from left to right:

Mary Moore (wife of William (Willie) Bell Hume),  on her knee Janice Hume (daughter of Willie), Ernest (Ernie) Hume (son of Willie), Willie,  behind Willie's left shoulder  Madge Hume (daughter of James Hume), on Willie's knee  Margaret Hume (daughter of James), James,  behind James, John Hume (son of James), Madge Martin ( wife of James),  Eric McMahon (son of Esther Hume)

  


A TALE OF CARBETH  by Ernest Hume

It has been sixty years since I explored the land around Carbeth. And what a wonderful place that was,  a Scottish Shang-ri-la, a paradise, certainly for children such as us. 

Nearby was a burn from which (Willie) my father engineered a swimming pool. Across the way was a hill full of ferns and hoards of rabbits, which vanished as soon as I approached to catch one. And not too far away lived two small horses one brown, called Donald, said to be virtually blinded by working in the mines and another sharper smaller white horse called Sheila, his constant companion. We developed a victory garden in front of the house and grew tomatoes in a homemade hothouse. All summer we waited in vain for tomatoes to appear. Then one day we were all called in to witness a miracle. Suddenly there were ripe red tomatoes everywhere. Only later did I learn my father had bought them and tied them on to the plants. 

We, Madge, John, Margaret, Edith(?), Eric, Janice and I, all full-blooded cousins, were there, as I understood it, to escape any harm from the war they called the Second World War. But I thought little of the war then, even when pom-pom guns were mounted on a nearby hill and military convoys frequently passed by our hut, which was close to the road. My seven-year-old mind was more concerned with the possibility of wolves in the hills and the lost treasures to be discovered, and we made expeditions along the burn and up into the rocky hills. My companion and leader was my older cousin John Hume, son of James. Together, we made bold excursions into the unknown, armed with sticks and carrying a goodly supply of HP sauce sandwiches. 

We were very close, literally and figuratively, for we all lived in one small hut, half of which was for sleeping (it had a double row of bunk beds). The other half was our kitchen/living room, where we ate such delicacies as rabbit and nettle soup. There was no electricity and our water came from collected rain and a nearby spring. At night, tucked into our bunks in total darkness, my father would tell us ghost stories, our favorites being about vampires.

We all loved it when Aunty Esther came to visit. With characteristic flair, she would drive up in an automobile, slow down, so all us kids could jump on the running board and get a good hold, and then she would slowly cruise to our little country hut amidst our enthusiastic screams. Also once Uncle James came to visit and although on leave, proudly wore his military uniform. 

Those of us over five, went for a time to a school near Carbeth. I recall being proud of the "stars" I received for good work and walking home joyfully singing songs such as "I"ve Got Six-Pence," though I never had a penny and I think I broke a thousand "Nine Green Bottles."

For reasons I do not know, our months long stay in Carbeth suddenly ended, and I was transported, for a fifth time, to yet another world, the relatively urbane world of Drumchapel, then no more than a village. But that's another story.

E.H.


Madge, Ernie, Janice, Eric, Margaret and John

Where is Edith?