Once more, to the army of workers who shouted at me, prodded and hugged me, and phoned my ears into oblivion: thanks forever.
To my family—well, what can I say?
To Mamie, for allowing me to share her father Keith’s poem.
To Douglas Petrie from Pitlochry for his river poems.
To Martha Stewart for all her help, and her belief in Scotland’s travelling people.
To cousin Alan for the Glen Lyon tale.
To Bob Dawson, my radji gadji, who never sleeps.
To Robbie Shepherd and his team for giving me a louder voice.
To Caroline Boxer of the Strathearn Herald, a wee worker.
To Alan Smith and family from Foggy.
To John Gilbert for allowing me to use his grandfather’s poem.
To the late Violet Jacob.
Special thanks to Charlotte Munro (sister Shirley), for always being there regardless—‘Ye cannae sleep us away’.
To Jenny and George—gone, but never forgotten.
To Tom, Seán, Caroline, Vikki.
Finally, thanks to the travelling people; my tinkers of the roads; the roots wherein I cleave.
Come all you tramps and hawker lads,
Come listen one and a’,
An’ I’ll tell tae ye a roving tale o’ sichts that I hae seen,
Far up and to the snowy north and doon by Gretna Green.
—all gone now.