Tim's Tales - The lonely graves of Gilchriston

The busy A68 runs just beyond the county boundary to the west, but those speeding by are given no glimpse of this tranquil corner of our county.

Its ancient farmland, nestling under the shadow of the Lammermuirs, has been tilled by generations of farmers, and while the enclosure of the land more than 200 years ago has created dykes and hedges, the pattern of older settlements still survives.

Last week I set off with some of my family to this area to find a place with a remarkable tale. I was heading for the Lonely Grave of Gilchriston.

When we arrived it was overcast with drizzle, but the dreich weather seemed to add atmosphere to the location. There it was, the lonely grave, lying in a small valley and surrounded by old iron railings, watched over by trees, at least one of which was probably a witness to the burial here of William Skirvin in 1645. According to a traditional tale, William Skirvin was the tenant farmer of Gilchriston in the early 17th century. He was well-respected and liked, and was known locally as the Gudeman of Gilchriston. He lived here with his wife and daughter, plus two serving women and a ploughman.

The gravestone marks William’s resting place. The inscription is almost unreadable now, but it says: ‘Heir Lyes William Skirvin, Who Desicit the 24 of Ivinne, 1645.’ Next to William’s grave is that of Katrin Wilson, very likely his beloved wife.

The graves lie close to the Birns water, where trees still hang over the river. When we arrived last week, spring had not yet touched this hidden dell. It was such a melancholy atmosphere, but that was appropriate. My partner Kate stood for a moment with my four-year-old by the graves as I took photos with our baby strapped to me.

“This is such a powerful place once you know the story,” said Kate. And she was right.

William Skirvin’s daughter was called Ellen. She was an only child by the time she had reached adolescence, and was deeply loved. By the summer of 1645 she had blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

One evening, she set off ‘doon the burn’ as the trees were casting long shadows at the end of the day. But before she returned the weather changed dramatically and she found herself caught in a ferocious thunderstorm, with lightning searing the sky.

Although her home was not far away, she was not clothed for such weather and so she sought shelter in a woodman’s hut. The rain was pelting down, and then suddenly a streak of lightning split a tree standing nearby.

Then a young man appeared at the door. He had also been caught in the storm and was likewise seeking shelter. Needless to say, he was a bit taken aback by the sight of a pretty young woman sitting in this hut in the middle of the wood.

He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to alarm her. There was an awkward moment and then the young man spoke: “Please forgie me, I mean no tae intrude, but the weather ootside is the Deil’s ain.” Ellen smiled and reassured him he was welcome, so he entered the hut and sat a respectable distance away.

The storm lasted for another 10 bone-crunchingly awkward minutes. Two young people in a hut together in a wood! What scandal if they were found!

The young man did his best to remain formal and polite, but he could not take his eyes off her. He found her extremely attractive, and her shyness and apparent innocence just increased his interest.

And so to break an awkward silence in their conversation, he offered to accompany her home.

She smiled but politely declined: “Your goodness, Sire, deserves my respect, but there is nae need tae put yersel tae ony trouble, as I can wait here till the storm is abated. I am the daughter o’ William Skirvin o’ Gilchriston, and ma hame is but a few minutes walk.” A broad grin decorated the young man’s face. “I am delighted tae hear that ye are the daughter o’ my father’s respected tenant!” he said. He introduced himself. He was Henry, son of the laird, the local landowner.

Then the storm broke, the rain stopped and Henry saw his opportunity.

“I will do masel the pleasure o’ paying a visit tae Mr Skirvin as the companion o’ his bonny daughter, who I have met sae unexpectedly!” Ellen could hardly refuse, and so they emerged from the hut and took the short walk to the farmstead at Gilchriston.

When they arrived, they were greeted by Ellen’s mother. When she first saw her daughter walking up the slope in the company of a young man she was shocked. But as soon as the young man introduced himself and she realised he was a nobleman’s son, her demeanour changed. Henry was invited into the house, where William personally thanked him.

But then the storm returned. Rain came down in buckets and so Henry was invited to stay and eat.

The serving girls prepared the meal, and just before the meal was ready the ploughman arrived. His name was Andrew Harrowlea, a young man the same age as Henry. Normally the serving girls and Andrew would eat with the Skirvin family but today they had a distinguished guest, so William asked the servants to eat at the back of the house on this occasion.

Ellen arrived, having changed her droukit clothes. Her mother couldn’t but notice the expression on Henry’s face as Ellen sat opposite the smitten young man.

Ellen’s mother could hardly stop speaking. “Little did I think whan oor bairn gaed doon the burn i’ the gloaming tae gaither slaes, or look fir cushie doo’s nests i’ the wood, that she was tae sune hame wi sic a...” she was just about to say “braw wooer”, but a raised eyebrow from Ellen quickly made her realise she was being presumptuous, and so she changed words and said “..er, wi sic a guest as you, maister Henry”.

It was agony for Henry. He couldn’t read Ellen’s feelings. He nodded politely as her mother blethered away, but Ellen herself said almost nothing. But every now and then she looked at him from across the table, and graced the looks with a faintly discernible smile. They sent shockwaves of desire through his body, but was he misreading her interest?

By the meal’s end the storm had vanished and a cool and calm night hung outside. William offered to accompany Henry to the gate, and so the young man made his polite farewell. Andrew the ploughman accompanied them. Henry thanked William for his kind hospitality and made his way home.

Andrew and William looked at each other; they both knew fine well what Henry’s intentions were, but neither said anything.

That night Ellen could barely sleep. She had butterflies in her stomach and an irremovable smile on her face. The next day she found herself walking once again by the riverside. She was heading for the woodman’s hut. She wasn’t sure why, but as she approached the hut waves of anticipation overtook her. Nothing had been arranged, but somehow she hoped she might find Henry there.

And he was! They both knew why they had returned, but for Ellen this was unknown emotional ground, and she wasn’t sure how to act. But Henry did. He kissed her and so began Ellen’s first love affair.

They would meet secretly by their trysting tree in a lonely corner of the dell. It was a passionate and deeply felt love affair, as all first loves are.

But this was 1645, a time of great turmoil. Civil war was raging in the country, with supporters and opponents of King Charles I tearing the country apart. The royalist forces of Montrose were now in the Lowlands, and Henry was called to join his father’s regiment to fight against Montrose.

And so on an August day, after they had met at the trysting tree, Henry broke the news to Ellen.

“I maun gang wi ma faither and gain glory in battle,” said Henry excitedly, “but on ma return I will ask yer faither fir yer haund!” Ellen’s response was not what he expected. She fell to her knees and said: “There is nae longer happiness fir me oan this earth, for I ken in ma heart that thou will fall in battle and be lost tae me forever.” “Naw bonny lass, I will return a hero!” said Henry. They said their farewells but as she watched him leave she was overtaken by anxiety.

Three days later Ellen received the news that Henry had been killed at the Battle of Kilsyth. The news was brought by a returning soldier, who also brought something else. The disruption and deprivations caused by the Civil War, combined with the movement of people across the country, had helped spread the plague. The folk of Edinburgh were dying like flies in the worst outbreak of the disease it was ever to suffer. But until now the plague had not visited this quiet corner of East Lothian.

Ellen was the first to succumb. The rest of the parish was as yet plague free, so William could not venture beyond Gilchriston to bury his daughter, and no one would come near them, not even the minister.

And so William, with the help of Andrew, prepared a grave for his beloved Ellen close to the river where she used to go walking. Both men wept as William read from the Bible. William’s wife lay in the house dying also, as well as the two female servants. All three were likewise soon afterwards buried by William and Andrew.

Then William got sick. His ploughman helped him prepare his own grave and the next day the faithful Andrew laid his master to rest next to his family.

And so last week, I stood with some of my family by these lonely graves. The river still runs nearby and trees still grace this lovely wee valley. And I thought to myself that although this is a tale with an apparrently sad ending, it’s maybe not so sad after all.

They were happy in life, and instead of lying unnoticed in an old graveyard, William and his family rest together in the land they once tilled, and amongst the trees that Ellen in life found happiness. Few plague victims had such a personal and special place to rest.

And there is a wee twist: the ploughman Andrew Harrowlea loved Ellen also. It is from him we get the story. He watched silently, no doubt in some emotional pain, as the woman he loved fell for another. He watched to keep her safe, and when he laid her to rest he was as distraught as William her father was.

It is said he later erected the stones, which likely had other inscriptions now too worn to identify. It is said also that a later descendant of the Skirvins erected the iron fence around the graves to keep them safe.

This tale was first recorded in writing by a George Tait in 1838. He was described as “a well-known literary man in Haddington” who had a keen interest in local history. He heard the story from someone who told him it had been handed down from earlier generations.

To be sure, other tales have also been told about this quiet spot. If trees could speak then we would know for sure the origin of these lonely graves. But I for one am happy to accept the traditional story. It connects this tranquil corner of East Lothian to the major events of the time, and to the lives of people who lived here.

And as my partner said, it’s the story that adds the powerful atmosphere to this place.