OLD MAN DUNSHEA Hamish Napier, 4th August 2020


Two lads on their bikes
Me and Sam
My friend from up the road
We own this bit -
We are this bit!
Freewheeling between
The long line of landrovers
Parked all along the verges
By the Old Spey Bridge.

Dozens of fishermen here again today.
Stationed along the river
All waders and wellies,
Hats and hand-tied flies,
Rubber and rods.
Every so often
You catch the buzzing quack,
Of a reel winding in.
And great swishes
As they Spey cast this way and that.
Rolling out the red line
Across the surface tension
Of the relentless river.

Perched on our push bikes 

Up at McLeod’s corner
The summer evening birdsong
Gives way to a distant drilling drone
A motorbike -
We look to the road end.
Where emerges
the unmistakable silhouette
Of Old Man Dunshea
On his scooter.
A red and white vintage Vespa
The engine: a tamed chain saw
With rattling sputters
His open-face helmet
Encloses a kindly moustache.
Then, his signature thumbs-up.
We return it eagerly.



He is forever clad
in green rubber and Barbour
Save for a bulky life jacket
And fingerless gloves
.

Jutting out behind him
Is the last few feet of his spinning rod
With a bright ribbon
Dancing at the end.
A silvered minnow catches the setting sun. 

A pensioner with reels on wheels.

By the end of the summer
We are promoted to a wink.
And maybe Speybridge is his bit too.

In September my mother mentions
“Oh, so sad –
Old Man Dunshea died the other day.”
A heart attack they say,
While fishing.”

What...no!
We’d never see him again.
Tears appearing.
Overreaction.
A hug on the doorstep.

My outburst caught her by surprise.
We didn’t really know him as such.
“Oh come now dearie.
People die, that’s just all part of life.
At least he died doing what he loved best.”

They scatter his ashes on the Spey
At the top of the long pool
Where the river runs slowest
As was his request.
The minister stands before the gathered
on the riverbank
The drone of the eulogy
Soothes the stillness of the gathered.
His arm extends over the sombre black flow
Slowly but surely
He releases a thin steady sprinkle of ash
Until all that remains of Dunshee
Is an impossibly fine dust cloud
Settling on the surface
Slowly sinking.

Something stirs.
More than the current.
Then again, a wee ripple.
Not raindrops.
Good God!
A flick of a wee tail -
Another flash of silver
Darts and bubbles.
Gasp and exclamations.
The murmurings of the mourners
Swell to a panic.
The minister pulls back from the edge
And grasping the urn to his chest,
Mutters something skyward.

He calms the crowd
With outstretched arms.
The pool settles again
As quickly as it was disturbed.
The ceremony resumes.

There was a quiet retribution in it
As Old Man Dunshea
Came gliding by
One last time
On his way from the town
to the afterlife.
To repay his due.



Hamish Napier, 4th August 2020

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