A Day at Pressmannan—The Fight for a Polonie Sausage—In the Haughs of Haddington—Mrs Carlile’s Grave—Genuine Hospitality.
“Here springs the oak, the beauty of the grove,
Whose stately trunk fierce storms can scarcely move;
Here grows the cedar, here the swelling vine
Does round the elm its purple clusters twine;
Here painted flowers the smiling gardens bless,
Both with their fragrant scent and gaudy dress;
Here the white lily in full beauty grows;
Here the blue violet and the blushing rose.”
Blackmore.
Had a gale of wind come on to blow during our stay at Dunbar, our position on the green cliff-top would undoubtedly have been a somewhat perilous one, for the wind takes a powerful hold of the Wanderer. Perhaps it was this fact which caused my illustrious valet and factotum to write some verses parodying the nursery rhyme of “Hush-a-bye baby, upon the tree top.” I only remember the first of these:—
“Poor weary Wanderer on the cliff-top,
If the wind blows the carriage will rock,
If gale should come on over she’ll fall
Down over the cliff, doctor and all.”
Perhaps one of the most pleasant outings I had when at Dunbar was my visit to the beautiful loch of Pressmannan.
I give here a short sketch of it to show that a gentleman gipsy’s life is not only confined to the places to which he can travel in his caravan. The Wanderer is quite a Pullman car, and cannot be turned on narrow roads, while its great height causes overhanging trees to form very serious obstacles indeed.
But I have my tricycle. I can go anywhere on her. Well, but if I want to take a companion with me on some short tour where the Wanderer cannot go, it is always easy to borrow a dogcart, pop Pea-blossom into the shafts, and scud away like the wind. This is what I did when I made up my mind to spend—
A Day at Pressmannan.
I would have preferred going alone on my cycle with a book and my fishing-rod, but Hurricane Bob unfortunately—unlike the infant Jumbo—is no cyclist, and a twenty-miles’ run on a warm summer’s day would have been too much for the noble fellow. Nor could he be left, in the caravan to be frightened out of his poor wits with thundering cannon and bursting shells. Hence Pea-blossom and a light elegant phaeton, with Bob at my feet on his rugs.
We left about ten am, just before the guns began to roar.