Aberdeen E-Book

Ian R Mitchell

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Ian R Mitchell recognises his hometown is an often underloved place, but in Aberdeen: Beyond the Granite he sets out an overwhelming case as to why this sentiment is thoroughly undeserved. An Aberdonian born and bred, Mitchell has lived in Glasgow for almost four decades. Returning to his roots, he delves into Aberdeen's rich and often unseen history and culture from an exile's perspective, revealing a proudly unique city, home to the world's oldest surviving company, the UK's oldest newspaper, and perhaps Britain's oldest Italian restaurant!

Leseprobe

IAN R MITCHELL was born in Aberdeen, spending his first 25 years in Torry and Kincorth. He graduated in History from Aberdeen University in 1973, following a couple of years working as a paper mill labourer and engineering machinist, and subsequently moved to Glasgow. Ian taught History at Clydebank College for over twenty years and whilst there wrote a standard textbook on Bismarck and the Development of Germany. He has written several books on mountaineering including the classic Mountain Days & Bothy Nights (1987), and A View from the Ridge (1991) (both co-authored with Dave Brown), the latter of which won the Boardman-Tasker Prize for Mountain Literature. More recently he has developed an interest in urban heritage and walking, and the recent fruits of this were This City Now: Glasgow and its Working Class Past (2005) and Clydeside: Red, Orange and Green (2009).

Other books by Ian R Mitchell

Non-Fiction

Mountain Days & Bothy Nights (1987) with Dave Brown

A View from the Ridge (1991, re-issued 2007) also with Dave Brown

Scotland’s Mountains before the Mountaineers (1998)

On the Trail of Queen Victoria in the Highlands (2001)

Walking through Scotland’s History (2000, re-issued 2007)

This City Now: Glasgow and its Working Class Past (2005)

Clydeside: Red, Orange and Green (2009)

Fiction

Mountain Outlaw: Ewan MacPhee (2003)

Winter in Berlin, or The Mitropa Smile (2009)

First published 2010

Reprinted 2011

eISBN: 978-1-913025-75-5

The paper used in this book is recyclable. It is made from low chlorine pulps produced in a low energy, low emissions manner from renewable forests.

Printed and bound by

Bell & Bain Ltd., Glasgow

Typeset in 11 point Sabon

by 3btype.com

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

© Ian R Mitchell 2010

Contents

Foreword John Aberdein

Acknowledgements

Maps

IntroductionAberdeen 1800–2000

PLACES

CHAPTER ONE Hairbouring Regrets?

CHAPTER TWO Owir the Watter

CHAPTER THREE Fit Wye tae Fittie?

CHAPTER FOUR The Grunnit Hairt of the Granite City

CHAPTER FIVE Haudagain tae Kittybrewster

CHAPTER SIX Roon Aboot Rosemount

CHAPTER SEVEN Kincorth: Nithing bit Hooses?

PEOPLE

CHAPTER EIGHT Willie Thom: The Weaver Bard of Bon Accord

CHAPTER NINEProletarian Pilgrimage: A Forgotten Classic

CHAPTER TEN The Other Name on the Everest Memorial: Alexander Kellas, Himalayan Pioneer

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Names on the Slugain Howff Memorial: The Dreamers of Beinn a’ Bhuird

Foreword

I LIKE THIS BOOK. There is something fine and staunch about it. At such a pivotal point in the North East’s destiny, besieged as it is by schemes for yet mair malls and Ready-Mix plazas, not to mention pitch ‘n’ putt complexes straight out of Kubla Khan, Ian Mitchell takes a warm, provocative, dander through the core of the city, the beating heart of its working class ancestry, and the spirit of its pioneers. If there is a thesis in this set of essays, it is that the city and its hinterland have a lot to draw strength from, much to grip fast to – and that the glaikit, greed-driven, Gadarene scramble of recent years has to be brought under control.

In many ways, I suppose, Ian Mitchell’s call in this volume parallels the apocalyptic vision of my tragi-comic Strip the Willow (2009), an Aberdeen/Uberdeen novel which dramatises the descent of a moneyed tycoon on a bankrupt city, and the muckle havoc thereby wreaked. Drafted as prophecy a couple of years back, Strip the Willow seems to become eerily truer by the day.

So it’s no surprise that I find so much that is sympathetic in Ian Mitchell. He is wide-ranging, sharp, knowledgeable and downright funny. For example, he goes on a visit to stark East Germany before the Berlin Wall comes down only to discover, ‘The GDR was like being back in Kincorth a quarter of a century before.’ Of course even that turns out to be relative, for as an actual inhabitant of Kincorth in that era, he recalls how coming down to the Constitution Street area in the 1960s was ‘like entering bandit territory.’ That was my area, thanks Ian! Or he’ll swing with ease through history and recount how ‘exiled revolutionaries, such as the aged anarchist thinker Kropotkin, who were returning to Russia, departed from Aberdeen, and representatives of the new Bolshevik government on occasion used the city as their entry point to Britain.’ Big references thus jostle with the small change of nostalgia.

Walk with him through history, walk with him through the solid working districts of Torry, Fittie and Woodside. The rusty trawlers, the tight communities, the underpaying mills. But not tight in that sense. He makes the interesting point, and I agree with him, that the alleged meanness of Aberdonians was largely the desire to survive decently, to manage, to keep one’s head up, in tough times, on extremely limited means. Walk with him, therefore, as he mixes social anger and antiquarian delight, pride and scunneration.

‘It is dangerous to make categorical statements, but here is one,’ says Ian Mitchell. ‘There has been scarcely a single building of architectural merit or originality put up in this city for many decades; oil money has disfigured, not transfigured, Aberdeen.’

But he praises the Castlegate, with its ‘hinge’ at Archibald Simpson’s, and he praises the preservation of the gilt Parthenon frieze in its converted pub. He calls for a new breed of statues to be commissioned, to dot and dignify the town: and it is clear what characters he’d be glad to see chiselled and celebrated: the likes of the weaver-bard, Willie Thom, a proletarian memoirist like John Paton, who dedicated his work to Lewis Grassic Gibbon, and outstanding mountaineers like Alexander Kellas and Tom Patey.

For indeed one of the most resonant themes in Ian Mitchell’s philosophy is that Aberdeen’s hinterland goes significantly beyond the weel-kent farmlands of Buchan, Donside, Deeside and the Mearns. The Cairngorms form a massive background, an abiding source of challenge and comradeship, where – transcending economic trammels – new routes can aye be forged.

New routes – or the joys of recognition – however minded, you can take your fill here.

John Aberdein

Acknowledgements

TWO PEOPLE WERE INADVERTENTLY at least partially responsible for this book. Paul Dukes lamented that there was no book like my Glasgow work, This City Now, on Aberdeen, and Lorna Dey suggested it was time I ‘re-connected with the whole North East experience’. Fowk should mebbi be mair canny fit they say.

Mike Dey’s forensic examination of the draft manuscript removed a number of inaccuracies and misjudgements, but none of us are perfect, so any such that remain overlooked are entirely my responsibility. Mike also gave me a wee shoudie in the direction of a less detached approach to my task, which led me towards an almost cathartic re-engagement with Aberdeen that I had not anticipated when I began to write. Ashie Brebner and Chesty Bruce provided comments on the chapter on Slugain Howff and Beinn a’ Bhuird and also on chapters three and four, relating to where they grew up in Grunnit Hairt and Fittie.

All visual material reproduced in this book is from public domain sources unless otherwise stated. Most of the textual material in this book consists of the re-working and further development of material which I have already had published elsewhere, viz. History Scotland, Scots Magazine and the Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal. But just in case readers think it’s aa cauld kale hettit up, the chapters on the Harbour and Kincorth are completely new.

Introduction

Aberdeen 1800–2000

THE INHABITANTS OF ABERDEEN have a patriotism that few similar-sized cities can match; most of its indwellers would probably agree that ‘the toun and twal mile roun’, to borrow a local phrase, is as near to heaven as it gets on this earth. Non-academic writing in the form of local history about the city tends to reflect this and generally displays the quiet self-satisfaction of the ‘Wha’s (or Fa’s) like us?’ genre. By and large Aberdonians are happy to see themselves as they see themselves, not ‘as ithers see them’.1 To outsiders in contrast Aberdeen is often an underloved city. Modern travel writers like Theroux and Bryson, those celebrity one-stop-shopping modern explorers, have savaged the place and its people based on a totally inadequate acquaintance. But even the nearby-born and temporary resident of Aberdeen Lewis Grassic Gibbon gave a not wholly flattering picture of the Granite City in the book Scottish Scene, which he co-authored with Hugh MacDiarmid in the 1930s.

Though he described Aberdeen as ‘exasperatingly lovable’ (a statement I would agree with) and talked of the ‘glowing wonder’ of its granite buildings, ‘shining with fine flame, cold and amber and gold’, Gibbon also wrote:

Bleakness, not meanness or jollity is the keynote to the Aberdeen character... Aberdeen is the cleanest city in Britain: it makes you long for good, wholesome dirt... Union Street has as much warmth in its face as a dowager duchess asked to contribute to the Red International relief... [Gibbon further describes] the thin Aberdonian voice in the thin local patois... the flinty cliffs of Union Street, the flinty cheeks and disharmonic faces that press about you in an Aberdeen tram.

Outsiders often experience Aberdeen as close and clannish and find it difficult to integrate. Many non-natives also feel the climate, like the people, is cold, and they do not respond to the steely granite architecture, sparkling and lovely in sunshine, but dreary in the rain. Few of the oil boom immigrants of the last 30 years have settled in the city, either moving out to the countryside into middle class Sowetos like Westhill or moving on when their employment ended. (Indeed, in the ’80s and ’90s two-thirds of those working in oil were not permanent residents of the North East, but commuters or transient workers.) But for those who accept Aberdeen for what it is – variously described as the largest village in the world or more favourably as the most perfect provincial city in the UK – it is a hugely intriguing place with a unique character, as unique as the granite from which it has been built. And it is where I was born.

It was TS Eliot (whom I am certain never visited Aberdeen) who commented that all our travelling is to arrive back at the place from which we started and to know it for the first time. He may have been talking metaphorically about life as a journey, but his statement is also true of physical places. Bred in Aberdeen, I left the town in my mid-20s and have been away from it for many more years than I spent there. I can certainly echo Eliot’s words and I feel that repeated visits – often several times a year in the last four decades or so – with the benefit of an outsider’s perspective have made me begin to understand things I only partially glimpsed about the place before. A recent book about Aberdeen has added enormously to this understanding, and while reading it my brain echoed to the sound of penny after penny dropping. Things I took as given now became explained and connected, and things unsuspected were revealed. This book, Aberdeen 1800–2000: A New History (edited by WH Fraser and Clive H Lee, published by Tuckwell Press), should be a starting point for all who want to understand the city. Here follow a few thoughts stimulated by the volume (based on the extensive re-working of a review of the work I wrote when it first appeared in 2000), which as a result of its impressive collective research will surely be the standard account of the history of Aberdeen for decades to come.

I grew up in the Aberdeen of the 1950s and ’60s. My impression of the town was that it was a pretty prosperous place and that elsewhere folk lived in much worse conditions, impressions confirmed by occasional visits to Dundee and Glasgow. The memory of the blackness of the latter city when I first visited in 1959 to see the Dons lose 3–1 to St Mirren in the Scottish Cup Final will never leave me. In fact Aberdeen was then one of the poorest cities or large towns in Scotland – even the UK – and with the largest percentage exodus (nearly 10 per cent of the population, 15,000 people, from 1950–70) from any major city. Coupled with a lack of immigration this meant the population was falling at that period. It was also, according to the census of 1951, the town in Scotland with the least number of skilled workers and the highest amount in social class four (semi-skilled) and five (unskilled), and as a result of this and other factors wages were lower than elsewhere.

What I saw as prosperity was in some measure a parsimony and respectability amongst the population, especially the working class, which kept up appearances far better than in other Scottish urban areas where workers with more money, but a different ethos and cultural patterns, were more liable to sink into poverty-generating forms of behaviour. Poverty in Aberdeen was self-managed to a degree almost unknown elsewhere: the city had the largest number of members of the Co-operative Society (50 per cent of adults) anywhere in Scotland and the largest proportion with small savings bank deposits (35 per cent). In this context the renowned Aberdeen thrift comes to be seen as a poverty management strategy. Allied to this, the Aberdonian poor were less likely to call on public and private sources of social welfare than those in other towns.

Oil (the first was landed about a year or so after I left Aberdeen in 1973) has changed our perception of the city so much that it is worth reminding ourselves that the place was never previously a boom town like Glasgow, Paisley or Dundee. Although the city had a large and varied industrial base, apart from the textile industry, organised in huge mills, which looked to make Aberdeen the Bradford of the North until its collapse in 1848–50, Aberdonian industry was small- to medium-scale. The biggest works like the shipyard and the paper and surviving textile mills employed around 1,000–2,000 workers, with most factories having far fewer. The two biggest granite works each employed 100 men and in 1950 two-thirds of trawling companies owned only one boat.2 Lower concentrations of workers meant lower levels of unionisation (in the 1920s almost 40 per cent of Dundee workers were unionised, compared with just over a quarter in Aberdeen) – and generally lower wages. And the post-1945 mass production industries (NCR (National Cash Registers) employed 6,500, Timex etc) which transformed the economy of Dundee and other Scottish towns never came to Aberdeen, as the city was too far from the markets. The lack of such light consumer industries also limited female (especially married female) participation in the labour force to the lowest of any major Scottish town or city. Living on the Kincorth council estate in the 1960s, I knew no-one in the streets around whose mother worked, apart from the one single mother. I now know why. Partly it was ‘respectability’ – and partly it was simple lack of opportunity.

Today in Aberdeen, oil boom wages are higher and unemployment lower than the Scottish average; but for those outside the inflated oil industry, higher prices across the board combine with wages still lower than the national average in the non-oil sector. This produces a situation where Aberdeen is possibly the most wealth-polarised city in the country. Respectability and parsimony had previously kept Aberdeen’s underclass small, but this is no longer the case. The city does not suffer from urban deprivation and social breakdown on the scale of some areas in Glasgow, but Aberdeen’s poor are no longer as good at keeping up appearances as they were, nor is the poverty so confined to specific smallish enclaves as formerly. Because of this, family breakdown, drug and alcohol addiction and crime have spread from former ghettoes to working class areas I remember as eminently respectable (I deal with a couple of these in later chapters). For example, illegitimacy was always much higher in the North East than elsewhere in Scotland (both my grandfathers were illegitimate). Social pressures had reduced this to about 5 per cent in the 1950s; by 1993 34 per cent of all births in the city were to unmarried mothers.

This economic situation, with the city being dominated by small-to medium- scale industry after the 1950s, affected the bourgeoisie as well. The Aberdonian capitalist was poor relative to those elsewhere. From 1876–1913, of the 370 greatest fortunes in Scotland only three were from Aberdeen, compared with 16 from comparable-sized Dundee and 13 from Paisley, the latter town with half the population of Aberdeen. (The three Aberdonians were Duncan Vernon Pirie, a paper maker, John Crombie, a textile capitalist, and John Fyfe, a granite master.) As a consequence few of the industrial figures accumulated the financial wherewithal to make any great inroads nationally in business. And the expand-or-die logic of capitalism gradually meant that, unable to expand outwards, Aberdeen’s industry became absorbed into larger national and multi-national concerns. The take-over of Ogston’s soap works by Tennant’s of Glasgow is a good example. Local capitalists also tended not to go in for more than parochial politics; they were essentially local heroes. Pirie, for example, the owner of Stoneywood paper mill, became MP for Aberdeen North, but made no impact on national politics. The local bourgeoisie went to the Grammar School or (increasingly in the 20th century) Robert Gordon’s College, then to Aberdeen University, before taking up work in the family firm and living a life circumscribed by the city’s physical and mental boundaries.

People who made a national impact from an Aberdeen base tended to be outsiders: Boyd Orr or Dugald Baird in science, James Bryce and Wedgwood Benn in politics. Locals who achieved a wider impact did so by leaving the city, such as Thomas Glover, a key player in Japan’s industrialisation, and Alexander Stephen, who became one of the Clyde’s great shipbuilders, his Linthouse yard producing ten times the annual output of the entire Aberdeen shipbuilding industry. The elite of Aberdeen appear to have been quite content to be ‘big puddocks in a wee puddle’. Since the discovery of oil, Aberdeen has produced a couple of entrepreneurs who, unlike their predecessors, can take their place amongst captains of industry of national and international importance. But Ian Wood, directly involved in the oil industry, and Stuart Milne, whose millions were made off the resulting housing boom are exceptions; almost all of the oil industry is foreign-owned.

The relative poverty of the local bourgeoisie affected life in the city. Although there are obvious exceptions, such as the donation of the Duthie Park to the city in 1883 by Elizabeth Duthie of Ruthrieston, the relict of a local boat-building dynasty, there was limited civic philanthropy. Compare not just Glasgow, but Paisley with its Coats’ and Clarks’ massive charitable endowments. Although local capitalists might get a society painter to do themselves or the wife in oils, there was little widespread patronage of the arts either. As well as producing no political figures of distinction, after the later 19th century Aberdeen produced no architect of note in the 20th century (those who cite Scott Sutherland prove the point)3, no painters (James McBey the etcher talks in his Early Life of the philistinism of Aberdeen and of having to leave the city to get work), and no writers of other than local distinction. Geography made the city a provincial one; its economic development reinforced this isolation, rather than overcoming it. There was thus an element of philistinism about life in Aberdeen, reflected in the fact it was the last Scottish city to have an art gallery (in the 1880s). But there were notable and laudable exceptions. The core of the initial gallery’s collection was donated by local granite capitalist Alexander MacDonald, and because of his policy of leaving a legacy restricted to the purchase of works less than 25 years old, the gallery acquired an enviable modern collection. From this basis the gallery has today become possibly the best in the UK outside of the major cities. But MacDonald was an exceptional case in Aberdeen.

Aberdeen had an active musical society round about 1800, but music-making in the city declined afterwards. In an attempt to have somewhere that leading performers could come to, the Music Hall was opened in 1859, but it specialised more in minstrelsy, pantomime and other light entertainments than classical music. Her Majesty’s Theatre opened in the 1870s (and later became the Tivoli), but was an early music hall rather than a performing drama location, and even the later His Majesty’s Theatre specialised in much the same kind of middle-brow variety repertoire. Aberdeen never developed a repertory company, unlike Dundee or even Perth. The most popular play in Aberdeen throughout the 19th century was the penny-dreadful melodrama, Rob Roy.

Keeping the Music Hall and His Majesty’s going has been a constant battle in the 20th and 21st centuries. A city which produced the artist Jamieson (the Scottish Van Dyck) in the 17th century, James Gibb, the architect of St Martin’s in the Fields in London and Thomas Reid, the great Enlightenment philosopher, in the 18th, and the great architects Archibald Simpson, John Smith and the painters William Dyce and James Giles in the mid-19th century has not added a great deal to this tally since 1850. No-one in the 20th century could accuse what remained of the local Aberdeen bourgeoisie of being high brow in their cultural tastes. When the bibliophile builder John Morgan died in 1907, a curious fact was brought to the attention of his fellow citizens, that, ‘Not only did he possess books, he also read them.’

I now understand my disappointment when, as a foundling (or as they were called by then, a foundation boy), I went to Robert Gordon’s College in 1960, at which time it was the only boy’s fee-paying school in the city and the place where the local elite was educated. I had foreseen myself mingling with intellectuals, expecting them to ‘come and go, talking about Michelangelo’. Instead, if they had cultural standards at all, these were – I was to discover – those of their parents, the Scouts’ Gang Show and maybe Gilbert and Sullivan; that was about it. The only intellectuals in the place were some of the half-dozen bursary boys, reading their Jean-Paul Sartre and Camus and trying to see Torry as the Rive Gauche.

God Builds the Bourgeois House

The book mark of John Morgan, master builder and bibliophile, shows his fine house in Rubislaw. Note that there is a misprint on the Ex Libris, which has been hand-corrected. Was Morgan too mean to have another (corrected) set printed?