Rigours and excitement of travelling by gig

Press, Volume CXII, Issue 33095, 9 December 1972, Page 12

Rigours and excitement of travelling by gig

(By

LAVINA DERWENT)

It never rained when I was young. Not that I remember anywy. if it did, I must often have been droookit to the skin. Especially when I got a hurl in the family pony-and-trap, which had no means of shelter from the wind and the weather. It was called a gig, and was rather like a jauntingcar. We sat back-to-back and hung on for dear life when whirling round comers. Many a time I have landed in the ditch and had to run after the disappearing carriage, if no-one had noticed I was missing.

I always had a backward view of the countryside, for it was only grown-ups and important folk who sat in front beside the driver. It was good for the digestion, if nothing else. “lings! ye fairly get your internals shoogled up,” Jessie used to say, on the few occasions when she had a lift in the gig. Sitting like that, we certainly saw the scenery—the Carter Bar looming nearer, or (depending on which way we were going) a closer sight of the Eildon Hills “cleft in twain.” But it was not scenery that attracted Jessie’s attention. It was the washings that were hanging out. “Ay! that's a guid clean - wesh!” She would comment, tod, on the crops and the gardens, and there was always time to exchange greetings with any passer-by

—the postie, or the minister on his bicycle.

We had plenty of stops and starts. Suddenly the pony would swerve to the side of the road to quench his thirst in a drinking-trough; and sometimes he would go on strike and refuse to budge another inch, especially if we came to a steep brae. Out we would get and plod up the hill, coaxing the pony to follow. “Tak’ nae notice o’ him an’ he’ll come," Jessie would say. “Fashious cratur!” There were no hitch-hikers in those days, but we would stop and give a lift to anyone who was plodding along the road, even if it was a tramp. Indeed, I have had to share the back seat with some odd customers in my day. One I remember was an Ingan Johnny whose bicycle had broken down. He spoke in a foreign tongue and, naturally enough, smelled strongly of onions. He presented me with a long string of them as a parting gift, slinging them round my neck as if they were beads. It was a great thrill, on rare occasions, to be promoted to a seat in front beside the driver and get a different view of the world. Better still to be given a "turn at the reins,” though in my case the pony just went where he wanted, snorting with indignation if I suggested he should veer to the right when he wanted to go left. But he always settled down to a steady pace and stopped his nonsense when

we came near to the big toon. Jedburgh! “Ay! he’s bahvin’ like a Christian noo! He kens folk are watchin’,” Jessie would say as we entered the High Street. But the Christian was not too pleased to be left with his nose-bag in a strange stable, while we went to do the shopping, and always whinneyed with delight when we came back laden with messages, ready for the return journey. It was eerie driving home in the dark, with only the gig-lights to show the way. I used to watch the sheep’s eyes gleaming like little flashing beacons from the fields, and try hard to keep my own eyes open, for if I drowsed off, I would lose my balance and tumble out into the road. "Hing on, lassie," Jessie would say, clutching me in an iron grip. "See! tnonder's the road-end. We’ll sune be hame.” At last we would see the welcome lamplight from the farmhouse windows. The pony would toss his head and whisk his tail. Scenting com in his own stable, he would change gear and gallop like a race-horse up the final stretch, coming to such a sudden standstill at the door that once more I was nearly pitched out headfirst. “Ay! it’s great to be back,” Jessie would say, as if we had been round the world twice. “Gettin’ a hurl’s a’ verra weel, but gie me shank’s pownie ony day.”