1961

It was the year we moved to Dunblane.

Brought up on a council estate in a Lanarkshire mining town, to say that the move to a rural West Perthshire village was an adventure would be an understatement of the highest order. The excitement of the unknown exceeded my trepidation however and soon the big day approached.

The day before the 'flitting', my father's brother fetched my dad, me and the family pets and drove us through to Dunblane. The family's menagerie consisted of two budgies named Peter and Jackie and a goldfish called Sammy. My uncle Alex had a wee green mini van and I sat on the floor in  the back with the goldfish bowl on my lap.

Health and Safety would be horrified: no child's safety seats (no seat at all, in fact!), no seat belts and adults allowed to smoke in the car despite there being a bairn present. We delivered the pets to the house and drove back to Halfway afterwards. So the first overnight occupants of the bungalow at 17 Cromlix Crescent, Dunblane were two birds and a fish.

The next day saw the removal lorry arrive at our building in Woodlands Crescent. My father supervised the loading and travelled to Dunblane with the removal men while my mother and I, together with my granny and grampa were given a lift by our neighbour, Mr Russell, in his Vauxhall Victor. Mr Russell lived in the close next to us and I am certain he was the only car owner on Woodlands Crescent, a road three quarters of a mile (1.2 km) long!

And so we duly arrived in Dunblane. After a boring hour or two drinking tea with the grownups my father, grandfather and I went for a walk.  Despite the fact I had never been out and about in Dunblane, I insisted that they follow me into the village and I led them unerringly via the mill and the Faery bridge up past the cathedral and down to the High Street. Spooky!!

That weekend we received the news ( how, I do not know, as we had no telephone.) that my auld grannie (great grandmother) had fallen down the stairs and broken her hip. My mother, charitable as ever, accused her of doing it just to spoil her big day. She died a few days later.

But now it was time for me to begin at my new school. On the day my mother took me down the Old Doune Road, over the railway bridge, over the Allan Water, up the High Street, past first the jail and then the cathedral, and at last up the Braeport to the school. The school! 'What kind of school was this?'  I thought. A couple of old buildings, some huts in the playground and outside lavatories. I was used to a spanking new school building in Lanarkshire. This couldn't be my school!

Braeport School

Worse was to come. After meeting the headmaster, Mr Bell, who was dressed in a cloak like a teacher in 'Billy Bunter' and refusing my mother's offer of fetching me after school, 'Dinger' announced that my class, primary 4, was at music and he would take me there. Traipsing along in his wake we went out of the school and back down the way I had just come with my mother 15 minutes earlier. At the bottom of the hill he pointed to an old ruin of a building and said that was the gym hall. It looked more like an old church building to me but I had no time to dally and ponder over things as it was all I could do to keep up with the man, marching through the town with his cape billowing behind him.

We entered a back street, a deserted back street. Now I was getting worried. Was Mr Bell the bogey man, a serial killer who was going to strangle me and bury me under the floorboards somewhere?

'We can't be on our way to a music class - we're getting further and further away from the school!'

Then we turned a couple of corners and entered another building. Now I began to relax. I was in a library and I could hear the sound of children singing. Mysteriously we entered a billiard room with two snooker tables. I was completely confused. Snooker tables I associated with the Miners' Welfare in Halfway, not a wee town with nary a coal pit or bing in sight. At the back of the room was a door and it was from this portal that the unangelic melodies emanated. We had found the music room.

Dunblane Institute
The music room was at the back of the building.

The headmaster introduced me to the music teacher, Mr Scott , entrusting me into his care and, with a theatrical flourish , Mr Bell and his cloak disappeared through the door.

I stood alone in front of primary 4.

The class sat and stared at me. I stared back.

"Do you know anyone?" asked the music teacher.

"No," I replied, "But I was told to ask for Craig McCormick. His dad works at the same place as mine."

A place was made for me beside the aforementioned Craig and the lesson continued. After about 5 minutes Mr Scott made some comment, what it was I can't remember, but it had us all in stitches. The problem was that the others could stop laughing, I couldn't. Having a whole class in mirth was obviously fine for Mr Scott but one single pupil laughing his head off and disturbing the class was not acceptable.

I was hauled out in front of the class. Despite my misgivings I still had the giggles but they soon ended as from out of nowhere the teacher produced his leather strap. Towering above me he raised the belt aloft.  I stretched out my hand and closed my eyes.

Four of the belt. It hurt.

Welcome to Dunblane.