Slainte!
Robin Kelsall
recalls the plight of those parched for a drink when Blairogie's local
pub landlord got the boot.
To many people, any village worthy of the name should, at the very least,
boast a church, a post-office-come-shop and a pub. On that basis, Blairlogie
would be in danger of forfeiting its village status, for the church closed
four years ago, the post-office-cum-shop ceased trading in the 1970s and
the pub (though not exactly in the village, but close!) probably pulled
its last pint in the 1870s.
Just inside the gate that leads into the field immediately to the east of Witches' Craig Caravan Park is an area of uneven, stony ground and a solitary ash tree. Here once stood Berryholes; a steading worked and run by Kate Gilmour, her sister Joan (or Jo, as she preferred) and their widower brother, Willie. The latter, it seemed, did not a hand's turn, but his sisters managed just fine. Jo, a sturdy soul with the measured gait of one accustomed to the land, looked after the outdoors, while Kate took care of the indoors, as well as 'doing' for some of the inhabitants of nearby Blairlogie. That's how things were when I first knew the place 60-odd years ago.
For much
of its early life, Berryholes performed a dual role — steading and
public house. Lying a couple of hundred yards south of the old road (precursor
of the replacement that would become the A91) and reached by a dead straight
lane, it had been somewhat detached from its passing trade. When the new
turnpike
sliced through the ground immediately in front of it, however, Berryholes
became a true roadside inn with a wee gusset of garden opposite —
cast adrift by this arterial intrusion.
Berryholes status as the local drinking hole is confirmed by the OS map of 1864, which shows the steading with the letters PH beside it. At some time between this and the 1898 survey, which lacks the abbreviated term, Berryholes ceased to be a public house. Exactly when this happened I don't know, but I do know why it happened.
Lord George Ralph Abercromby, fourth and last of the dynastic line to rule most of that which could be seen from the family seat of Airthrey Castle, owned Berryholes and, therefore, any problems linked to its activities. Many landowners wouldn't tolerate a pub on their estate; with a small army of gardeners, farm-workers, foresters and the like, the last thing they would want was the temptation of a conveniently sited inn. However, despite the Forbes-Mackenzie act of 1853, which led to public houses closing all day Sunday and 11pm the rest of the time, it was still possible for a man to bend the elbow 13 hours a day. (Indeed, locals probably enjoyed an even more leisurely session in rural Berryholes, with its rudimentary accommodation and opportunities for lock-ins!)
Interests of tenant and landlord were bound to clash from time to time and they certainly did on one notable occasion – the one that finally led to its closure as a public house.
When a young forester not only failed to return to his lodgings one night, but also turn up for work the next day, raised eyebrows and observations were made. As another 24 hours passed with neither sight nor sound of him, anxiety and concern rose sharply; and when he still hadn't shown up by the following day, full-scale alarm set in.
Search parties scoured the farthest corners of the estate and, most time consuming and awkward of all, Airthrey's little loch was dragged. It wasn't until the height of all this frantic activity that its cause suddenly appeared – scruffy, seedy and severely hung-over.
Clearly not
a drinker of note (had he been, Berryholes would have been investigated
sooner) the hapless chap had nevertheless fallen in with some bad company
and found himself involved in a debauch of monumental proportions, which
left him comatose and undetected, lying behind a settle in the pub's
side room. In this state of suspended animation, he'd existed for the
best part of three days. Lord Abercromby and his factor were livid and,
while I don't know if the young forester was given another chance, the
occupant of Berryholes certainly wasn't. He and his party were kicked
out, the licence revoked and the tenancy of the place as a steading only
offered to any interested party.
Kate
Gilmour's father became tenant farmer of Berryholes in 1878, and the family
connection endured until her death in 1970, aged 87. Tragically, the place
was razed two years later.
