Remembering Leven's 'Buckie Hoose'

Out of all the places that have disappeared from Fife’s landscapes, one keeps resurfacing with lasting affection – the Shell House in Leven.

Commonly known as ‘The Buckie Hoose’, for the few who have no knowledge of the attraction this was a house and gardens at the west end of Leven, near the Shorehead. Trinity House, sat at the junction of Henderson Street and the Seagate while the gardens were on the edge of the Prom’, with the tall wooden-gated entrance opposite the junction between Seagate and School Street.

The gardens would go on to open its doors to the public, accommodating a small menagerie and was a local and visitor attraction.

There are still a lot of postcards circulating of the Buckie Hoose, though there are more copyright claims than there are images, which probably underlines its lasting popularity though it closed and was demolished 40 years ago.

Trinity House still stands but the ‘Shell Gardens’, as they were originally called before the Buckie/Shell Hoose tag, have all but disappeared though some remnants of the decoration still remain on walls around the Seagate.

Though posts on community pages that focus on Fife’s heritage fondly recall the mini zoo and shell covered enclosures, there is also indignation that such a landmark was permitted to be cleared for a new-build house. 

A detailed record of what exactly occurred is hard to find. The local paper, the East Fife Mail, did carry reports of its demise and the plans for a new family home but there was not a clamour of buyers willing to take the venture on. Approaches to the local authority to take it over came to nothing and, in hindsight, it would have been quite an asset for Kirkcaldy District Council, but that wasn't to be.

And while I can personally vouch for the Bisset family’s care of the animals in the menagerie, times were changing and the legal and health requirements probably would never have allowed its continued existence in its present form, charming though it was.

My personal interest in the Buckie Hoose is easy to explain. It was at the end of my street and my big sister and I were regular visitors. I was so enchanted by the place that I got to know James Bisset, the son of the original creator,Wull, whom I would have known too though he would have been a good age.

Mr Bisset must have decided I’d spent enough thruppennies on admission and told the lass on the wee admission kiosk at the gate just to let me in whenever I turned up. During the season that would have been at least twice and day, maybe more. I came and went as I pleased and was enlisted during the off season to occasionally help out with the care of the animals that were kept in the Bissets’ workshop in the middle of School Street, just along from my door.

So, the Buckie Hoose was a major part of my childhood and like so many others I remember fondly the monkey, fox, parrot, birds and everything else, and the sheer joy of sitting beneath the tree at the aviary and watching the world go by.

But other than those shared memories that appear in ‘comments’ on Facebook posts, I haven’t been able to pull the entire story of the Buckie Hoose together. I do recollect the East Fife Mail’s cutting files which had at least one brown envelope containing all stories and references to the Shell House. Unfortunately, that was binned a few years back. These articles will be lying in the paper’s archives … somewhere, as will references in the Fife Free Press and Kirkcaldy Guardian, the Fifeshire Advertiser and the Dundee Courier.

Getting access to these, especially during lockdown, is well nigh impossible and then it would be like searching a for a needle in a haystack because you would not be looking for a particular incident or event, just a feature or colour piece, and these are few and far between.

If this article manages to reach an audience I would dearly love to hear first hand memories of visits to the Buckie Hoose and any other details locals could provide on this much loved attraction. I am pretty sure someone, sometime, must have pulled together a booklet with pictures and memories, along with its history. Sadly, if such a publication exists, I have yet to find it, and it would likely settle the competing copyright claims on the pictures that are out there.

So, what do I know? My personal knowledge is based on my own memories and remembering the new house being built though I honestly do not recollect any widespread community anger at the Buckie Hoose’s passing. If I recall correctly, my own sadness was not even shared by my fellow reporters along the road at 7 Mitchell Street.

The internet offers a few in-roads to the story but for a landmark that stood for nearly 60 years, and one that is still so vividly remembered, full honour has not been done.

The Buckie Hoose name does crop up here and there, not always in connection with it being a visitor attraction. Remember it was also a home to the Bisset family, cropping up in newspapers quite far afield when there were rooms to let and the creative and craft skills of the Bissset family obviously also extended to another son, Henry. He made the newspaper columns in 1948 for his handiwork in making a cabinet for Leven Old Men’s Club, which operated out of the band hall.

The Buckie Hoose also crops up as a recognised geographic point in Leven, even surfacing in court reports where an accused bicycle thief, the worse for drink, recalled passing the Buckie Hoose then heading along towards the Jubilee…

And there were times when it made the headlines itself. One such occasion was in September 1940 when it provided the backdrop for a story where a sheriff, sitting on the bench in Cupar, made the news by expressing his preference of sentencing a young offender to the birch, and his frustration at not being able to do so.

The little menagerie at the Shell House had not been the attraction at the heart of the case but a donation box to help offset expenses. At that time Mr Bisset made no admission charge but had a goodwill box and it was that which tempted a 14-year-old Methil boy who, together with a 17-year-old brick worker, stole seven shillings (35p) in the change that had been donated.

“The Procurator-Fiscal explained that the Shell House was a private building, the walls of which were covered with shells. It attracted a large number of visitors. There was also in the grounds a small private zoo,” reported The Scotsman.

The reason this tale of the snatched 7/- made the news was because Sheriff JW More, presiding, had commented: “I would far rather order you to have a birching. In my long experience I have found it has good results, but, apparently, it is not in favour these days.”

While the support for birching made the national newspaper columns, the 14-year-old probably would rather have taken the beating. Sheriff More, with his long experience, decided the raid on the Buckie Hoose box merited a three-year stint in an approved school. The older accomplice was given probation.

So there we have the Buckie Hoose as an address and even a crime scene, but what about its story as one of Leven’s most enduring and loved attractions.

It would seem work on ‘Wull’ Bisset’s house began around 1920, opening to the public some seven years later. Like many Levenmouth folk then he made his living at the local pits, employed as a coal trimmer. He began the shell decorations as a hobby, one that literally grew to take over the house and the gardens. Such was his skill that this wasn’t just a case of using tidal debris as harling but a growing elaborate work of art.

In the summer of 1931 the Dundee Courier carried a wonderful first-person piece by a “special correspondent” who spent some time with Wull Bisset, hailed as “Leven’s artist extraordinary”.

“Others may etch and draw,” reported the Courier, “or paint in oils or water colours, but this genial coal trimmer has a different medium. He decorates in shells. His work is photographed and reproduced on picture postcards as one of Leven's wonders, and a possible enticement for tired city-dwellers to come to Leven, where, within sound of the waves rolling from the wide span of the Forth, mixes King Neptune's colours on canvas of cement and stone. The white of sea-worn seashells predominates, but there is a tinge of blue, of red and yellow in the patterns he has woven. He uses coloured glass to relieve the whiteness of the shells.”

The Courier correspondent tells us how Mr Bisset devoted all his spare time to his hobby, creating such wonders as a shell-covered buffalo skull, with giant mussel shells for ears and eyes of red sea glass.

But the masterpiece was deemed to be the bus. Many people today will remember that and it features prominently on many a postcard with a Dundee destination plate. Some sources, such as Outsider Environments Europe, reckon this was erected by Wull’s son, James, much later and possibly as an intended dining car. He may have replaced it and while it would have made a great cafe there was a bus in situ by 1931 and that carried Arbroath as the destination though it was reckoned to be the first Kirriemuir to Dundee bus.

“Wull Bisset has bricked up the bus body, built the bonnet in bricks and cement, made cement wheels, and overlaid the entire cement work with shells from the nearby shore,” stated the Courier.

“ ‘Built this as a summer-house,’ said Mr Bisset ‘It is an ideal hoose for that very purpose, for you've light all round with the glass on every side.'

“Through the bus windows I could see the sands of the far-famed Largo Bay and the Berwick side of the Forth estuary jutting out from the faur haze on the water; the sound of the sea was clearly audible with a soft wish-wash, and the rattle of the surf on the shingle. It was idyllic spot.”

Mr Bisset said his sole aim had been to brighten the house and gardens up, and he felt the shells had helped him achieve that.

“I looked at the hundred different designs in shells and thought of the hundreds of visitors who came to see the spot, and the hundreds more who could only admire its beauties by picture postcard, I quite agreed,” wrote the correspondent..

“Mr Bisset was a real artist.”

But he also took a great deal of pride in something else in the gardens – the aviaries. In 1931 they were populated with budgerigars, scarlet macaws, cardinal birds, a couple of owls, kestrel hawk, two parrots, scores of canaries, and golden pheasants.

“Here was where Leven's artist extraordinary spent his odd moments,” concluded the Courier.

“I said goodbye him by a wall on which dozen designs had been wrought in shellwork and coloured glass. Before we parted he spoke of his pheasants. ‘Phesians’, he called them.

“It was long time since I had heard such good south country word as that, but as I left him by the shell-covered wall I felt I had met a man worth knowing.”

While the Buckie Hoose menagerie would remain an attraction for decades to come, some of its residents did, on occasion take to the road.

For instance In November 1935 Mr Bisset headed to Anstruther and District Cage Bird Society’s annual show in West Anstruther Town Hall and the Commercial Hotel hall. With him for the trip along to the East Neuk were his Amherst pheasant, pet black and white mice, tawny and barn owls, a kestrel hawk, four guinea pigs, four monkeys, two macaws, an African parrot, an Amazon parrot, along with a number of the smaller varieties of cage birds.

Wull died in 1964 at the age of 95, while son James passed in 1978 and, soon after, the Buckie Hoose also faded into Leven’s history.

But what memories it left. During the 1930s, it was reckoned it attracted over 30,000 visitors each season but it remained popular, especially among locals, right into the 1970s.

I would welcome comments and memories on the Buckie Hoose but just three years after Wull Bisset began this treasured project - his “canvas of cement and stone”, as the Courier called it - was already being admired.

In 1923 the Leven Advertiser carried this poem from a T. Ure that will probably resonate with those who remember their visits to Seagate.

Now, if that was Tommy Ure who owned an ironmongers at the Shorehead, just a few yards from Wull Bisset’s house, we will probably never know. But it would be nice to think that the growing beauty of the Shell House brought daily joy to those on its doorstep. Its memories still do.

The Shell House, Leven

The work of a local miner, exhibiting rare patience, taste and skill; and visited and admired by the hundreds of summer visitors who come to Leven in search of recreation, health and pleasure.

0! Have you been to Leven Toon

And seen the "Bucky" Hoose?

If no, you've missed a brew, braw sicht,

Tho' ye be rich and spruce.

But if you've been to Leven Toon,

And the "Shelly" Hoose you've seen,

You've seen a sicht that's rare to see,

Tho' far you've travelled been.

The architect o' Nature's plan,

Showed handiwork most fair;

And he who planned the "Shelly" Hoose

Revealed an art most rare.

How rich and gay the flowers appear,

To give you invitation;

And much that's seen, yet canna' name,

Add to your delectation.

The Lovebirds flit on happy wing,

Unmindful of the passing gaze;

While varied birds o' varied hue,

Combine to sing their Maker's praise

In Nature's realm and Art's domain,

Are some most charming things to see;

But the "Shell" Hoose and its bonnie birds.

Are dear, aye dear to me.

T. Ure

Leven

The push to get rid of the Poles

Polish troops parade along Leven prom' during the war.

If I was asked what was the greatest lesson I had learned in all my years as a reporter my answer would be, “There is always another side to every story, and each side comes with more layers than you can ever imagine.”

History is like that. The more you read, the more avenues you venture down and what perhaps seemed simple becomes complex. The black and whites all turn grey.

So historical superficiality reigns supreme, even on a personal level. The older I become, it seems the less I know – be that the realities of the Great War, the supposed heroes and villains of the last century, the many disturbing dimensions of World War Two, the community I grew up in. All of these and more, probably everything, is so much more complicated than I ever imagined.

That realisation also brings so much regret. I never took the opportunity to quiz my great-grandparents, grandparents and parents. In some instances I was too young to understand but certainly, as far as the previous two generations went, I was old enough but, unfortunately, not interested enough. Now it is too late.

And that makes it particularly frustrating when another layer of history reveals itself and you realise that you could have had first-hand accounts of what shaped the lives of those who shaped us. And how, in many instances, attitudes have not changed.

I grew up aware that there had been anti-Polish sentiment in my community. Graffiti such as “Be a man, go home” was daubed outside the homes of some of the ex-soldiers who settled in Fife. But I was led to believe this was rare but I had a wake-up call when I was 16 and my girlfriend received a black eye from her father for dating “the son of a dirty Pole”.

Perhaps, I would have been more aware of that undercurrent if my father had immediately settled here after the war. However, through the schemes set up when hostilities ended, he and my mother emigrated to Argentina. They returned in the 1950s and, by then, the ill-feeling towards Poles had, if not disappeared, certainly diminished.

Of course I now understand what was going on. Most of the Poles who served during the war opposed the Soviet system and wanted no part of a socialist federation, controlled by Stalin in Moscow. As a result, returning to the motherland was perilous, possibly fatal. My father received ‘coded’ messages from his family warning him not to return and it would be the dawning of the 1960s before he could be reunited temporarily with his family behind the Iron Curtain, and then his protection was his British naturalisation.

But whatever his tale, he missed the first hand experience of the wider local community’s attitude to the Poles just as the war ended. He was based in Germany then there was a brief stay in the UK before his marriage and departure to South America.

For others in my home area of Fife, the ‘Polish question’ at that time was a controversial and heated issue. It received a full airing on October 16, 1945, in the Jubilee Theatre, Leven. Ironically, just 15 years later the Jubilee would be my playground, and a stone’s throw from where we lived.

Without pulling back too many layers, such as the trade union support for the USSR, which, at the time, is both valid and understandable, the 70,000 Poles in Scotland were seen as a major threat to jobs, and likely to be stealing work from the soon-to-be demobbed Scots.

The Jubiliee, location of
the 1945 public meeting.

Around 600 people from Leven, Buckhaven and Methil, crammed into the theatre for what turned out to be an ill-tempered meeting over the early repatriation of the Polish exiles.

“Platform speakers and speakers from the body of the hall were applauded, jeered and howled down … and the fact there were mixed feelings on the matter was obvious by the frequent interruptions, caused to a considerable extent by womenfolk,” stated one newspaper report. “There were times when the meeting got beyond the control of the chairman and threatened to become a farce.”

The Fife Free Press reported that the feeling was that the Polish soldiers were billeted and “having a good time” in Scotland and if they were not sent back there would be a work crisis.

“Polish soldiers were being trained in building and other skilled trades while many of our own countrymen, already skilled in various kinds of trades, were still serving in the occupied countries of Europe and the Far East,” reported the Press.

One speaker pointed out that Scotland, prior to the war, had been designated a depressed region so the country was in no position “to cater for immigrants”.

A resolution was then put forward for the “immediate repatriation” of all Polish forces.

There was an amendment from the floor, taking into account the stance of the British League for European Freedom, that the Polish troops should not be forced to return to Poland.

That was challenged by one spaker who stated: “If the amendment is adopted you will be seriously jeopardising the happiness of the country in not being able to provide employment and homes for our own people.”

That prompted a stern rebuke from a local minister, the Rev. G.J. Edwards, who said: “I do not stand in support of the Polish troops but I strongly deprecate the inhospitable and antagonistic attitude which has taken the place of a very friendly and harmonious relationship.”

The amendment went to the vote first, drawing 110 hands in support. No count was taken for the resolution given the show of hands indicated an overwhelming majority for the motion: “That the Leven Town Council follow the example of Peebles Town Council and pass a resolution urging the immediate repatriation of the Polish Forces in Scotland.”

Following that historic decision, it was agreed to recruit volunteers and organise a Levenmouth-wide petition to send the Poles home with the signatures being forwarded to the Secretary of State for Scotland.

As it was, forced repatriation did not come to pass, but the occasion did offer a valuable lesson, one that has been lost from local history. The fears and the sentiment expressed then still, unfortunately, have a resonance today.

Murder most fowl in Henderson Street

Henderson Street, Leven

I hadn’t long returned as editor of the East Fife Mail, based opposite the Caledonian Hotel in Leven’s Mitchell Street, a stone’s throw from where I grew up. 

It was a sort of homecoming and, for a while anyway, seemed the right fit. Having grown up in the town everything felt very comfortable. As a youngster I stood outside what was now my office listening to the clicking of the typewriters. My mother had taught at the secondary across the road, the Jubilee Theatre was one of my playgrounds, right on the borderline with the posher part of Leven – Links Road. 

A cafe hadn’t long opened a couple of doors up from the Mail and had a few old framed photographs on the wall. One lunch time I popped in, probably for soup, and while I was waiting to be served I had a good look at these pictures. One leapt out at me – Henderson Street. 

Now long demolished, this little street had made a huge impression on me. While the Jubilee and Mitchell Street were 50 or so yards to the east of where we lived in Rosebery Terrace, the same distance to the west, or thereabouts, was Henderson Street leading to the Shorehead. 

My best pal Vic Pilka stayed between the two in South Street so I probably made at least four journeys a day down this last remnant of ‘Auld Leven’. 

Even as a child, it felt as though it was from another time. If you look at the picture, the house at the far end with the two windows was, in my time, the home of Ella Meek, the leader of Leven lifeboys. 

Although you can’t quite make it out, between the gable end of her house and the start of Henderson Street there was a single lane track – one wide enough to accommodate a 1967 Triumph Herald trying to out-run, outwit and out-manoeuvre the police: more of that later. 

Just behind the corner on the left side of the Henderson Street houses was the entrance gate which took you to the rear of the properties. As a youngster you really did have free rein to venture just about anywhere in your neighbourhood, especially in the common areas of Viewforth Square, the back of Viewforth, Buchlyvie and, of course, Henderson Street. 

It was typical of the usual square set-up with individual areas divided up for the houses, just across from a communal path and the coal bunkers. Some had been kept as low maintenance drying greens, others had well-tended flower beds and, just as you came in the gate there was a wire-mesh aviary which was also probably a pigeon coop. 

I don’t ever recall becoming too familiar with those ‘plots’, probably because I don’t think there was an exit at the top, so I always tended to use the road in the front of the houses. 

That all stopped I would reckon when I was around eight or nine years of age. I’d been out playing and came home for my lunch, soup and pudding at the table in the living room. However, there was a bit of a scene that greeted me this occasion, with a worried and stern-faced mum and dad anxiously awaiting my arrival. 

They’d had a visit from a mother and daughter from Henderson Street. The mum has come to warn my parents that I could never venture near Henderson Street again as her husband had vowed he would “kill me”. The reason for this terrifying threat was that I had killed all the birds in his aviary, with an airgun, and not only that, the daughter had seen me do it. 

My parents protested my innocence, the police weren’t involved but I was warned off – for all time. 

As a youngster I don’t know how all this panned out among the adults but I do know the wee girl, who I have a vague recollection of being a couple of classes above me at Parkhill, was adamant that she saw the bird killer and that boy was me. Of that, she was in no doubt and totally unwavering in her testimony. 

I can’t recall how many birds were slaughtered and while there is no way I would harm one of God’s creatures, not then or now, there are certain aspects of the alleged crime that still bother me to this day. 

Firstly, I have never possessed an airgun. In fact, the only time I have fired one would have been at the shows on the Prom when they were chained to the counter. The target then was either a wee tin can shape, each in an individual alcove, or a row of dented ducks on a pulley. The showman had to load the gun for me as I could break it for loading, and then I was a lousy shot, failing to come even close to ever winning a gonk. 

So … hitting a veritable flock of birds would have acquired a great deal more marksmanship than I possessed if I had owned or had access to a gun, and would surely have taken quite some time? Also, this was at the back of a row of houses; surely someone would have seen the assassin (other than the daughter of the bird owner!) and stopped him, or her? Plus there would have been the repeated crack of the rifle and the frightened squawks of the fowl. 

No. This was a frame up, though the reasons to this day still bewilder me. 

Some time later the lass crossed my path on the road between Woolworth and what was then Cook’s highly flammable furniture store, whose subsequent blaze, I hasten to add, saw no blame attributed to me! I asked her why she had said I’d shot all those birds, and she took to her heels, screaming she was going to get her dad. 

So my detours around Henderson Street continued. Vic moved up to Scoonie and the bulldozers moved into the area. Henderson Street didn’t fall immediately. The rear was demolished, the residents relocated and it became a grim and depressing wasteland of rubble. 

Re-exploring it I made the acquaintance of an old tramp who camped there and always welcomed me round his wee fire and regaled me with his tales of life on the road. You can’t imagine anything like that happening nowadays, and I’d be beside myself if my grandchildren disappeared to spend time alone with a homeless stranger. But I thought nothing of it, he was kind and funny, and I remember being sad when he just up and left without saying a word. 

That nearly ends my connection with Henderson Street, but not quite, at least not with that lane that ran down the side of it. 

One night, having not long bought my first car, a quite beat-up 1967 Triumph Herald, I drove my pal home to Methil. On the way back to Leven, I attracted the attention of the boys in blue and found a police car sitting very close to my tail. There was no flashing light just the psychological tailgating. 

At one point I pulled over to let them pass, but they just stopped a short distance behind me and waited. When I pulled away, they came too. By the time I crossed the Bawbee Bridge and was nearing home, my unease started to give way to what I suppose would have been adolescent arrogance, so I decided to give them the slip. 

This was my backyard. 

A couple of changes of gear and speed, though always within the limit, and I dropped down that lane and on to School Street, nipped to the end, took a left into Forth Street, then another to the wall at Rosebery Terrace and my back door. 

Having just parked and opened the car door, I was suddenly caught in full beam, and by the collar. One of the officers heaved me to the front of the vehicle and slammed me into the wall. As I thudded into that, I could see my mother’s face peering out the scullery window, and then the light as she opened the back door. 

The policeman, obviously having watched too many American cop shows, then heaved me across the bonnet of the Herald demanding to know what I was doing, where I stayed, whose car it was. 

I tried to tell him this was where I lived, but he was having none of it. 

Just then, I heard a loud, “What’s going on here?” 

I managed to twist my head from the policeman’s grip to see mum in hairnet and candlewick dressing gown. 

“Do you know this boy?” the officer said. 

“That’s my son,” said mum. “He lives here. What’s he done? He was just dropping his friend off.” 

There was an awkward pause. 

“There’s been a lot of car thefts ma’am,” said the policeman. “Just making sure everything was in order here.” 

And at that, they were off. 

And that really does end my connection to Henderson Street. So seeing the picture in that cafe brought back all those memories. I asked if I could have a copy of the photograph, but the owner refused. I then asked if she would allow me to take a picture of the picture! But she refused me that as well. 

I even carried a small piece in an edition of the East Fife Mail, asking if anyone had a picture of Henderson Street, to no avail. 

Then, an appeal on the Facebook page, Auld Fife & Its People, duly brought Henderson Street back to life, and, to this day, it still remains one of my favourite pictures. 

The Methilhill lass who saved Christmas

Mary Mitchell in 1933

The Andy Warhol quotation on “fifteen minutes of fame” has become almost derogatory about celebrity status. Yet, for many ordinary people, they can be briefly thrust into the spotlight for all the right reasons, and some of these may be life changing, or life saving.

In the days before that short piece on the regional news or local radio, the newspaper was the dominant source of sharing a story and giving someone that fifteen minutes in the spotlight.

The ‘down side’, if you want to call it that, is that after that brief appearance in newspaper columns, these folk just disappear from media interest. When I come across these stories, wonderful though they may be, that is what saddens me. What happened to these people in later life?

Do their descendants today know of their actions that earned them public acclaim?

While researching those who sprang to the rescue of others, I came across another tale. This one only appears to have featured in The Courier and Evening Telegraph but it attracted me because central to it was a Methilhill teenager, 19-year-old Mary Mitchell.

There is no clue as to where Mary hailed from in Methilhill or any details about her family, but on Christmas Eve 1933 she went from being a Levenmouth lass to a Tayside hero.

The drama unfolded at a grand property called ‘Stormont’ in West Park Road, Dundee, the home of an 82-year-old widow from Blairgowrie, Jane Panton.

A rug had been draped against a wall in the kitchen, accidentally tripping the switch on the iron and, eventually, fire broke out. It quickly spread through the kitchen then into the bathroom on the floor above.

Mary was roused from her sleep by the smoke and sprang into action, waking Mrs Panton and her nurse/housekeeper Miss Lawson.

In an interview with The Courier, Mary said: “When I ran to the front bedroom where Mrs Panton and Miss Lawson sleep, I banged on the door but could not get them to answer. The smoke was thick and I had to run back to my own bedroom, where I was able to get some fresh air at the open window.

“Three times I ran to their bedroom but could not get them to hear me . The dense smoke in the passage always drove me back … when I heard Miss Lawson’s voice.”

The women were unable to get downstairs to call the fire brigade so Mary and Miss Lawson helped the old lady out to a balcony and comparative safety.

“How they did it is a mystery,” Firemaster Weir told The Courier later. “It must have needed superhuman strength.”

The women raised the alarm from the balcony and the emergency services were duly summoned with all three being rescued thanks to breathing apparatus and chemical extinguishers.

The blaze and rescue made headline news, “Women’s peril in Dundee fire – Smoke cuts off staircase” and “82-year-old lady carried to balcony”, with the paper declaring: “But for the timely awakening of Miss Mary Mitchell, the household would have been in the gravest danger of their lives.”

So what happened to Methilhill's Mary Mitchell, that teenage hero? There may be more stories to tell.

My world isn’t round, it’s a square

The back green at Rosebery Terrace with
Annie Forrester's hedge pictured  behind.
Note the neat edges on the grass and Uncle Jock's
prized blooms.

Shouted at, threatened, hugged, patted and chased; most of all tolerated, all in a day’s life of a boy in ‘The Terrace’.

That’s what we all called it, ‘The Terrace’. Set across from the Greig Institute on the edge of old Leven, it was a compact collection of terraced houses, built around a common drying green and behind a perimeter wall. A stone’s throw to the east was our ‘twin’, Viewforth Square. Diagonally opposite was Buchlyvie Terrace, and another group of houses – the first to face the bulldozers and whose name escapes me now, but which stood alongside George Harvey’s wee, white photographic studio and behind Cook’s furniture store, later razed by fire.

But I reckon we had the edge, because we had Uncle Jock, and that meant Rosebery Terrace didn’t just have a shared back green, it had a manicured garden. Looking back it was nothing more than a well-cut bit of grass surrounded by well-tended flower beds. Buchlyvie was a bigger block with the drying green divvied up, so it wasn’t a fair comparison. Viewforth? Well, it didn’t have Uncle Jock.

Jock Thomson was just one of our neighbours in what was the centre of my universe. I was seconds away from the beach and Doriano’s hut; a minute from the Shorehead and a minute from the High Street, but Rosebery Terrace – named after the Earl and Prime Minister – was my safe haven, playground, and the residents were the nearest I had to close relatives, hence ‘Uncle’ Jock.

Buchlyvie Terrace on the far left. The South Street car
park stands on the site of another tenement block
and the GW Harvey studio.

As well as tending the green and the garden, Uncle Jock also ruled the shed, and had a greenhouse. I spent a lot of time with him and I have no recollection of him ever speaking to me. He growled a lot and would often yell, “Get that ball oot the gairden and gaun an’ play on the road ...” Yes, despite the enclosed safety of the back green, you weren’t allowed any activities that could harm his precious blooms. The road was his preferred playground for children. Occasionally I would be allowed to help tend his tomatoes in the greenhouse, or watch him at work in his shed, which was a world of wonder, packed with strange tools and implements, and filled with a heady fragrance of oil and creosote. There were certain jobs he entrusted me with. One was doing the edges with the shears, and round the clothes poles. My efforts were carefully inspected and, if not up to standard, I’d be ordered to revisit my efforts until they met with his approval. As we both grew older, and I could manage to push it, I’d have the lawnmower shoved in front of me. I’d pech away while he sat on the bench, shaking his head beneath his cap.

Uncle Jock’s apparent sternness was countered by his wife, Nancy. She didn’t like being called Auntie Nancy so insisted she was Auntie Thomson, and she was probably the nearest I had to a traditional granny. I did have a ‘step’ grandmother in Mountfleurie but that was the other side of the planet, and there was my Polish granny, but she was on the other side of the universe. Auntie Thomson filled the gap, admirably. Jock and Nancy’s house at the top of the stairs as you entered Rosebery Terrace was an open door to me. I could play with my soldiers on the steps, walk inside to use the toilet, sit and talk to Joey their budgie, and Auntie Thomson took the time to teach me to play whist and I spent many a rainy afternoon sitting with her at a folding table by the fire with a pack of cards, a cup of tea and a piece of cake, while Joey practised his few words in the corner. It’s hard to imagine anyone nowadays just allowing a neighbour’s child to wander in and out of your house, any time of day.

Every Saturday, Auntie Thomson would come down to our house for the rare treat of a cup of coffee, made with boiled milk, and a chocolate biscuit. I don’t ever recall Uncle Jock joining her, though I seem to recollect a cup being given to him as he sat in the green on the bench, no doubt pondering in despair at which idiot neighbour had put one of the stretchers back in the rack the wrong way round.

Living below them was Annie Forrester, the area’s school dental nurse, maybe even dentist – I was never sure. Miss Forrester could be ferocious, my football could also be a major aggravation to her, drawing her out from what I saw as a dark lair to tell me to play further up the road. I think I surprised her once when I got all excited when she turned up at Parkhill Primary to give us all an oral inspection. I may even have hugged her, much to her embarrassment.

Miss Forrester certainly didn’t have an open door policy though, on occasions, she did tolerate my presence and her ‘living room’ really was an old-fashioned parlour, filled with dark wood, rich colours and cosiness. I still own two packs of instruction cards she gifted me, one on road safety and one on reading music. Later on, probably when she retired, she gave me quite a collection of dental paraphernalia; this I didn’t keep.

The next stairs along led to two houses. The first belonged to Davy Foote and his mother. Mr Foote ran a fruit and vegetable shop in Commercial Road, opposite what was George Harvey’s shop. I have no knowledge of Mr Foote’s background, but he had a military, 'tweedie' bearing, neat moustache and a cap. He didn’t have a lot of time for me, though his mother was a gentle soul, who sometimes gave me a sweetie. Mr Foote just gave me grief, and didn’t like me playing on his stairs. I have a vague recollection of him being a bit of a ladies’ man and, on one occasion, being chased around the block by a rival suitor while all the neighbours watched the race from their windows.

Tucked into the corner flat was a dear lady, whose family were the Hudsbeths. They visited every year and were a friendly lot, with the two sons always willing to spend some time with me. I think it was their granny they visited upstairs. Some of the houses in ‘The Terrace’ had front doors, either on to Forth Street or School Street, and the ‘old lady’ always used hers so we rarely saw her. As a result, especially with Mr Foote’s determination to keep his stairs clear of children, these were two houses I have no recollection of ever entering.

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Below these flats were the homes of Bella Donaldson and my own, tucked into the corner. Bella was deaf as a post and a gentler soul you couldn’t hope to meet. Her door was often open and I was allowed to peek in and shout hello. She had a wire mesh covered box fixed to her outside wall and that was her ‘fridge’, where she kept her milk, cheese and butter. Bella was only there in my really early years and, I think, she went into care. The new occupants were Mr and Mrs Logie, with she quickly becoming another ‘granny’ to me, and then my own children later in life.

Through the green and up the stairs were Mr and Mrs Kelly, and daughter Marilyn. Marilyn was a good bit older than me and to her I must just have been an irritating, noisy little brat but her mum always had time for me, and a pat for my head. Next door were Mr and Mrs Pratt, and they were a couple with another open door policy for a wee boy. They had a tank of fish just inside the door and I was free to wander in and out, squatting down in front of wee aquarium and enjoying the free entertainment. Again I was allowed to just saunter into their living room on my wanders, without any reproach.

That left two downstairs houses in ‘The Terrace’, both of which had their only entrance on School Street. The first, next door to us, was actually a holiday home – I think it belonged to a family in Edinburgh. It was rarely used and through the years was occasionally let out. Other than Phyllis Bennett and her son, Ross, who became a good friend of mine, we never really got to know the folk who came and went. And, on the end, was Mrs Clow – now she and I had a lot of dealings, and I gave her a lot of exercise. Her kitchen window looked out on the green and as soon as I got up to any mischief, in the absence of Uncle Jock, she’d be banging on her window and, if she was really annoyed, you’d hear the window slide up, and she’d shout, “Right, I’ll be speaking to your mother and father...” She must have kept the window cord wheels well buttered because that frame was up and down like a yo-yo. Of course, there were times when you were out on the road, kicking the ball against the wall and you’d balloon it over, perilously close to her window and you’d hear it slide open with a dramatic flourish. Sometimes, if I hadn’t roused her wrath, I’d race round to School Street and down the wee penn at the side of the house, then sneak quietly to collect my ball … only to hear the whoosh of that window sliding up again and another raging coming. In all the years of Mrs Clow’s irritable vigil though, I don’t think she ever dobbed me in to mum and dad, and she would tolerate the occasional visit from the boy with a ball, but I had to knock.

Her window, looked out over her generously-shared rhubarb patch, Uncle Jock’s greenhouse and shed, and, of course, the wash house. The back green was off limits when that was in use and my mother and Auntie Thomson had no time for me when they doubled up for a day’s laundry. The wash house was like a sauna, with the roaring fire and bubbling boiler stoked to maximum, those seemingly giant mangles, wringers, scrubbing boards, and the smell of soap and bleach. It was hot, hard work, but also a place of wonder. Once the back green was filled, the clothes ropes taut with the stretchers, and Auntie Thomson and mum inside having a cup of tea and a biscuit, the silence, smell and fading heat of the wash house made a memorable impression.

Of course, over time the faces would change in ‘The Terrace’ as would the routines. The arrival of the twin tub did for the wash house and it simply became a communal shed in its redundancy and where I kept my bike. My father used to maintain the path with shingle off the beach, ferried up with a wheelbarrow, but Mr Logie laid a concrete walkway, which is still there today. The flower beds and the grass became a shared chore, and an expense, but ‘The Terrace’ has survived.

Looking at it now, built around a grass ‘courtyard’ and with easily restricted access, Rosebery Terrace and Viewforth Square, actually provided, and still could provide, a good model for community living. I still have fond memories when many of the neighbours congregated, some on the back green, some at their doors and some on their steps, and simply blethered. They let me run among them and make a nuisance of myself … but I had to make sure no shingle was scuffed up on the grass, and, of course, had to stay well clear of Uncle Jock’s flowers.

The pie that shell-shocked the Press

Fife’s local newspapers are packed with forgotten stories, but there are quite a few occasions when the titles themselves have a story unfold around them.

In many instances that tale will never be told. There are instances where that is a good thing but there are others which, because of circumstances and legal implications, the story begins, unfolds and ends with only the key players ever being party to what actually happened.

There won’t be a newsroom in the entire world that won’t have a good collection of stories behind the stories. Some are shocking, others surprising, and some silly.

Here’s one that, in hindsight, might fall into that last category but, at the time, it was no laughing matter; well the legal bills weren’t anyway.

Although the tale is now nearly 30 years old, the names have been withheld, just in case this prompts a return visit to legal offices.

The story, dating from the early ’90s,  centres on that esteemed journal, the Fife Free Press, Then located near the foot of Kirk Wynd, Kirkcaldy.

It was the season of goodwill and while the staff at the Press were working out the rota for the festive editions, an official-looking letter landed on the editor’s desk. This was from a firm of solicitors and the threats of legal action therein did not come from the usual suspects of court reporting, council coverage or interviews. No, the source of ire on this occasion was a pie.

The previous week, to add some colour to the sports pages dominated by Raith Rovers and Fife Flyers, it had been decided to re-introduce the once popular ‘Good Pie Guide’ - one journalist’s reviews of the savoury treats, or otherwise, available at the football grounds Raith visited, and a regular feature of the hack’s press box fare.

“Once again our fearless judges will queue in the rain for some odd bits of cow stuffed in cardboard pastry,” was how the reporter launched his column.

And, with just the first sample tested, he added: “Already we have a candidate for worst of the season.

“A texture like jellied eel, wrapped in a case of floury paper, combined with a taste which defies description.

“It was so bad that our guinea pig, normally noted for a cast iron stomach, was unable to complete the judging and was last seen heading for the toilets.”

Granted it was not a glowing endorsement but then again, ‘wan man’s meat is anither’s poison’. The baker responsible for the creation of this delicacy did not take kindly to the review, and hot-footed it to a legal firm, demanding action.

“The article was brought to our clients’ attention and they are extremely perturbed at the allegations contained therein,” stated the legal missive delivered to the editor. “The bakery has provided pies for 25 years and was voted second in Scotland with regard to the quality of the product.

“Our clients are extremely displeased with the coverage which their product received within the Fife Free Press. Our clients have instructed us to apply for a retraction to be printed as soon as possible, failing which it is their wish to begin court proceedings against you for defamation and damages.

“We look forward to hearing from you within the next seven days together with your proposals for a retraction, failing which we shall take our clients’ further instructions regarding raising the appropriate court proceedings.”

Now when a newspaper faces an official legal threat, it invariably means turning to the legal eagles it has on retainer. The complainer and the publisher, then sit on the sidelines while two sets of solicitors embark on the legal equivalent of chess and a square go.

This proved to be an open and shut (pastry) case. Firstly, the review focused on one particular pie, not all pies. If you were to, or could, challenge that review, it would have to be against that exact same pie. That would only have been possible if the reporter had retained some portion of crust, gravy and filling. This could then be retrieved, probably from below the seat of a Ford Fiesta, then presented in court perhaps 18 months later. It is hard to imagine many jurors queuing up for a lick of what would now surely be a putrid petri dish casserole of beef and bacteria.

Secondly, it was an opinion piece. Like a restaurant review or a crit’ of a show, if you charge money for something you take your chances on what the buying public’s response will be.

Finally, other than being described as “bad”, there might be those who found the potential of a “jellied eel” texture appealing, likewise, floury paper and a taste beyond description. Telling people what one particular ‘gourmet’ thought of a product could be viewed as helpful and enlightening.

With no surviving remnants of the particular pie to present, the Fife Free Press lawyers, responded, if not tersely then certainly briefly: “We respectfully suggest that our client’s comments on the pie in question fall into the category of fair comment on a matter of public interest.”

And there ended the matter. For those with an appetite for a little more, the ‘Good Pie Guide’ no longer features in the sports pages of the Fife Free Press, but the pies are still going strong, and remain popular.

The forgotten art of setting a fire

Respect, it’s all down to respect. That was the message drummed into me by my parents, grandparents and neighbours - and that covered all aspects of life. 

But there’s one area where this childhood ‘respect’ has surprised many through my life, especially those closest to me … fire.

Certainly in this day and age you’d have social services banging on your door with much hand-wringing at case conferences amid deliberation over your family’s capabilities to provide responsible care.

Now, let me set my stall out here right at the start. I was never allowed to play with fire, not once, not ever, but that doesn’t mean I was herded to the other side of the room, and constantly kept a safe distance from the fireguard and behind the clothes-horse.

I reckon it has a lot to do with Fife being a coal-mining community, and with my father, grandfather and great-grandfather all making their living down the pits, coal was a key part of our lives. And that meant so was the fire. You had to understand it, control it and always respect it.

The fire was central to our daily existence. It didn’t just warm us and the house, it was, certainly in my grandparents’ house, a cooking facility, it dried the clothes on dreich, drizzly days, and it provided our hot water.

I remember the arrival of our first immersion heater and my father keeping his eye on the electric meter and his watch and almost working out the cost of a bath on a summer’s day.

“Should be warm enough now,” he’d say as you traipsed off for a barely lukewarm scrub.

It was a different matter entirely with a blazing fire and the damper out, then you could have the water tank rumbling and not only a hot bath but near enough a sauna as well – a wee skoosh of Sqezy washing-up liquid and a drop of your dad’s Old Spice and you were in suds of luxury.

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My relationship with the fire began on the street. That was where my dad’s ton of coal from the pit was dumped. That meant the wheelbarrow being dug out of the communal shed in the square, buckets utilised, shovels distributed from the big long-handled one dad used to the wee one for the children, and that black mound was slowly but surely transferred into the coalbox. None of this sack-to-box delivery back then. What would be left was some irretrievable dross and a big black circle that would tell the world for a week or so that there had been a coal delivery.

We also kept a sledgehammer in the coal bunker that was used to break the huge lumps but, as I got older and was given more responsibility for loading, I had my own system of organisation. In one area there was the easy-to-shovel, easy-to-burn pieces, around the size of golf balls or smaller. Next, and still accessible from the wee sliding door at the side of the coalbox were the bigger pieces that provided the more solid construction of the fire. Then, I stacked the muckle lumps that could only be reached by opening the front of the box. They were our reserves, able to be further broken down, or used for the long burn. These were the sort of pieces that would almost fill the fireplace and burn slowly, allowing you to go out and when you got back, you whacked them with the poker, allowing the glow to turn to flames. Add some smaller pieces, and you had a rare blaze going. These big chunks had another use too, but more of that later.

But what about the fire itself? Well this is where those who didn’t grow up with a coal fire really don’t get it, and certainly not child involvement. I reckon everyone had their own ‘style’ and, like a good broth or mince recipe, we all had our own secrets.

The respect started in the morning when the fire needed cleaned. This was, I suppose, the safest introduction for a youngster. Raking though the grate, shovelling up the ash from beneath it, taking it out to the bin – watching out for a ‘blaw’ from the wind as you dumped it. But helping with the clear, didn’t mean the fire was dead. There were often embers, still hot that could easily roll on to the back of your hand. I reckon these were my earliest burns, and you soon learnt to hover your palm over the charred remains to get an idea of where the heat still lay. Carefully, with the tongs and wee hearth shovel, these pieces could be put to one side of the hearth for a quick light and heat.

This donkey work being done, the hearth would be cleaned, ash wiped from between the tiles, and the new fire set. By the time I was at primary I knew how to set a good fire. You’d make the paper twists out of the East Fife Mail, just the right tightness and density. Too tight and they wouldn’t take, too loose and you risked them burning out without catching anything else and having to start all over again. Then, if you had it, kindling. If you had some dry wood, a fire was easy-peasy (sorry, no skill set required at all for those using firelighters). I had my own way of laying the kindling, allowing just enough air in, with the right size of coal pieces perched at the point of maximum combustion. You left two or three edges of paper sticking through the front of the grate, light them, and off you went.

Then it was down to your preference. To really get the day’s blaze going, if you were pushed for time or it was a cold winter’s day, you had to draw it. I’ve often thought if the nation had only ever known tabloid newspapers, the art of drawing with a broadsheet over the front of the fire would have been lost. You could do that with the damper on a slight pull to get a full-on sook. You had to learn that as the flames licked up they would drop drastically when you pulled away the paper. But, leave the newspaper in place too long and it would ignite. That brought its own emergency procedures with you often having to let the blazing paper scoot up the lum, hoping it wouldn't catch the soot. So you’d watch carefully, monitor how brown the paper was turning and you’d recognise the smell coming off the paper – your senses told you when it was time to pull away. Once caught, the damper could be fully extended; you’d hear the roar and that was you.

After that it was all down to feeding that family friend though the day.

From very early childhood I was instructed in this magical art, and the ways to deal with burning coal that fell into the hearth, sparks, balancing the different sizes of coal for the fire you wanted. How to use dross, how to manage the damper and all its secret powers. The one thing I remember is we were definitely a ‘coal family’. On occasions when we had logs, or sticks off the beach when money was tight, a coal-wood fire was a different proposition, burning faster with explosions of sparks that had you diving ahent the couch for cover then scouring the carpet for the smouldering shrapnel. Wood is definitely a primitive alternative!

But there is one fire I remember vividly, and with pride. My parents had gone out to a dance and I decided I would have a bath, with the hottest water mankind had ever known. And that meant the best fire ever set, ever.

Having evened up the existing fire, given it a good going-over with the poker, I then laid my magical combination of small coal, larger pieces round the side, then, opening the front of the box I chose a perfect slab, maybe three inches deep, foot long, eight inches wide. I laid that on top of the tried and tested foundation, whacked it with the poker so it cracked then filled in around it with coal pieces around a two-bob bit size … then, once it had a good glow all round, I pulled out the damper, full.

What a heat! I had to push my chair further and further away from the fire. Then I heard a banging. Looking into the scullery, the water tank was vibrating. Now science isn’t my strong point but even I knew the hottest water you can get is steam! And sure enough when I turned on the taps that’s what I got, along with shards of rust. Terrified, I was going to blow the side of the house off, I rammed the damper in and, using the washing-up basin, started to douse the fire.

Much to my relief nothing did blow up but I was left with a filthy hearth and mantelpiece, and the living room stinking of coal steam … and a pathetic fire. By the time I cleaned up I was filthy, the fire was a sodden mess, and almost impossible to get going again.

It was a pretty cold bath I had to clean myself up, brown water, which left quite a tidemark, and a silt of rusty metal, but what a fire that was!

The coal fire – it’s a lost art form these day.

Picture: Alicja_ from Pixabay