iad58 | New Year with the Ghosts of Yore (Reply)

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. ‘This is very important—you must spit in this place. I can’t guarantee your safety—anything may happen to you tonight if you do not!’ The place was damned, of course. He told us the story, which I’ve forgotten—I don’t even remember if the sign was a circle or a cross, or perhaps a combination of both.

Most of the group did as bidden. Not I. Being too delicate and cultured to exert my salivary glands in public, I simply walked off.

A few hours later I met a few colleagues, and shortly before midnight we went to the Tron. Talk about a mob! I’d had no idea there were so many people in Edinburgh. All were in high spirits, many were yelling ‘Happy New Year!’ as early as fifteen minutes before the bells, and foaming drinks were being poured down throats and squirted into the air. Luckily I had a leather coat and a leather hat on.

Then the clock struck twelve. Not that everyone noticed, such was the general agitation already. I and my company had just wished one another a happy one and were thinking of what to do next, when suddenly I felt my head strangely relieved. I was so tightly squeezed by the multitude that I couldn’t turn around, but I would’ve seen nothing if I could. Anyway, it was obvious that someone behind me, being too drunk to know what was going on, had grabbed my hat and thrown it skywards, then whoever it fell on did the same, and so it found its own way, never to cross mine again.

I was too sober not to know what was going on; I regretted the loss of a good hat and resented the shower of beer, cyder and champagne. We tarried a little longer, until the mob had half dissolved and one could see the ground, but we didn’t see my hat. I went there again on the next day, to no avail.

My anger grew still when, after a week or so, I went to tour the shops and failed to find a light leather hat like that one. They didn’t wear such in Edinburgh, and I wasn’t able to replace it until much later.

Yet, come to think of it, I should be glad rather than sad. I had refused to heed that curse, hadn't I? There you have it. 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.