New Year with the Ghosts of Yore

It was the eve of the New Year 1992, my first Hogmanay in Edinburgh. I was excited, of course, though a little lonely, as all my friends and neighbours had gone away for the holidays. I made enquiries as to where the place to be at midnight was (at the Tron Kirk, they all said; the church bells were to strike twelve, and you’d spend the rest of the night kissing everyone you came across), cooked myself a scaled-down version of the traditional New Year’s dinner, and then, not knowing what was best to do, set off to the city centre.

Once there, I saw a big crowd listening to some fellow, and moved closer to hear what it was about. Turned out it was one of those ghost and witch tours that are so popular on the British Isles. It had just started; I bought a ticket and joined the mob.

For the next several hours we toured the streets and listened to tales about the horrors of life in Scotland of old, about the black death, ghosts and witchcraft, crime and revenge, torture and execution. ‘These are just a few of our stories,’ the guide said, ‘I can’t tell you all, but you may make up your own; just remember, they have to be true!’

And then, at the very end of the tour, when we almost returned to the place we had started from, he pointed to a sign on the ground. ‘Attention, please!’ he shouted. ( … )

( … )

It was easy to see what had happened: I had been doomed to lose my head in the night, but was spared, perhaps as a stranger and guest, on that one occasion. I took the warning earnestly, and watched out not to take any chances for the rest of my stay in Scotland.