It had seen better days, that bridge which had once crossed Allt Mor at Glendyke, and so it came as no great surprise to us, following a severe storm and high tide, to discover it gone. When we did finally locate the sad remains, all we could do was secure the wreckage with a rope and watch its broken shape jerking and twitching in the dark waters.

How fitting now those grim gyrations seem, working as we were in the shadow of Hangman's Hill.

On first coming to Garden House, our first night was spent sleeping on the floor but we soon learned that the house was ill-disposed to sleep - or perhaps just ill-disposed. The hatch in one of the rooms started to bang but, at first, we couldn't see where the noise was coming from, for every time we looked the banging stopped. To our relief, that noise was not repeated on other nights. However, a recently installed door bell was more persistent. One night, it rang loudly at 4.00am but stopped when we went to the door.

At 5.00am it rang more urgently and didn't stop even when the door was opened. The next day we stripped it down, cleaned all the parts and replaced the battery - but to no avail. At 4.00 the next morning the mystery repeated itself.

One night I sat alone in the lounge which always has a sweet chill but peaceful atmosphere, when a loud crash came from the kitchen. Then I distinctly heard the name of the past resident called out, followed by the words "I'll get you for putting such stories in my brain." On creeping into the kitchen, I was confronted by a large grey cat sitting in my sink in front of an open window: A clumsy grey cat, perhaps - but a clumsy, talking grey cat?? Certainly a cat that has now become quite, well - familiar.

Meanwhile mists dance across the Castle Park and the cries in the wind that seem to come from the Hill, echo in the walled garden. Our dog, Bob, of course, knows the score ­- and hides.