a beautiful and welcome highlight on the road, were it not for a deluge that afternoon. The expected April shower swelling into hammering rain, turning the dusty paths to rivers of treacherous mud and bringing tree-hugging mist in its wake. As soon as I spied the glowing lights of the lodge, I dashed across the road and gratefully entered its warm and inviting interior.
"Ye look a little bedraggled, young man!" grunted the kindly looking hosteler with a grin. He was a healthy, hearty, red-faced gent, with a portly stance and boisterous manner. I shucked off my greatcoat and hung it to dry by the door.
"Aye," I replied, "I'll not be gettin' any further tonight, that's for sure. Assuming you have a warm bed I can rent and a meal I can partake of?"
The proprietor grinned. "We'll find ye a place to lay your head, sir, never fear," he replied kindly, then indicated a stool at the bar. "But first a flagon for refreshment, perhaps?"
He reached for a pewter cup and filled it with a head of frothy ale. I ambled across the room and perched on the high chair. It was directly opposite the flickering log fire and I felt the warmth of the flames reach across to my legs. The weariness of the day melted away as I supped the warm, slightly bitter ale. It's strength immediately brought a lightness to my head, easing the aches of my afternoon trek.
Two others shared the room with us. Rugged but kindly looking gentlemen, clearly comfortable in their armchairs bracketing the great brick fireplace. You'd be forgiven for missing them altogether, so well they blended into the landscape of the room.
"Join us by the fire, bairn," muttered one of the men, pointing to the spare armchair with his gnarled fingers. I'd not been labelled with such a term for many a year, but I supposed his advanced age granted him the privilege. I slipped off the stool and sank in to the deep quilt of the chair. It occurred to me that even if a room upstairs were not to avail itself, I would surely sleep soundly amongst these cushions!
"It's an abominable evening to be traversing the glen," muttered the second man. He appeared younger, but still advanced of age and possibly well beyond the average lifespan in these tough climes. "In this mist you could find yourself in the Elnick and washed away."
"Ahh, 'tis but a stream!" cried his companion. "Men wade through that unscathed in winter and spring. The Gowks were probably swimming it's length this very afternoon!" The two men burst into guffaws of laughter. They seemed to me such amiable fellows that I was immediately at ease.
"Gowks, sir?" I questioned, unfamiliar with the term.
"Oh, you've not heard of the Hunt then?" he replied, dropping his tone. "It's a shocking tale I can tell ye."
The two men grimaced conspiratorially towards each other and I was immediately intrigued. I must have sported a blank expression just a moment longer than expected because the man to my left leaned across.
"Have ye heard of Clan Tavisher?"
"Aye, of course. I understand they're of high esteem in this part of the Highlands."
"Indeed they are. But they're also renowned for the annual Gowk's Day Hunt," he replied.
At that moment, the hosteler placed a feast in front of me. Cold meats, slabs of cheese, torn hunks of dark, yeasty bread and a generous bowl of the local Cullen Skink; a rich soup of fish and tatties.
"I'll be retiring for the night shortly," he muttered. "Your room is prepared atop the staircase." And then he leaned forwards and grinned. "These two old lavvie heads will no doubt entertain ye!" And with that he sidled away and I tucked into the hearty supper.
"I'd certainly like to know more about this Gowk Hunt," I mumbled between mouthfuls.
"Then settle ye'self and we'll tell ye all," the old duffer replied and the two men beamed.
This is their tale.
***
For many across these Great British Isles, it's known as the Day of Fools. The first day of the month of April. And for reasons lost to history's dim memory, a day when tricks are played on naive and unsuspecting victims. But here in Scotland they call it 'Gowks Day'; gowk being a local term for a Cuckoo, or perhaps a fool. Tradition has it that a mischievous trick be played upon the youngsters, the 'Hunty Gowk', where the fool is tasked with delivering a message. At each delivery point the victim is sent onwards to another destination until after many hours he or she uncovers the ruse.
But there's another story that is told here in the Glen. Young men travel from afar to take their chances in the Tavisher Gowk Day Hunt to win an exquisite prize. What is this gem, you ask? The hand of a beautiful maiden.
For centuries the womenfolk of Clan Tavisher have been praised for their stunning beauty. Tall, slender and with perfectly proportioned breasts and hips. Rumour has it they also have, shall we just say, 'great skills' under the bedcovers. And one of their kin, newly come of age, is selected each year as the prize for the lucky lad who completes the Hunt ahead of his peers. But there's also a dark secret to this challenge that few ever speak of.
My fireside companions told me of one Hunt, many years ago. Eight eager young men arrived that morning at a secret location, as instructed by letter just a few days before. A tall, imposing clanswomen led them to a wide clearing in the forest and lined them up. Facing them were five women. There appeared to be no men at all and, indeed, they'd seen none on the path into the forest.
"Gud day to ye, gents, I am Nerris," barked the leader of the clanswomen. Her long, reddish hair was tied loosely into plats. She, along with all the women, wore a plaid skirt, a tight, figure-hugging corset hewn from rough skins, and light leather sandals tied off at the ankles. Their faces were crossed with colour - heavy brush strokes that gave them a fearsome visage. It was a scene that filled the young suitors with apprehension.
