Time Team
George Beattie;
St Cyrus poet, lawyer and lover
The Auld Kirkyard at St Cyrus was once alive with the business of monks, churchmen and young students. Now, not a stone remains of their church, and all that's left to tell the tale of days gone by are the weather-beaten headstones on this ancient site.
From age to age the weather here has made its mark on sea and land, but just as devastating can be its effect on man. The tombs of men revered long centuries ago fell victim to the erosion, there is nothing left to see, no record, no memories. Yet for one famous son of St Cyrus whose headstone has survived the elements, there lies a hidden tale of tragic love.
This cruel wind that bites through clothes and stings the eye with salt and sand, will she tell my story? Will she watch my shameful act and keep it secret? Or will she whisper it to the waves, tell it to the sand, spread the word until everybody knows what I did here on St Cyrus beach.
They say I tell a good story. My poem on old John Findlay some compared to the best of Burns' work and they even took it to the stage. I was so proud to see it performed, but could it be that that very play was what led me to this fateful beach?
As a lawyer to trade I've learned to trust in that which can be proven, so how ironic it must seem for me, George Beattie, to be killed by a curse.
We knew he'd be furious, but no one could have anticipated John's reaction to seeing himself portrayed in the dramatisation of my poem, John O' Arnha.
He raged and he swore, attacked even the audience then turned to us and with brutal sincerity uttered his curse. None of us involved with the play, he swore, would get the chance to die a natural death.
We thought him a ranting fool that day, but it was he who had the last laugh. Our printer, James Watt, later drowned on a voyage to London; Robert Munro, the Academy art master who painted the play's scenery, was found washed up dead on local shores and I, well I am standing here on this beach in this howling wind with the cold metal of a gun clenched in my hand.
There can be nothing crueller in this world than finding the truest love only to have it wrenched from you. I can not go on, Findlay will have his way and the curse will do his bidding.
There is no story to tell. The wind will hold her secret and deep in a cold tomb in the Auld Kirkyard this raging pain of lost love will finally be silenced.