I particularly like this lighthearted story next, gleaned from auld, local newspapers and have suitably illustrated it with an AI image.
Late one evening in May 1895, a High Blantyre farmer was making his way home from Hamilton, where during that day, he had earlier sat in public houses for too long and drank too deeply. Now very late, taking the short cuts over fields, he eventually reached a burn near his own house and knew right away there were no stepping stones.
So, off came his boots and he trudged through the width of the stream. However, owing to the current, he missed his footing and came down with a splash into the burn. Crawling on hands and knees to the edge, exhausted from his drunken, slow walk, he hauled himself to the side, lying on his back facing straight up into the moonlit sky, all the worse.
In this safer position, and with the stream flowing near his chin, he began to shout for his wife, “Marg’et, Marg’et!” he hollered at the top of his voice, in a terrible drunken state. The good woman, being nearby and had been waiting for his arrival, heard his pitiful cries for help and wandered outside to investigate, quickly realising she had no clue where her husband was.
“Haw, John, my John! Is that you John? Whaur are ye?!” shouted the wife.
“Where am I?” came back the reply from the burn. “Guidness only kens whaur I am, but ah’ll tell ye this, ah’m awfy far below the moon!”
Thus was a talking point in Blantyre and Hamilton for some weeks thereafter!
On Social Media, the following comments were received on Facebook:
Anthony Smith I wonder if he lost his boots.