Batty’s Den

Hello once again from the Barry Mill Blog! As the blog was originally set up as part of my Creative Scotland Residency,  now successfully completed, I haven’t posted here for a little while. My second novel The Bone Harp should hit the shelves early next year, but what to do with all that delicious research into mill life, lore and literature?

I have a plan! A non-fiction book of folklore and landscape, which will preserve some of those lovely heritage tales you’ve been kind enough to share with me. You will be able to follow my progress here, and I’ll share with you any snippets of interesting information that comes my way, plus all the Barry Mill news. I will post it on the mill’s Facebook pages, or you can become a blog ‘follower’, so you don’t miss anything.

Last week, I took a walk to Batty’s Den. Most Carnoustie/Muirdrum residents will know  the den as a rather wild place beloved of teenage campers (my own sons included, years ago). I’ve never been there myself, but intrigued by a few paragraphs in the late Annie Thompson’s wonderful book, Carnoustie, in Old Picture Postcards, I ventured forth.

The den has been greatly side-lined since the development of the dual carriageway, and it is seriously overgrown.

I couldn’t help but compare it with the mill den at Barry, and the picturesque Craigmill Den, so well -maintained by Angus Council. As I emerged scratched and nettled, it struck me that we are missing out on a wonderful natural amenity. The Scottish ‘den’ is such a big part of our landscape, and ‘wild’ space so rare, it would make sense to have a ‘den trail’ around the local area for families to explore.

What does Miss Thompson say about Batty’s Den?

‘The name may come from Patie’s [water-driven] flax-spinning mill which operated here in the 19^th c. In 1820, the minister of Panbride, writing in the Statistical Account of Scotland, complained that the mill employed young girls who would be better off at home, as their presence encouraged young men to loiter around the mill.’

Oh dear, women getting the blame again! Miss Thompson goes on to say that no trace of the mill remains, nor the hump-backed bridge in the photograph, but Batty’s Den ‘remains a charming, leafy spot, in spring filled with primroses and wood anemones’.

Den, dean or dene; (OE denu); n. a hollow with sloping sides, or a narrow, wooded ravine, often with rivulet. E.g. Den Burn (Aberdeenshire), Dean Village (Edinburgh), Denholm (Roxburghshire).

Lummesdene (mentioned c.1100); Botheldene, 1159; Ellesdene, 1218; Strikerden, 1275;Denside, 1304.

 

 

 

Another Time and Place…

This week, I’ve had the perfect opportunity to observe how people react to Barry Mill. As part of my Creative Scotland residency, I held a Folklore and Memory drop-in event, with the intention of documenting a range of memories, anecdotes and stories. My challenge is to consider these responses, and use them as a literary resource on which to draw.

I was ably assisted by fellow writer Elizabeth Frattaroli, who sat outside for hours with a pile of questionnaires and a pot of coffee (plus shortbread for the purposes of bribery). She proved to be amazing at encouraging confidences; soon both locals and visitors (one all the way from California) were reminiscing merrily.

I had hoped that anyone who remembered the mill when it was still open for business might come along and share their stories. I was keen to learn about the operation of it, or perhaps hear some anecdotes about past millers, either from Barry or elsewhere. In the main, however, our tales came from those who remembered the mill den as being ‘our own private play park’, a place of adventure far away from the adult gaze. The stories we collected can be seen in our ‘mill door gallery’ (see image). I love this snippet from ‘Sheena’:

There was a special place beside the weir; a tree shaped like a hammock. I would spend hours there as a little girl, when I wanted time on my own away from my brothers and sisters. I’d sit and watch the waterfall, and the little wrens. Once I saw a kingfisher and watched it come and go along the water for ages.

As a writer, this is wonderful material. It provides a great visual image to aid the imagination- the waterfall, the tiny darting birds and the odd-shaped tree- but also says so much about this little girl, and her chaotic home life. This illustrates  perfectly the link between landscape, mood and character; a connection I’m keen to explore further.

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The final words go to Elizabeth, who has discovered for herself the power of the setting:

I didn’t grow up here, but I discovered the mill last year and come here often. The place is so peaceful and calming. When you walk down the steps, it’s as if a weight has been lifted and you find yourself away from the hustle and bustle of normal life. There’s nothing like standing in the sun at one with nature, listening to the running water and the birds and the trees. Barry Mill can transport you to another time and place…

 

Switching Off and Tuning In…

There was a stillness on the beach this morning that I’d never noticed before: no breeze, no chill, no threat of rain. Usually my daily- dog- walk head is crammed with endless ‘to-do’ lists, mental post-its and meaningless chatter, so to stand on the beach and focus on this absence was a real pleasure. The  day holding its breath, waiting to unfold.

So for today’s post- my thoughts on walking and silence and creativity. Inevitably, this is going to bring us back to monks…

Last week, I mentioned Balmerino Abbey, which first held the lands at Barry in the early Middle Ages. I’m fascinated by the suggestion that the original mill may have existed as far back as 1240. The unmade road which snakes its way past the mill cottages and over the old stone bridge was once part of the original road from Dundee to Arbroath. I can just imagine the slow, silent progress of the monks, perhaps with mules and wagons, as they journeyed from Balmerino to Arbroath Abbey.

The monks were part of the Cistercian Order, which undertook to live in a ‘spirit of apartness’ from all worldliness. They lived (and indeed still do) a life of contemplation, in solitude and silence.

In her book The Scottish Country Miller, Enid Gauldie explains that the ancient mills of monastic origin were carefully sited so that the lie of the land and the natural force of the water could be incorporated into the milling operation without too much human interference. This willingness to work in harmony with the natural world underpins the ethos of the Cistercians.

 

‘Monk Reading’ at Hospitalfield, Arbroath

The monks can certainly teach us about what we now term ‘mindfulness’, a bit of a buzz word these days, but a valuable tool  in the quest for a calm and creative mind. In writing workshops, there tends to be a lot of discussion about ideas, images and perspectives, but I’m keen to discover how silence and contemplation can impact on the creative process.

In his 2007 Walking and Art Residency in the Canadian Rockies, artist Andrew Stuck began to explore the connectivity between art and meditative walking. He went on to found the Museum of Walking, which facilitates poetry walks and other events in the urban landscape.

For me, the slow rhythms and steady heartbeat of the mill have done much to highlight the negative impact of our current frantic pace. Our minds have not been designed to cope with an endless bombardment of  ringtones, bleeps and social media updates.

Maybe it’s time to switch off, and tune in…