Between 1946 and 1947 I was between 6 and 7 years of age. Born in 1940 in London. Scottish father I have no idea of the nationality of my mother, Queeny Frances Harvey Nee Hahn? Mother died in childbirth and father was in the Navy. I was shipped out to a nursing home in Wales and stayed there for two weeks until they found my father’s mother, my grandmother, who lived in 15 Meek Place, Cambuslang in Glasgow. I was subsequently moved there and so remained until joining the Army at 16 years of age.  

Life then, during and just after the war was so difficult, even then I knew this, I was always hungry, there was never enough food to be had in the shops and when it did occasionally come we had little or no money to purchase any. I resorted even then at that age to stealing from other gardens to get food, I had my little bum slapped so many times by angry gardeners and the like that I almost became used to it. (No I do not still have a fetish along those lines).

There is a more affluent area about a mile from where I lived. It ran along the top of a steep hill and overlooked the railway line. These people in the big houses were generally called the ‘Burnside Hill folk’ probably politicians and other similar crooks and generally dishonest people, these were the much envied and disliked ‘mega rich’ ‘toffs’ ‘posh folk’ or whatever.

The banks of the railway were particularly made up of a very rich Scottish soil which was probably as good as you will find anywhere in the UK. It was up there that I chose to plant my potato peelings so that they would produce the potatoes in the autumn, or so I hoped. Remember, I was only six or seven at the time.

I remember so clearly now an incident that was somewhat frightening and now rather sad in a way. It was probably a weekend, (I was not in School) a nice day and I think around late August. Perhaps that’s why I was not in school. Anyway I was walking along the top of the southern bank of the railway line. The grass and nettles so tall I could barely see above and the narrow path almost invisible. The top few yards of the embankment is flat and is bordered by the gardens of the ‘hill folk’ more often than not a wall but occasionally just a fence or a hedgerow.

I noticed that one of the garden gates had been left open and I just went over to have a look inside. What I saw was a very well tended and cultivated vegetable garden and nearest to me well developed potato plants. This was just too much temptation for my diminutive underdeveloped brain to take. I entered and sat down beside the nearest plant and started to scrape back the soil with my bare hands, lo and behold I uncovered what to me was buried treasure, the biggest potato I had ever seen, I cleaned it off on my shorts and sank my teeth into it.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” looking round I saw a tall lady scowling down at my cowering figure.

“Answer me you little devil, why are you stealing my vegetables?”

At this point I could only mumble the first thing that came to my mind. “I am hungry missus.”

My collar was grabbed and I was marched in a somewhat ungainly manner up to the rear door of the house. Pushed inside I was unceremoniously picked up and dumped on a chair in front of the kitchen table. “Just you sit there and don’t you dare move” I was instructed.

I sat very still and was full of fear, when the men come home I will get a thrashing form them, I was convinced that I would get a good hiding. The lady continued to mess about with her cooking, which I now believe she had been doing before this diminutive little miscreant had invaded and laid waste to her garden, I do remember that a tear run down my face, I tried not to show it though.

After what seemed like an eternity, but what was probably no more than ten minutes or so she turned round and was holding a plate of steaming food. I honestly thought that she was going to sit down and eat, but no, she placed the plate in front of me and said in as stern a voice as she could muster, “here, eat this, and don’t leave any.”

I did eat the food, there was even a piece of some kind of meat there, until that point in my live I had been a vegetarian, not through choice, I might add, I had never tasted meat in my young life.

All the time I was eating she was standing by the back window, sometimes looking at me and occasionally just gazing out of the window. When I had finished eating she walked over to me and I could see that there were tears in her eyes, she picked me up and gave me a big hug, she started asking me about myself.

When I answered her questions and I had explained my circumstances, no mother or father and so on, by now she was crying openly. I was also crying openly by this time.

The lady carried me all the way down Greenlees Hill and when she was very close to my home she only then she put me down after kissing me on the cheek and again hugging me.

She then told me that if I ever got so hungry again I was to go up to her house and she would give me some food. Turning away she then and went back up the hill. I never forgot that lady and about how I had misjudged her. I would have loved to stay with her but knew that could never be.

I never did return to see her, something that I now deeply regret, I know that I should have gone back, if only to thank her, but, I was too mortified about the circumstances of our first encounter.

Nowadays I never pre judge people, I never have done after that, to me anyway, extraordinary episode, I wait until I have known a person or persons better before I jump to conclusions or prejudge them, it is a good philosophy. I now have so many friends and acquaintances in so many countries around the world and to the best of my knowledge anyway, no personal enemies.

Finally; the hug I got from the lady I will never ever forget, because that was the first hug I had ever gotten in my young six or so year old life, I was eighteen years old before I got another.

The more I ponder over the articles and pictures on your site, the more I recall of the places and the people that I see. However the names of most people still elude me and my ninety year old brain, as I am only sixty nine years of age this is a problem. On the other hand, some of the kids who were in the same class as me, I remember them clearly.

Many years ago I wrote quite a lot, mainly light hearted short articles about everything and anything, some poems and so on. Regrettably I lost all my work in an incident better forgotten.

I have attempted to recall some of the articles and I have re-produced one of them, you may, if you have time to spare glance over the one appended. 

Have  pasted a before and after picture of self. (I had a huge crush on the girl beside me, sadly have forgotten her name).

How many recall, or indeed would want to, the idiosyncrasy of their youthful and informative years? I mean those things that stick in the mind, things that you recall only if a similar situation transpires again. For example; the first time your feet slipped off the pedals on your bike and your whole weight seemed to be destined to congregate between the central cortex of your legs and the only thing to cushion the fall was the most fragile of soft spots on your little body. Even the memory of when I was so afflicted still brings water to my eyes.

It was not always accepted then that the crossbar on a bike was peculiar to the male version of the machine, supposedly because the ladies wore skirts, so the offending bar was peculiar to the male version only; incidentally, I am still not sure why this remains the case 65 years later. (One of the earlier ‘birth control’ functions perhaps)? Yes, those were the days alright. On the other hand there were so many great moments, some that did not register at the time but on reflection, these were indeed the ‘spice of life.’

Circa 1950, how well I remember the times as a lad that with nothing else on my mind, I and a mate or two would go down to the north bank of the river Clyde for a swim. From Cambuslang Cross, go north and down the hill ‘ower the brig’ take a left and there was a part of the bank of the river that was slightly more accessible than the rest, having a small recess or ‘mini cove’, for whatever local reason the place was named ‘The Skudgie’.

The water was always slightly warmer than the ambient temperature, of the surrounding air, probably due to the decomposing bacteria therein; in fact the water was always a darker shade of pale, and so obviously polluted that I am sure even non Catholics could walk on it.

Running alongside some 100 yards or so from the bank was the rail line on which ran the tug train which pulled the ‘slag wagon.’ The steel mills produced this molten residue, locally ‘slag’, which was just like the hot lava seen running from erupting volcanoes, this was then unceremoniously dumped at seemingly random places along the bank which was to us a godsend, since we would warm and dry ourselves from the heat so produced.

The swimming activity always took place during the summertime, in the winter great slabs of ice would be seen making their way westwards, even so, I know that some brave souls still ‘took a dip’ I think this was more bravado than aquatic pleasure.

Farther along the bank and out of sight of the road the ‘men’ would play ‘hoyers’ the history of the name is to me still unknown. However, it involved laying two equally worn pennies on the outstretched hand and casting them upwards, the hand would manoeuvre in such a manner that the pennies would spin until they landed on a flattened patch of the ground. The aim of the person ‘flipping’ the coins was to attempt to get two heads upwards facing, this was a winner. A head and a tail would be invalid and the thrower would try again. Two tails would be a loss and the money bet would be covered by the thrower.  To encourage the betting the person willing to open the challenge, would chant “heads a penny, heads a tanner or heads a bob” depending on how much got from the dole that day.

Even in those days, I wondered would if it not be easier to simply hand over the money in your pockets to the challenger, which was where it usually ended up anyway.

And yes, I did see two headed pennies, although it would have been a brave man who would have used them, the chances are that there would be something more substantial than leeches and tolies floating westwards towards the North Atlantic Ocean.

There’s leeches an tolies and things in the watter

But if ah float tae it disney matter

We a’ smell alike so nae’b’dy’s tae blame

At least ah’ll look clean when ah get hame.

Dry and warm on the heat frae the slag

Wipe ma’sel doon wi a bit o’auld rag

Hey Wullie, git oot ‘o’the skudgie

Look there’s Tams cairt we’ll cadge a hudgie.

Up tae the toon ta see the boys

Past snotty wains wi their tatty toys

Here’s a tanner son, dinny greet

An take that bogie aff the street

There’s ‘Daft Wullie’ wi’ his hons oan his heed

Anither glaekit helper the Polis wilnae need

Och well we’re a the same if it comes tae the truth

But nearly a the daft comes oot the mooth

Well here’s the lads noo, an  jings whit a sight

No a penny among them an no a dout alight

Theres tam on the brue, and Jimmy’s been freed

The Jonsies are there tae, but no in the heed

Owen the big yin, taggin along

Hummin some auld unmelodious song

Jo canny, Tam wilnie, Shuggie Disney

Still o’ there, jings, ah wish a wisnie.

                                                                                                              James Harvey.

Re ‘Daft Wullie’   (in reply to my email. Ed)

I cannot be sure but as I recollect he was just the person that you described in your reply, I do remember him hanging onto the bus platforms. What I remember most about him was him stationing himself in the middle of the junction on Cambuslang cross and so directing the moving traffic with gusto. On one occasion I even saw a couple of policemen watching him, they were smiling but took no action; I suspect that they were improving their own traffic management skills from him?

Yes I did hear of some drownings at the ‘Skudgie’ although my enquiries as to “Who” were ignored, I strongly suspect that it was a subterfuge to stop the younger kids from being too adventurous in the water. I do remember however that standing on the bridge one could clearly see that the water was quite shallow, at that point anyway. To my young mind and I suspect to may other kids, the Clyde was like the Ganges or the Mississippi, Ben Nevis was analogous to KII or Everest.  

I did a long time ago write a long winded story about the attributes of the Glen and the Borgie, two of my favourite haunts; it was more directed towards the humorous side of life rather than anything remotely approaching reality. There was also a poem regarding the same, my children thought it was rather good, but I suspect they would say that anyway as a credit towards their next financial or other request, I am trying to recall the general gist of the content and will forward it for your appraisal. You may again of course do with it what you will.

There is a burn, the Borgie’ I am informed that the name Borgie means ‘meeting or jousting place?  It’s not so far from my previous home in Meek Place in Cambuslang, about three hundred yards or so at most. It appears to still be there, although one cannot actually see the stream, from the air as it is completely obscured with the great canopy of trees, oaks, elm, the willow and birch mostly.

It is still there I checked ‘Wikemapia’ and was startled to see that although the general area where I lived was once fairly open it is now completely utilised with housing, and other buildings, lots of trees have been removed to make way for the encroaching populace.

The weird thing is; that part which is the Borgie appears from above to be even more overgrown now than it was all those years ago. It is now just a huge long blanket of leafy mantle. I was so pleased that it had not been covered in as is the case with the ‘Glen’, another favourite haunt of mine along with some of my other little scruffy urchins.

The source of the Nile is easier to locate than the Borgie’s; Dr Johnston of "I presume" fame would have been well better advised to have explored Scotland before venturing forth to Africa. (I could have told him where the Blue Nile and Red Nile tributaries emanated from. But it would take the Indian god Ganja (Ganges fame) to find the enigmatic Borgie’s source.

The part that was my little Empire started south of the Cathkin Park, a public park in all, but for one thing, no public. (In those days anyway) Of all the times that I ventured so far south to the uplands of the said park, which was somewhat similar to the Ridgeway in Oxfordshire in the UK, but much taller and desolate. I can never remember ‘public’ utilising said park?

However as I am wont to do; I digress. This was a ‘public park’?   Glasgow Gorbals Barrowland (‘the barras’) and its immediate environs were just about the scruffiest habitable places in the world, something like a multi story Bombay (Slumdog Millionaire). The Cathkin Park on the other hand there looked like the gardens surrounding Windsor Castle or St Andrews golf Course, for whom? Begs the question, Glaswegians would have been as out of place there as would be Bin Laden in a synagogue.

Very few people had cars; the parks were way beyond walking distance for the average person even if they felt inclined to visit them. There were no busses there either. The strange thing was however. These beautiful parks were always close to the 'posh folk' of the parish. In my early days I took exception to the above situation, however, I then realised that the parks were not put there to be close to the affluent, the well heeled simply moved to where the parks were. Indeed; there was a distinct and noticeable lack of millionaires wandering the rows of stalls in Sundays Barrowland. I wonder why? Perhaps they were touring the Gorbals and handing out alms to the poor? Yes that must be it.

Incident; on so many occasions my friends and I would go all the way up to Cathkin and our ‘bogies’ would be laboriously pulled behind us, we must have looked like diminutive refugees escaping some invading tribes. The wheels from an old pram and a plank of wood were the basic model, the deluxe model had steering facility incorporated, (A foot on each axle close to the wheel) and the super deluxe sported in addition a cushion seat. (Anything softer than the bare plank) Anyway these were hauled all the way to the top of the ‘brae’.

How we ever reached puberty remains a mystery to this very day. The steep slope, water streaming from the eyes grasping the steering string we accelerated all the way to the bottom. In those days even the Delux model had no brakes, therefore the feet were employed, brake failure was common and the soles of the shoes (for those who had shoes) did not last long.

At the bottom T junction, stopping was very much a hit and miss affair, more often than not it was miss and then a hit, one would find oneself hurtling through the open entrance of the Vets emporium which was inconveniently placed directly opposite the base of the hill.

As I have previously stated, there were very few cars on the roads in those days, I suggest that a similar escapade nowadays would result in a dire shortage of pre pubescent youth in the local areas.

In the wintertime with snow on the roads we all had sledges, (for chuchters, toboggans) a similar adventure to the above was the norm, and in this case however the braking effort was to throw ones self off the sledge just before the last corner and crash into the fence or wall. It was all good fun. The dead and wounded were assisted to their respective dwellings.

The water from somewhere in or beyond Cathkin made its weary way north and downwards into the Clyde valley, passing through Kirkhill/Cambuslang Park, the ‘Wee’ pond to the Duck Pond to the Lilly Pond from whence it descended underground to emerge at the bottom of a small valley, overseen by the slum like tenements of Kirkhill itself. Strange, it was called Kirkhill, perhaps because there was a Kirk on top of a hill there? Shades of Wark?

The area of the waters emergence from the park was called the glen. (Arial view appears to show that this area has been filled in / perhaps by the rubble from the tenements?). Odd thing this, it would appear that a tunnel had been dug some hundreds of years ago, deep and for a long way underground to allow the water to reach the glen.

Begs the Question, up to and including years the time before before, i.e. before it was released, where did the water go then? Perhaps there was a great ocean there? Perhaps ‘Global Warming’ has been going on longer than we thought and perhaps the great Scottish glacier had melted. Perhaps Sean Connery is Welsh? A mystery indeed.

Having then reached the ‘Glen’, very steep, and in some stretches with almost vertical slopping sides, It then meandered its way through the years of accumulated garbage and junk that the good inhabitants of Kirkhill thought was a European Environment Communal (EEC) recycling plant.

The good part was that coming to the end of the Glen; it had to pass through a long filtering system of ancient garbage that had lost its microbe’s virus and other hazardous properties finally emerging from a small tunnel and into my adventure playground.

Again; I just cannot see the relationship between these streams, the cost, the manpower and effort involved in digging yet another deep tunnel under hundreds of metres of granite to get this water to the Borgie from the Glen, it simply does not make sense.  The Borgie now, to me anyway, was clean, clear and pure.  However there is a saying:

Sets a’ the Cams’lang fouk,’ Wrang in the Heid

At the top was a generally flat piece of ground, and it had some children’s swings and maypoles and so on there, again strange, other than myself and only a couple of other little scruffs like myself, there were no children there? The little wooden hut of the caretaker was set back a little and was always occupied by Mr Leighton, who just happened to be my next door neighbour, His grand daughter Elizabeth was my friend at the time.

I see in the more recent photographs that the area is now fenced off and grass is growing, the swings are gone, as it would appear, have the children.

As young as I was when I first ventured down into the Borgie, I became infatuated with everything about it. I won’t go too deeply into my adventures there for now, but suffice to say that I saved Scotland from so many unwanted invaders, (More English than anyone else) Martians, Red Indians, Germans, Communists, Politicians, my Science Teacher and many others.

There was one incident that has stuck in my mind for so many years, but first let me explain my own status then. I had no parents, no brothers or sisters; basically I was almost a recluse. My genetics made me and my existence up until then, and even now had produced a child who; lacking normality in so many ways deprived of the parental guidance and companionship of other siblings, left me in a kind of mental limbo as far as others were concerned.

Girls were to me angels, dainty, demure, visually exciting but also very enigmatic. In short they scared the living hell out of me. Like other boys in school, of course I talked about them but on my part it was all bravado, if a girl spoke to me I simply froze. I still get the shivers when confronted with a person of the paradoxical and contradictory gender. I am now married have 5 children, my wife heard that every sixth child born was Chinese; she did not wish to risk any more.

There was a girl in school and in my class, (St Brides RC) I have for many years tried to remember her name, but to no avail, however she looked like my female screen icon my very first love; Kim Novak, whom I saw in a film.

I have still to this day the picture of her profile in my mind as she glances through the half open door in ‘The Notorious Landlady’. In school the best I could do was to behave in such a manner as to insure that I was always seated near the rear of the class, we were always segregated of course, Girls on the right boys on the left. Ones behaviour determined how far away or near the teacher one sat. From such a strategic position I could glance sideways or forwards to catch a fleeting glimpse of her profile or the lesser acceptable vision, that of the back of her head, but that for me was sufficient.

How it happened I simply don’t know, perhaps she had noticed me catching a furtive glance in her direction on occasions, perhaps one of my classmates had said something. However, On Greenlees road which ran down the west side of the Borgie, there was an opening, a narrow track between two gardens led down to the waters edge. I often took that route to get home in the summer months.

On one particular pleasant day I had taken this route and had stopped half way across the stream, there was a series of large rounded granite boulders, which are probably there to this day.  Sitting down on one in the middle of the stream I removed my shoes with the statutory ‘holes in the soles’ and put my feet into the water.

How long I sat there I cannot recall, it was at least 10 minutes, I looked up towards where I had come from and behold, an apparition I froze, literally. It was Kim Novak, (the classmate, not the real one) I could only stare at first, and then, sweating profusely and I have no doubt becoming as red as a Russian flag, I quickly looked away.

"Hello James" going home then?  From the goddess.

Rapid nodding of the head from me.

"Where do you live?" spake forth Cleopatra

Finger points up into the wilderness "there" from el stupido.

"Are you alone?" the Angel sang softly.

"Aye" from dodo.

After about a further ten minutes of this intellectually engaging repartee, the object of my affection stood in the water, and kissed me gently on the cheek, said "goodbye" and left.

I could not see straight, I thought that I was going to faint. Half way up the track from which she appeared she stopped and looked back, "I don’t know why you don’t like me James Harvey" she said.

In my now almost seventy years I have never felt so distressed, never, my 22 years in the Army, all over the world, then the Police and afterwards, nothing ever happened that made me feel as bad as I felt at that moment.

(Now apparently refurbished) writing on the Borgie Dell stone reads:

The Borgie Well here,
Ran Many a Year
Wells wane away

Brief too—man’s stay
Our race alone abides
As burns purl on
With mirth or moan
Old Ocean with its tides

Pace longest day
Join hands and say
(Here where once flowed the well)
“We hold the grip, Friends don’t let slip
The Bonnie Borgie Dell
”
Come guard this dell and guard this stone
Because? Because both are your own
1879

Gordon Kennedy. William Montgomery - Henry Ferguson - from Borgie Crescent.

William Macintyre- Mary Keenan – Charles Keenan- James Keenan – Tom Keery -   From Kirkhill

John Keegan - James and Charles Jones. Owen ? Hugh Coyle- Kings Crescent

There were many others of course but I fear I have forgotten the names, for this I humbly apologise.

(Donated 4 February 2010)

It was suggested that I give a short history of myself from early in my youthful and informative years until the present time, well here we go. The part up to my leaving Cambuslang is, or will be adequately covered by my meanderings which in part have been appended already.

I left home early in the morning one day at the beginning of August 1956 to get to Glasgow Central Rail Station for 0900hrs accompanied by three of my closest friends. We said our goodbyes, it was a sad moment, god only knows when I will see them again I thought, and I went through the platform gate to produce my Army Travel Warrant. 30 seconds later I was back with my friends again, the Travel Warrant stated 1800hrs, not 0800hrs. A valuable lesson was learned at that point. ‘Read documents very carefully.’

I spent the next 22 years of my life almost wishing that I had missed that and all future trains, but to be honest, I learned so much from my time in the forces that I could never have done as a civilian. I was a mediocre soldier (11 Hussars PAO. A Tank Regiment) but I became a very good Instructor. There is a well known saying; “If you cannot do it, teach it.”

There was a little incident related to my mother tongue (Soft and clear English with a strong Glaswegian area accent) I had the ‘Mickey’ taken out of me so many times, and as a result, became involved in so many minor skirmishes that I resolved to correct my speech to  ‘fit in’ as the saying goes. I am now told that I sound like Sean Connery? It gets worse.

Having purchased a ‘Speech to Type’ converter for my PC at work some years ago, I found that I had to delete the‘s’ or ‘sh’ after almost every word.

One incident involving the Scottish accent sticks in my mind. Teaching a young recruit the finer points of the recoil system on a Chieftain tank, I sent one Glaswegian to the stores for a few litres of OM 13 hydraulic oil. He returned after a few minutes and told me that I had to go and talk to the store man, this I did. “I have not got a clue what the lad was saying” I was told. “What did he say I asked?” 

Well it sounded like “hivye ony ile” I translated it for him.

He said “I thought he was a Polish lad.”

In addition to my role as a Troop Sergeant I became an instructor in various other disciplines and finally left the army in 1979 after my final posting as an Instructor with the Junior Leaders Regiment RAC. (Where I first started from)

From there became a Police Constable with the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority in Harwell, Oxfordshire I Informed my Chief Constable. I would give it two years and then decide whether to remain or move on. As most of the staff there were ex senior ranks in the forces, he told me that I would remain there until I retired, that was the norm. Outside counting the leaves in an Amazonian jungle, it turned out to be the most incredibly boring job in the world.

Two years later I left the Police. Initially I took to driving Instruction and having covered all classes I then took to other machines, i.e. all Construction Industry types from Dumpers to Tower cranes and everything in between. A Course in Chemical Science.   Became involved in Hazchem / Explosives Operations and then to all other aspects of the Engineering and Construction Industries as a Safety Consultant and Advisor. Became; Member International Institute of Risk and Safety Management. Travelled all over the world. 

Many years ago I did a fortnights course in Hamilton (Between Motherwell and Cambuslang) for a Security firm, (Securicor I think) Advanced, Evasive, Defensive Driving Techniques for Armoured security Vehicles. Great bunch of lads but driving skills ‘dodgy’.

As they were all fellow Scots, I gave them all a ‘Pass’ What the hell.

I Retired in July 2005.

Wife is Indian ‘Goan’ (on the west coast, a former Portuguese colony) I moved there mid 2006 and have been living the ‘life of Riley there ever since’.

Incidentally, India is the most ‘enigmatic’ country in the world. The people are wonderful and I love them dearly, but, at the same time, can be the most infuriating people on the planet.

Example;

Me. “I want that digital child’s watch, how much is it?

He. After noting my Caucasian appearance, “1000 rupees”.

Me, “Thank you, I’ll think about it”

I send my driver in next day, same conversation, now it is 400 rupees.

I send my maid a day or two later, she then says “He told me 250 rupees”.

I return to the store and explain what previously happened.

“Ah Sir” from him, “now it is 1500 rupees”

Me. “What!”

He. “If Sir can afford a Driver and a Maid, Sir can afford 1500 rupees”

 Me? Speechless!

I went to a reunion near the town of bath and was very surprised to find that a great number of my fellow cohorts had now divorced. On the other hand I also find that many of the long time active service personnel become sedentary when they retire from service, drivers, security, traffic wardens and the like. They tend to die off very quickly, a point I noted with sadness at the said reunion. I never attended any more of these.

I have refrained from trying too hard to contact my school day friends in Cambuslang; quite simply I would like to think that they are all up and about and enjoying a well earned retirement, I realise however that it is very likely that some are no longer with us. I know of at least two who migrated. One to Canada and the other to Australia, there are probably many more like these.

Regretfully, I lost much of not only my writings but also a lot of personal possessions in a fire, my army documents were also lost. I never asked for replacements as I did not think that I would need them again, my stories were more important to me. I see three places that our paths might have crossed.

I also served in Sennelager in the early seventies, I think it was the 14/20 hussars we took over from. I also know that we had some dealings with the 4/7 Dragoon Guards but I cannot for the life of me remember how thing where.

My regiment,  11 Hussars became amalgamated with the 10 hussars to become The Royal Hussars. This happened when we returned from Bergen- Belsen in 1968ish. I think that due to further amalgamations the regiment is now named ‘The Royal Dragoons’ but I have never tried to keep up with my military past. Too sad!

I also served alongside the 32 Field Regiment, but I think that it was in Germany. I also did two 6 month stints in N.I. One in Lisnaski  and one in Long Kesh. 1972/73 where I was the regimental intelligence Sergeant? Probably because I was no good at much else.  I never received much in the way of your ‘Casual Emoluments’ either time.

So, it is quite possible that our paths might have crossed, however fleetingly, however the pay office personnel were, and it would seem to most of the troops, to important to be openly seen by us mere mortals?

Incidentally, I well remember the days when on every Thursday, one would have to attend ‘Pay parade’ The whole Squadron would have to stand and wait for each individuals name to be called, march forward, Halt, Salute, get the pittance, salute again ("pay and pay book correct Sir") and march away. A full afternoon’s work completely wasted. Why could it not have been put in an envelope and given to the Troop Leader/Sergeant to distribute to his men. I did not complain then however, I enjoyed the ‘easy afternoon.’

The ‘Bing’ Playground 

Leaving Kings Crescent one heads for the ‘big’ village, I am given to understand that Cambuslang was the largest village in Scotland, more than 70,000 inhabitants and no legislative body etc it was classed as a village.

Anyway I digress yet again, you come to a crossroads, and straight on takes you up to the Borgie Crescent and eventually Kirkhill, area. A right turn at the crossroad will take you to the ‘Village’ and a left would be the route to Halfway.

Halfway to where? I often puzzled and argued with my little friends saying that to be halfway to anywhere, one had to have a starting point and a destination, halfway would be an exact measured point twixt the two. Since I was the more diminutive of the group, I always lost the argument.

So we take a left and head east, this takes us over a railway bridge and eventually under a further bridge.  Exiting from the bridge and on the left side (North) of the road there was a ‘bing’ from whence came the name I don’t know, but, I believe that all such coal pit effluvium or detritus dumps were so called.

In most cases these ‘bings’ were upside down conical in shape and with very steep sides. The one here mentioned, appeared to be unused as the waste had reached a point where any further tipping would have resulted in the waste overflowing the small wall that separated the sidewalk and road from the pile.

Always on the lookout for some adventure or other ‘Wullie’ as in William Lyons originally of Borgie Crescent (Now in Canada) and I explored every inch of the place, the top  and its environs but apart from a deep vertical hole about  two and a half square yards width, there was little to challenge our adventurous spirit.

We did venture down the hole with its embedded metal rungs but the farther we descended the hotter we became, it also became difficult to take in air, we came to the unanimous decision that nothing was to be gained from descending any further, ( I was scared) we ascended.

I just about made it to the top, I am now convinced had we gone deeper we would never have been found. My little weak arms were by now aching so much I only just managed to scramble over the top.

Where we had left the roadway the ascent to the top was fairly bare of grass and weed, I think because the frequent warm and gentle rain that swathes Lanarkshire in general during the temperate months has washed away the top layers of the mound and it was now resident along the foot area behind the wall.

One, infamous as it turned out, day Wullie found a metal sheet. In those days houses with open fires and a fender, there was some kind of metal plate which fitted inside the fender and the fire itself. I think it may have been called a ‘hearth plate’ or similar, it was fairly thin, and quite strong; about 36in long X 18in wide I guess, the upper side was usually enamelled and had a multi coloured design finish, for us posh folks anyway.

Quoth Wullie; “ Jamsie, I have a great idea”  

From me “Aye……… what?”  Hesitantly This was because Wullies ‘great ideas’ usually meant some new escapade involving a great deal of risk.

“We can use this to slide down the auld bing” Excitedly.

“Illucidate” or something similar; like a quizzical, eyebrows raised “Ohh aye” from me.

“Look, bend the front bit back about here” finger pointing “it will stop you falling off, almost like a windshield.”

From; by now a condescending Jamsie “Ohh aye, to stop ‘ME’ falling off?” 

From Wullie “You’re an auld scaredie cat”

From Jamsie, “aye”

I suggested to my good friend and fellow idiot Wullie, that we should get another, because if we have just the one, YOU will slide down and then have to bring the ‘bing bogie’ (our new name for the machine,) back up to the top, for my turn.

Now looking back after all those years, that was the suggestion was by far the best that I have ever made, nothing and I mean nothing compared to that suggestion  

I have forgotten exactly how long after this ‘great idea’ the next ‘bing’ episode emerged but it was shortly after, we found another ‘bit of tin’ I distinctly remember it was slightly bigger and was anything but flat, looking back I think it might have been an old drum of sorts.

Looking at Wullies against my own, his was sleek; it was light, shiny base to make for even more slippery. Mine would bend too easily was full of lumps and bumps and I was sure that it would be useless. Actually Wullie agreed with me, but we by now were impatient to get a trial run in. In appearance his ‘bing bogie’ was a brand new Rolls Royce and mine was a 1932 Austin 7 that had been badly mistreated.

The great day came (Saturday or Sunday because of school) we made our way from the south side of the area to the ‘bing’. Incidentally, there were no houses there at that time, I think they started those around 1948 or so, there was a large manor house there, set in a vast woodland area.

However we crossed the road and made our way laboriously up the ‘bing’ carrying our respective bogies. Reaching the top we rested and made the decision as to who would go first and the reasoning as to why it was always me who was selected. Putting my feet against the bent up front of the tin I got a push from Wullie.

I have to admit I saw no obvious problem at that point, as I gathered momentum I then started to have doubts as to the wisdom of this move. Honestly I distinctly remember thinking about half way down that we should have put some bricks or something on the tin and let it go, just to see what happened.

Nothing happened, got a good speed going and just before the bottom it slowed down sufficiently to come to a halt on smacking into the wall, a light jolt and covered in coal dust, no problem. The wall at that side was only about six to nine inches high because of the debris that had come from the slope; I sat on the wall and waved to Wullie.

I saw him take off, and by god he was picking up some speed, I was envious of him at that point, it was not easy to see his face but I know now that he must have doubted the wisdom of this whole episode. He reached me so fast that I had to move away quickly to avoid an unintended encounter with him, the front of his ‘bogie’ whacked into the wall it turned a somersault and to this day I have this vision of his outstretched flailing arms as he sailed over the wall, the ‘bogie’ whacked into the roadway and slid to the other side, well almost, Wullie completed a long rather graceful summersault and he made a quite graceful landing, almost, he was on his feet, but his upper half was going so fast the feet could not keep up, he half slid half rolled almost halfway to the other side.

This was a main road, it was fortunate that in those days there was very little traffic, and Wullie stopped almost exactly in the middle of the road. A guy who I now know to be Bull Grey drove a coal truck for the CO-OP, he stopped and got out to go to help Wullie, I laboured over the wall to him.

Wullie was sitting up I was laughing my head off, I could not help it, Wullie was, apart from a few bruises and his damaged dignity miraculously and relatively unhurt. I suggested that he was lucky that the wall was there he could have been badly hurt if the wall had been much higher. He had just enough strength left with which to smack me one though.

Bull Grey? He lived in Kirkhill and moved to the new houses on the other side of the road opposite the ‘bing,’ when I was about ten or so. I used to help him unload the coal wagons at the Kirkhill rail yard and then we would fill the bags, load the truck and deliver the coal. He helped me to get the bag on my back and would let me carry it as long as it was near the truck and there was no stairs involved.   He gave me two shillings every week, to me; A fortune.

Wullie, He was about 15yo I think when unfortunately his dad died. He moved to Canada with his mother and big sister Etta (Henrietta) where they had relations.  I got one letter from him afterwards. I was awaiting my 16^th birthday in order to join the army. Wullie had to go back to school, the leaving age there being 18. I would have loved to go there with him, not to school, to Canada.

James Harvey ~ 6 February 2010

Dear Edward (11 February 2010)

You must have been very brave, If the heat chimney was the same one that Wullie and I went partially down, then I am an old ‘scardy cat’ I see a ‘bing’ behind the houses in kings crescent, I never ventured near those. I fear that the Coyle lads kept a fairly tight reign on me when I was living with them, which was perhaps just as well because Hugh (‘Shuggie’) was a bit of a lad. I did most of my ‘exploring from the Meek Place base.

I can just vaguely remember the ‘wire pulley rope’ now that you have mentioned it, but the finer details escape me, I do know that it made a real mess of ones hands though. I remember the brick kilns in that general area, for whatever strange reason I was fascinated with them. I know that some bricklayers would get a surprise; Wullie and I would find some soft clay bricks waiting to be ‘fired up’, we would write some rubbish or other on a few of them with a small bit of stick, then they would be returned to the stack. I would have loved to see the faces of the guys who eventually found them after they had come out of the kiln.

I have enclosed yet another bit of nonsensical goings on. See what you think. I won’t write any more, I promise.

James. 

One of my haunts as a child was the Cambuslang rubbish dump, down by the River Clyde. I say that quite flagrantly. I and many other kids rifled through the junk for anything of interest.  I had been given some bits of an old bicycle by Joseph Mc Keown (No 11 Meek Place) a frame and a chain and a set of pedals. He was my guru and my friend ever since I can remember; his whole family were superb people in every sense of the word.

The rubbish dump was the source of most of the remainder of my bicycle, I had found dozens of bits and unfortunately most of them were useless, wrong size or whatever. My grandmother suggested that I was contemplating a scrap yard of my own to compete with the one in the town. Forgotten the name, perhaps someone can remember, I think you went to the bottom of Church St or the street opposite the town library and the site was on the right. 

I mention the site because I eventually took all the useless bits of bicycle there and he gave me a couple of pennies for them. Eventually he asked me why I was collecting so many bits and I explained the home build bicycle project, he told me to bring the bits I had already kept for him to look at.

I had been advised by a few friends not to do so because he was a ‘bad man’ and would keep the bits I took. I took the chance and lugged them all the way to his yard, far from being the ‘bad man’ he actually gave me some bits that did fit my as yet incomplete bike, he even fitted them for me. I distinctly remember a better saddle and a set of handlebars that did fit. I said I had no money, he said “never mind son I don’t need those” or something similar.

Once again, I suggest that it is better never to prejudge people, we are apt to do so towards scrap merchants, rag and bone men and the like, but we never prejudge Politicians, but you can guarantee that they are mostly corrupt. I pride myself in being honest, that’s why I love India, because I have no competition here.

Where was I? Ah yes, the rubbish dump. BTW, I was not the only little urchin to be found scavenging amongst the trash there. At times the competition was fierce, lets face it a couple of years after the war, very few had anything at all.

Going off track a little, I am reminded of the Disc Jockey Chris Evans, for whatever reason I had no time for him; that was until I saw him crying uncontrollably at seeing the kid’s rotten feet in the garbage dump in Kolkata (Formally ‘Calcutta’) (Community Channel  6-9 am Daily) then found out that he was more than generous in his donation to charitable causes.

“Hey Wullie!” (Perhaps it was ‘Ging’ (Gordon Kennedy) “I’ve found a parachute”

That became one, indeed the only treasured possession I had in my life (The bike was still not complete) That parachute became a tent by adding a few bits of stick, and by tying the chords to small bits of wood to be hammered into the ground, I was the proud possessor of this great prize and no amount of offers to exchange it for books, toys, were entertained I remember Joe Cannon offered me a shilling for it, but no way was it going anywhere, at least not yet.

The conversation went something like this, (I have translated from the local colloquial to English as my wife and kids think I am speaking Klingon)

“Jamsie” From Wullie “I’ve got a great Idea”

Me,  “Aye……… what?”  thinking ‘here we go again’

From Wullie “we could use it as a parachute”

At this point I noted that he had said “We could” etc.

“OK” from me, convinced that he was joking, “Where do we get an airyplane?”

“Don’t be daft”  from Wullie “we just jump off a bridge or something”

Now, even at the tender age of seven or so, I could see the flaw in his reasoning, even if we,……. no, even if ‘he’, jumped off the Clyde Bridge he would be at the water before the top had even cleared the parapet. I explained my doubts to Wullie. “You’re just al old ‘scardie cat’ from him.

“The Borgie” from Wullie

“Ohh …. Aye?” from me.

Then Quoth Wullie, “the bit above the caves, where there is a big tree leaning over the top”

“Aye”……..? from me.

“We could jump off the tree; it’s straight drop, nothing in the way and very high”

“Aye” from me “but with just one wee change to the plan, we drop the WE and we insert YOU instead, remember I went down the bing first, it’s your turn.

Surprisingly now from the gallant Wullie, “I’ll go first this time.”

“Aye” from me.

Directions: - from Meek Place, between numbers 12 and 14 runs the Tabernacle Lane footway. Just at the exit and on the left is Myrtles wee shop, her sister was with her at times. Anything from potatoes to sweets, paraffin (bring your own bottle) to Cigarettes.

How much are those sweets there, pointing, 10 for a penny Jamsie, She always put 12 in the ‘wee paper poke.’  Bless her.

Straight across the road was a large wooden hut, the only thing I remember it being used for was a weight lifting and body building club. I know there were other things but I cannot remember exactly what.

On the right at the exit was the fenced in step up Power station. We go to the right, Wullie to the fore and me bearing the parachute tagging reluctantly behind.

Clearing the Power Station (Its still there I think) over the fence and up the embankment we are now walking alongside the bottom of the gardens of Meek Place. The track becomes much narrower carry on and alongside the back gardens of Borgie Crescent we come to a point where the track is just passable.

There is a very large tree; it is leaning at a very jaunty angle over the Borgie water flow. If one climbs up a few yards a fork makes a good sitting place. Although when one is so young the height, slope, width, and so on of things appears massive. On the other hand, the risks pale into meagre insignificance, if it were the other way round, many children would actually never reach maturity.

Wullie and I now perched astride the fork of the tree, survey the drop, I now suggest, and I am guessing at 35 yards, as a 6/7 year old it appeared to be a very long drop.

Wullie says “Aye, it’s a long way down, the parachute will open just fine at this height”

Jamsie says “Aye” but quizzically and with eyebrows raised. I knew in my mind at that point that even if I was shot where I was sitting, I was not going down there by parachute, elevator, stairway or anything else. Wullie on the other hand appeared to be looking forward to it?

Having just been in St Brides  Infant School for no more than about two and a half years, We had not yet covered E = MC.²    Kinetic energy had yet to be mastered by us, we did however understand the basics of Gravity. Doubts were beginning to enter the old neurofibulary area of the brain.

“We need to have a trial run first” say I.

“How?” from Wullie.

“We tie something to the strap hanging from the strings and let it drop”

“Your cat” suggests Wullie.

“Bitey! No way” says I. “anyway my Gran says that people come back as cats and dogs, so we have to treat them well”.

“Rubbish” says Wullie. Well he would, he’s a ‘proddy dog’ (Not Catholic)

“How about a stone or a log, or even an old coal bag with some bits so it will be about the same weight as you” from Jamsie.

“Great idea” from Wullie.

And so it came to pass, that Wullie and Jamsie did assemble a multitude of bits and pieces and verily did deposit them into the aged coal sack at the foot of the chosen tree.

And did they verily empty the aged coal sack again as it was too heavy to get to the required height in the said tree.

The sack was emplaced in the crook of the two staunch branches and bit by bit the weights were so emplaced.

Wullie and James also now ensconced some fifteen feet or so high and alongside the sack, tied the parachute cords to it and the great moment came. With both of us holding the top of the chute clear of the branch we pushed the sack away and at the same time released the top of the chute.

We both I am sure had visions of a gentle opening of the canopy and a somewhat majestic descent to the bottom; as in the movies. However, it was not to be. As soon as the infernal thing was released it virtually plummeted to the bottom, it was over in not more than 5 seconds. The parachute did not even start to open, it crashed to the bottom and smashing into a large boulder the aged sack burst open and the parachute was dragged away by the flow of the water.

Wullie and I just looked at each other, said nothing, but we raced down to the School end of the burn before the chute had a chance to get there, in fact it had stuck on the rocks not far from its inglorious descent.

“I wasn’t really going to go down you know” said Wullie.

“Aye” from me.

Much later Wullie asked his dad what he thought of Jamsie’s parachute. His dad said yes son, during the war these wee parachutes were used to drop wee packets of food and the like to soldiers on the ground.

Later found out that they were designed to take no more than 14 lbs of non breakable supplies.

Wullie was definitely heavier and certainly breakable.

The chute was later exchanged for something or other from Joseph Cannon of no 1 Meek Place.

I am particularly interested in locating Mr William Macintyre now 69years, lived in Kirkhill until about 1955 then moved to the new housing area across from the Cambuslang Park. Anyone???

The other discovery was of Ian Richardson who had one brother Charles, found and recognised Ian OK but Charles is becoming rather elusive.

Another odd thing is that although I am able to remember the names OK some of the faces I simply cannot place, it is as if I had never seen them, although many of them were in the same class at school as me for many years.

Odd story; having gone through some 5 or 6 years at the primary school, I had to change classes around 1948 or thereabouts because my birth certificate surfaced (No mum or Dad available until 1948 when my dad returned from the forces??) (Mum had died in London during the war). It appears that I had started school sometime just after my 4^th birthday.

I cannot remember a single face in my primary school class but I remember so many in the secondary class. Left in 1955. No place to go but into the Army.

Got an email from Walter Japp in reply to the one I sent him, he had his email address appended to his ‘reminiscences’ on the site.

‘Begging now’ would it be possible to append my own email address after my ramblings? Please. And thanks in advance.

Speaking with Walter he made a very pertinent point as to youthful friends etc. These tended to be located only a couple of hundred yards from ones own home, and thinking back that is so very true, all my own friends were so located, but on the other side, since I lived in Kings crescent for quite a long time I made a lot of friends there also. You of course were the ‘wee loddie’ from downstairs.

I remember on one occasion, you may even recall yourself. Hugh and I and a couple of lads were in your garden down at the bottom near the railway line fence. Someone in your house, father, elder sibling, relative, brought down a large collection of wooden boxes, much like the army MFO boxes which we then made into a large ‘gang hut’ sometime late evening we had to relocate, flit, give up, vacate, and the boxes were subsequently collapsed, the odd thing was that sometime later, perhaps a few days, the said boxes became a huge bonfire, we never understood that. What a waste of a gang hut?

There was another thought, you are probably rather tired of my thoughts, however; At the bottom of Tabernacle lane just over the railway bridge there was a small newspaper printing outfit, I seem to remember ‘The Cambuslang Advertiser’ I suppose it has long gone? Anyway I imagine that there must be a local or reasonably local newspaper??

I had a thought, A visit to the editor with a collection of school photographs from the 40s and 50s, one of which could be inserted, even on a monthly basis, as a sort of competition,

Are you here?
Are any of your parents?
Grand parents?
Friends?
People who owe you money?
Run off with your sister?
Joined the Taliban?
Or whatever,

First it would be good for the paper, would encourage people to get the paper in the first place, and could be added to the competitions page, whatever. Just a thought Edward, You could even put a link to your own site.

Lost your school friends, see www/ etc

OK I will go now, I’m rambling on.