The Caretaker’s Cottage

As an avid, if amateur student of the lesser known castles and fortified buildings of the Highlands of Scotland and sometimes the Western Isles I was delighted when I received the phone call from an old university friend of mine who had continued this pursuit of learning in this field beyond the point I had moved onto the less exciting field of agricultural marketing.

We had spent many days during our embarrassingly long holidays hiking through the clouds of midges to a decrepit old ruin where we would camp for a few days living off packet soups, cream crackers cheap chocolate and even cheaper whiskey. During the day we would map and study the buildings and at night we would discuss every possible subject two young men could wish to accompany a less than satisfactory malt. It was a part of my life that as time crept along became mythologised in my memory. David Goulding and I had stayed in touch for far longer than many of our other friends had and while our meetings were less and less frequent they were every bit as cordial and accompanied by far better food and certainly better whiskey. Life had overtaken our ability to meet for little more than a weekend drink every few months and before we knew it two decades had passed by and I was sitting at my desk trying to organise a week of appointments to distract myself from a messy divorce. The phonecall I took from my old friend David was very well timed.

“I’ve got it. You have to come with me.”

I’ll be honest I had little idea what he was talking about, it didn’t take long for him to enlighten me.

“Castle Troup, I can get into Castle Troup.”

How could I have forgotten? It was the holy grail for us, tucked in the highland wilderness in the shadows of Ben Hope the castle had been a mystery for some time. It was inhabited for far longer than was expected given how remote it was but eventually it was left and gradually fell into disrepair. At its peak it was something to behold. It’s five tall round-towers topped with beautifully designed conical roofs. The high walls of the building filled with windows looking out in every direction to see the achingly beautiful wilderness while all around looked down with envy on its immaculately whitewashed walls. It was a castle by name only, it was certainly secure but was largely protected by its remoteness. There was what some may have regarded a Bailey with some degree of curtain-wall but this was never truly tested. It’s magnificence gained it the nickname the White Hart of the Highlands and painters from the medieval period had tried to capture it and had always managed to capture its image but not its soul.

Sometime in the nineteenth century, long after the final clansmen had left and their grandchildren died, a crofter used the stone from the castle walls to build himself a home adjacent

to the keep. It was a small but lovingly built two storey cottage which had housed the crofter and his family for two generations before it was again empty.

In the 1920s an industrialist who was very late to the landowning party had decided he would renovate the castle and bought a huge are of land around it. His ambition had been great and he had employed a caretaker to oversee the renovation. By this time the best place for someone to stay was the old crofter’s cottage and for nearly four years he spent the days overseeing the renovation of the castle and the evenings turning the cottage into a home that his family joined him in once he had made it weatherproof.

The outside of the castle retained its picture-book appearance despite the neglect which had rendered the interior a place more fitting for the wildcats, pigeons and bats that had been living there than the affluent guests the new owner had plans to entertain. What had not been taken into consideration by the owner was that the remoteness which gave the building its exceptional charm, was also a major problem for the transportation of resources and the willingness of contractors to commit to any length of time working on such a difficult project.

The castle never held any of the much hoped for hunting parties, or indeed any parties as less than half of the rooms were renovated before the 1930s saw the owner’s fortunes reverse and the castle slip from his priority list. After the Second World War the estate still sat in the hands of the same family but it had almost become a forgotten part of the inheritance, indeed had it not been for the inhabitance of the caretaker’s house it may well have been forgotten altogether. By the 1960s the ownership had all but lapsed and the Ministry of Defence took the land evicting the squatters who had taken up residence in the old caretaker’s house. A strange quirk of organisation and beyond the fencing and signs put up around the estate the old boundaries were never breached. For the next five decades the anti-trespass signs kept the castle inaccessible to all but the most recalcitrant of souls and the stories about the castle grew.

David had known about the castle for as long as I had known him. We had got near but never felt confident enough to breach the rules. I had been aware and fully engaged in the pursuit but had assumed that time would have diminished the ambition, clearly it had not and I now found myself driving up the A9 on my way to meet up with my old friend at a pub on the outskirts of a village, on the outskirts of a town on what felt like the outskirts of civilisation Itself.

David had beaten me to it, as I pulled into the car park I could see two cars already In place, one a particularly appropriate Land Rover the other an old battered silver grey saloon with its exhaust barely clinging to the rest of the car. Almost inevitably he was in the warmest and most comfortable spot in the place with a half drunk pint of the local ale sat in front of him on a table covered by a map. Gregor the landlord spotted me and before I could say a word my bags had been stored, a pint pulled and I was sat by the fire studying the map. We hadn’t been sitting there long before Gregor waddled over with his own drink in hand. When he told us he was an expert on hiking the area both of our instincts told us that we should be polite, listen enthusiastically to his advice but stick to our own plans. It quickly became clear that he was an encyclopaedia of every stream, bridge and bothy and as a member of the local mountain rescue team he knew every risky shortcut to avoid. For much of the conversation he had been as frothy and full of bubbles as the local ale he poured but when the final destination of the hike was revealed his tone changed.

“You sure you want to include that place on your itinerary boys, not a place I would be heading.”

I was taken aback by the clear break in his enthusiasm, David on the other hand seemed not to be.

“Absolutely. We’ve been trying to get here for years.”

“Oh. I imagine you have, lots have people have tried, few have even got this far. But I’m telling you boys, I wouldn’t be heading there if I were you.”

At this point I decided to join the conversation and inquired if we were planning a difficult hike.

“Oh no boys. It’s a marvellous hike, I couldn’t recommend it enough. But the castle? No. Not a place I would go to. Been there once when I was a boy. Never been back. One dose of Old Donald is enough for any man.”

“Old Donald?” David jumped in.

“Aye. The caretaker. Not a fan of visitors is Old Donald.”

David and I looked at each other and asked the same question with our eyes, it was David who expressed his query first.

“I thought it was empty?”

“Aye. That it is laddie. But old Donald doesn’t stick to that. He’s still up there, waiting.

I don’t know where David’s mind had wandered to at this point. In retrospect I wonder if knew more thank he was letting on but I had been trying to do the maths my low-standard historical knowledge allowed and had estimated that at the very least the old caretaker would have to be well into his 100s by now. Again Gregor preempted the question and spoke.

“I never said he was still alive.”

“Nevertheless we are going to head out there for a couple of days and we will be back on the 12th, is it ok to leave our cars here?”

“Aye. Can I not dissuade you boys?”

David was quick to confirm that we were not going to change our plans and laughed it off despite the clear discontent from our host. He concluded that David, at the least, was determined to continue to Castle Troup regardless of his warnings.

The rest of the evening was spent partly discussing the following day’s hike but mostly catching up and drinking. We both chose to withdraw early in order that we would be bright enough to enjoy the promised “Scotland’s Best Breakfast” before we made our way into the wilds of the highlands. Before I settled into the comfortable but slightly too small single bed I checked online for references of Castle Troup and Old Donald. There was nothing suggesting there was any connection between the two, in fact there was very little about Castle Troup at all. Some old photographs, a picture of the famous old painting and a very short Wikipedia article. The only recent links were about how risky the area was and the high rate of lost hikers in the area, it didn’t seem to match with the warnings from Gregor but did make me wonder about the wisdom of the trip. Nonetheless I settled to sleep fully intending to make the journey in the morning.

Gregor was right about his breakfast. Both David and I almost rolled out of the pub having over indulged on the black and white pudding, haggis, lorne, bacon eggs and unspeakably good toast. The good weather and incredible views made the challenging hike towards the castle an easy and highly pleasurable experience, we had planned on the hike taking around five hours, in the end it was nearer four and we began seeing the top of the towers over the trees not long after midday and within the hour we were walking up the overgrown avenue that led to the ruins of the castle’s curtain wall.

As we got closer they could see how cruel the Scottish weather had been to the building as the veinlike cracked lime wash gave the greying walls the appearance of dead flesh. The caretaker’s house was hidden on the North side of the castle and it wasn’t until we were inside what would have been the bailey that the small grey stone cottage became visible.

David had been more motivated than I had and managed to find a third and fourth wind of energy that my middle aged body found very difficult to discover. Nonetheless we made it to the castle with much of the day still to go. We placed our packs on the ground, propped up against the caretaker’s house so that we could explore the castle. David’s childlike excitement was infectious and I was soon clambering around the castle seeking out the best pictures for David to take.

We spent an hour or so just walking around, looking out of windows, opening doors. We felt like epic adventurers taken straight from a 1930s movie. Surprisingly it was David who snapped out of it first and his professionalism kicked in.

“I’ll do the measurements and sketches tomorrow but I reckon we should set up camp first. I reckon we might be alright in the caretaker’s house, the roof looks sound.”

He was right, it was more than fine. There were two rooms downstairs and two upstairs. The roof was watertight and while very dusty and signs of mould it was perfectly habitable for the duration of our stay. We chose to sleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms, we were restricted to that one by virtue of the other being locked and so we built a fire in the large living area downstairs and stored our mats and sleeping bags upstairs. As the sun fell behind the castle we sat on the doorstep of the cottage before retreating into the building, shutting the doors and pouring a glass of whiskey each. As we sat reminiscing about past expeditions I noticed David’s expression change. He carefully put his fingers to his lips and cocked his head. I didn’t need any further explanation and began listening too. I could hear it. Right above us I could hear footsteps.

“What’s that?” David asked me.

I thought for a moment.

“It’s the locked room.” I replied.

“Let’s go.” He replied.

We picked up our torches and climbed the stairs the footsteps continuing as we walked. For some reason, I’m not sure either of us really knew why, we stood with our torches pointed, looking at the closed door for a few moments just listening before David reached out and tried the handle. It was still locked. He stepped back and we returned to just looking.

“Hello?”

I couldn’t resist, I needed to break the unease in the dusty atmosphere.

There was no reply.

David bent over and put his eye to the keyhole under the handle. Quickly he stood back up and turned around.

“The key’s in the other side. Hang on.”

Without any further explanation he hurried downstairs and after some clattering which I quickly realised was him emptying his bag he rattled back up the stairs and kneeled down beside the door again. He had our map in his hand along with an old metal tent peg. He slid the map under the door and then carefully pushed the peg in the keyhole. There was a dull thunk and David turned towards me with a satisfied grin. Before he turned his attention to the map he turned back and looked through the now clear keyhole, as he did I could hear him take a sharp and clearly alarmed intake of breath.

“Hello?” He shouted, his voice wobbling. “Hello?”

He stood up and looked at me.

“There’s someone in there.”

I remember looking at him dumbfounded for what was probably only a fraction of a second but it seemed far longer as my surprise and I suspect, fear began to kick in.

“Look.” He said.

Slowly I kneeled down myself and put my eye to the hole. He was right. The room was largely dark but illuminated in the corner by a candle on a small occasional table which was positioned next to a bed upon which was the darkened figure of a man sitting on the edge of the bed hunched over with his head in his hands.

“Hello?” I shouted to no reply.

David looked at me and extended his hand towards the door. With a clunk the heavy metal lock opened and the door slowly creaked open revealing a dark and empty room, no table, no bed, no light and no person. We looked at each other, slammed the door, locked it and sprinted downstairs.

We sat for a while in silence knowing we did not wish to imagine what we both knew we saw but realising that at this late hour we had little option but to stay there. Thankfully it was not long before the fresh air, hiking and whisky took its toll and I drifted off into a haunted sleep. When I woke the following morning David was nowhere to be seen. His sleeping bag was still there and I assumed that he had risen early to clear his head from the previous night with fresh air and exploring the castle. After I had made myself a mug of coffee I headed out myself and began a circuit of the castle. It did not take me long but I was thorough and not quiet in my calling out but David was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had decided to follow the past path the castle to see if he could identify and connected buildings so I climbed to the top tower and looked out across the empty countryside. David was nowhere to be seen. I stayed in the tower looking out of the window longer than perhaps I needed to but eventually I returned to the cottage. I poured myself a calming tot of whisky into my metal mug, it was then I noticed that his boots were still there.

Confused and increasingly worried for my friend’s safety I shouted again.

“David?”

From above I heard movement and in an instant I flew upstairs and hurriedly unlocked the door to the closed up room.

Nothing.

I shut the door again. The moment the latch clicked the sounds began from inside. I stopped and drew a deep breath. Crouching down I pulled out the key and peered through the hole.

The room was like the night before, candlelit with a figure on the bed, head in its hands but this time there was a second figure, motionless sprawled on the floor. It was David. I threw the door open again and the scene was gone. I slammed the door, locked it and stopping briefly to collect my belongings fled.

They never found David, or the key to that door.