Strange tales from Scotland’s thin places with...Thomas MacCalman Morton

The second-hand shoes

I have been to the Outer Hebrides many times, travelled from Barra through North and South Uist to Harris and Lewis. I have walked, cycled, driven and ridden a motorcycle.

I have attended funerals, researched religious revivals, listened to the wonderful and unearthly Gaelic singing of the Free Kirk congregations. I have met some lovely and some very strange people, sometimes one and the same folk. But I have never yet bought a pair of second hand shoes there, despite some of the best charity or thrift shops in the world, places where generosity meets need, and where bargain galore lurk.

Shoes, my mother always told me, should be bought new, worn in and adapted to the particular design and needs of your own feet. She would murmur darkly about the risk of terrible infections from other people’s footwear. Her family on her father’s side, the MacCalmans, came from the island of Islay, nearer to Ireland than to the Outer Hebrides. There’s a great story about one of her, and my ancestors, who was accused by the local kirk session of witchcraft. But that’s for another time.

Old style Brogans CC0.10

My mother would definitely have advised against buying the shoes that were for sale in that charity shop in Stornoway, capital of Lewis and indeed the whole Western Isles. But Angus MacEachain was not her son, and indeed I am no longer sure if he is dead or alive. I met him one Sabbath lunchtime in the County Hotel, which at the time, the early 1980s, was one of the few places in Lewis where you could buy alcoholic drink on a Sunday. The strict presbyterianism of the Northern Hebrides meant that even buying basic groceries on a Sunday was difficult, if not entirely impossible.

But if you knew that the back fire door of the County Hotel was left slightly ajar, you could prise it open and slip inside, meeting a motley crew of thirsty sinners in the lounge bar. And it was there, over a couple of fine Talisker single malts from the isle of Skye, I fell into conversation with Angus.

“I like your shoes.” that was the first thing he said to me. “Allow me to buy you a drink and I’ll tell you a story about shoes.” And so he did.

I was wearing a nice pair of leather brogues I had bought in Glasgow. They were good quality, newly polished, but I had got them cheaply in a sale from a large department store that was closing.

North Uist

Photo by Chmee2 CC BY-SA 3.0

“Brogans” said Angus, who said he came originally from Harris, but had lived in Stornoway most of his life. He was about 50, but it was hard to tell exactly. He could have been any age between 40 and 80. “Brogans.That’s from the Gaelic word for shoes. I bought a pair of brogans once. The finest shoes I ever owned. And the worst.”

And the story began. Angus had been browsing, as was his habit, the charity shops of Stornoway when he came across the shoes. He thought it was either the Cancer Research shop or the Red Cross, but he wasn’t sure.

Cancer Research, as he supported that charity, was more likely. The shoes were glowing in the window as he passed. “A beautiful golden brown, uncreased, and with the punched holes of classic brogans. Originally, they were worn by gamekeepers and the holes were there so water could drain out of them. I wondered if they might fit me. So I went in and tried them on.”

It became clear that the shoes were almost unworn. Though there were just a few oddly-shaped scrapes on the leather soles. They had been hand-made, that was clear, by a maker in Edinburgh, though Angus told me that when he checked to see if they were still in business, it turned out that they had closed several years previously.

“These shoes had been made many years ago,” he said, “and hardly worn. They were of the very highest quality. The finest leather. Anyway I tried them on, and they fitted not just perfectly, but as if they’d been made for me. And strangely, as if they had been worn in as well. They fitted like the softest gloves.”

Port of Ness

Photo by Chmee2 CC BY-SA 3.0

Angus paid, he thought perhaps a pound for them. Shoes which would have cost hundreds, even in the past when they had been made.

Over the next few weeks, Angus wore the shoes almost every time he went out of doors from his little flat in Stornoway. He found walking became a pleasure in them, that he’d been right - they fitted perfectly and needed no breaking in. There were no blisters or callouses, no pain. He felt like he had feet with wings.

His walks grew longer and longer, until one dawn he found himself many miles from the town, standing on the edge of Port of Ness beach, 19 miles north of Stornoway.

“I had no recollection of how I had got there,” Angus told me. “It was morning, and as if I had awoken from a dream. It was midsummer, and I was not dangerously cold, but my clothes were dishevelled and I had no anorak or coat. The peculiar thing was that my feet were not sore, though I must have walked at least 20 miles from Stornoway to get to Ness. And when I looked at the shoes...they were as immaculate as when I had bought them. I had never even touched them with brush and polish.” Of course, he added. At the time he was drinking occasionally to excess, which could have explained things. But he felt not hungover but fresh and completely sober as he hitchhiked back into town.

There was something about the shoes that concerned Angus. They sat in his hallway, glowing and golden, just like new, until one day a friend was round visiting, and perhaps having a dram or two.

Photo by Chmee2 CC BY-SA 3.0

“His name was Peter Macdonald, known as Peter the Lorry, from his former job as a driver,” said Angus.

“As he was leaving the house, Peter saw the brogans. My, he said, those are fine, fine shoes. Och, I said, try them on and if they fit, you can have them. They don’t suit me. And the odd thing is that Peter was a small man, perhaps a size seven in the foot, unlike myself, who is a size nine. But sure enough he tried the shoes on. And they fitted perfectly.

“My, Angus, he said, I have never felt comfort like these shoes provide. Are you sure you won’t take something for them?” It’s fair to say that we had shared a few drams by this time or I may have thought more carefully. Anyway, I told him no, take them with my blessing.”

At this point Angus paused, and looked inquiringly at our empty glasses. I took the hint and bought two more double Taliskers. He added a little water to his and continued.

“Peter’s body was found by a fishing boat, dragged up in their nets, just off the Port of Ness. He hadn’t been in the water long, and no-one knew why he was there, as the currents from Stornoway wouldn’t have taken them in that direction. And here’s the thing - he was fully clothed, nothing to show he’d been drowned for very long. But he was barefoot.”

I looked at Angus. He looked at me.

“Peter had begun taking long walks, long solitary walks, just after he left me that night with the brogans. I can only assume he began wearing them all the time. I saw little of him. There were reports that he had been seen in the countryside outside of Stornoway, particularly in the Ness area, at Port of Ness, once, by the beach. And of course, it turned out that the shoes, the brogans had been donated to the charity shop in Stornoway by…”

Just then Angus was distracted by a friend who was offering to purchase what he insisted were the first pints of the Sabbath, just to wash down the drams. I had to leave, as - in contravention of the Sabbath - I had work to do.

Ness coastline

Photo by Chmee2 CC BY-SA 3.0

I never got the chance to ask for more information about Peter, or those mysterious shoes. Who had owned them, whether they’d been washed up on the beach after Peter’s death. Presuming of course, that he had been wearing them on that last fatal walk.

I had to walk to the early morning ferry the next day. As I did so I passed the lit window of the Cancer Research Shop, or it may have been the British Red Cross or perhaps Oxfam.

Sitting there was a pair of the finest, evidently hand-made brogues I have ever seen. They put my own shoes to shame. Golden brown, they shone like beacons in the half light of morning. They seemed...to beckon me.

But I had a boat to catch. And besides the shop did not open for another two hours. I walked on, my mass-produced rubber soles making hardly a sound on the Stornoway pavement. I have never been back to the Hebrides since.

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