I suppose that you might say, without fear of a great deal of contradiction, that not very many novels have been born out of listening, blushingly, to what is usually known as a "smoking room story." But that was, in fact, the genesis of The Bridal Path. I won't go into details of that story -- our good editor would hardly allow it anyway, I imagine -- nor into who retailed it to me; but I can indicate, surely, that it concerned the theme of consanguinity, or the somewhat unfortunate results that can come of the continued marrying of fairly close cousins in a restricted and remote community-for instance, a small Hebridean isle.

       The introduction of the necessary new blood can be quite a problem, as you may guess-and a gift for a shameless writer, treating the theme with lighthearted caution, if such is possible. At any rate, this slightly risky story started something -- and Time Magazine once listed The Bridal Path for a number of weeks running as one of the films most worthwhile for the great American public to see, in consequence. Which just shows you how careful you must be about telling wee stories!

       I have had a lot of fun out of Bridal Path and rather more money, thanks to its being made into a film, than most of my novels have produced. (Though no fortune, mind you; don't believe all you hear about the vast sums paid for film rights -- not by British film companies, at any rate. I have had a great difficulty in convincing everybody that I am not now rolling in filthy lucre, over the success of this film, when the fact is that I had no further financial interest therein, after the sale of initial film rights-and that for a sum equal to, say, one year's normal, and very modest, income. Still, I am not grumbling, you will understand. Bring on another!)

Walking On Eggshells
       But to get back to the story. I had to take a number of chances with this book; one always does, of course, but this theme held perhaps more risks than usual. For one thing, recollecting the furor stirred up in the Western Isles by a certain author who wrote a book a few years ago rather dwelling upon the drinking habits and morals which he professed to find there, I certainly did not want to bruit abroad any suggestion that the inhabitants of all or of any of the Hebrides, Inner or Outer, were suffering from the effects of inbreeding, mentally of physically! Even in a novel which was determinedly light headed and not to he taken seriously. To help in this respect, I insisted that the dust- cover be made most evidently humorous-and the artist had co-operated nobly. Almost prophetically, indeed; for the astonishing thing is that the central figure which he drew, of the hero, Ewan MacEwan, bears an extraordinary resemblance to Bill Travers, the actor who eventually, years later, was to play that part in the picture. Another risk was the introduction of reference to the white slave traffic subject not usually discussed in polite society ... and certainly, as far as I am aware, never hitherto mentioned in the same breath as the West Highlands of Scotland. I was prepared for my worthy and discreet publishers to refuse to swallow this one, however frivolous and far-fetched the link, and again, later, the film-makers. But no, they both took it in stride, and with no ill results that I have heard of. Most seemed to feel that salmon poaching was the graver matter.

       Again, the play of Catholics versus the Free Kirk - and Campbells in the bargain - was tricky, as you will realize, and had to be handled with the lightest of touches. How far out I was in my fears in this respect, however. can be gauged by the fact that not only have there been no thunderbolts hurled at me by either side - I am a sort of Episcopalian myself - but the part of the good Protestant Ewan's small daughter was played in the film -- and played admirably -- by the delightful young Elizabeth Campbell, daughter in real life of the headmaster of a Catholic school in Oban, with the happiest cooperation all 'round.

The Perils of Fake References
       A matter which gave me no qualm at the time, but which has since aroused palpitations in my breast, concerns First Steps in Preventive Medicine, by Theodore Crick M.D. Some of you may have read of the pother stirred up by my invention of a book on Border legendary, which I called Kerr's History of the Border Marches, in Cheviot Chase. This I did in order to be able to quote, in that story, a convenient description of the Hornshole incident of 1514, and which no other book that I could find gave in total. This imaginary book was asked for by some trusting reader, at Alloa Public Library. The good librarian could of course find no hint of it in all his lists and catalogues, and so applied to the Scottish Central Library for expert aid in tracing it. After much search, the chief there approached me on the matter whereupon, of course, red in the face, I had to eat humble pie indeed and confess that the whole thing was a figment of my unruly imagination. To the glee of the press! I have been waiting ever since, for the Secretary of the British Medical Association to come along, demanding of me in the name of his august profession the whereabouts of Dr. Theodore Cricks First Steps in Preventive Medicine. I would be forced to admit that it must be searched for on the same imaginary bookshelf I'll just have to meet that one when it comes.

The Bridge That Was Almost Not There
       In this novel, I had some unusual problems connected with geography and topography for, as I have said before, I like to relate my stories very closely and authentically to the actual somewhere I locate them, so that readers can usually follow most of my heroes' breathless ongoings more or less on an ordinary inch or half inch map. I knew the Oban, Loch Etive, Glencoe, Fort William and Loch Ailort district, wherein this story was laid, very well - apart from the wholly mythical islands of Eorc and Erismore, on which I am still awaiting tourist queries -- but in one instance I trusted too much to memory, with near disastrous results.

       This concerns the Bridge of Awe. I had not been there for some years, having approached Oban from either north or south, rather than east, when I was going over the ground for my story, and for some reason I failed to go inspect the bridge anew. On one of those fine illustrated calendars of the Scottish scene, hanging in my wall at home, however, was most conveniently a handsome picture of the Bridge of Awe. I used this, innocently, making my hero come hurrying along the road hot-foot from trouble cross the hump-backed bridge, come face to face with a police car waiting at the other side, and in panic make an agile and spectacular getaway by hurling himself over the bridge parapet and dropping down onto the grassy slope a few feet below, and bolting thereafter down the river bank.

       This scene was duly to be shot in the film, and I told Frank Lauder, the director, (who I'm glad to say actually filmed most of his locations on the genuine sites that I wrote about) that the bridge was there all waiting for him, and for Bill Travers, to leap over. The trouble was, of course, that I had not realized that the photograph showed the old Bridge of Awe. There is now a handsome new bridge, over which the road crosses, and the old one is no longer used. My alarm on crossing this, on my way to the filming, getting out and peering at the river far, far below, can be imagined. I had visions of poor Bill Travers hurling himself over this, and plunging to his dramatic doom on the rocky bed, for the new bridge is infinitely higher than the old one. Happily, however, on turning pale-faced back to my car, I discovered that the old bridge is still there, on the other side, even though the road over it is now disused. With a bit of tidying-up, and a careful siting of the cameras so that no glimpse of the new bridge appeared, the filmmakers were able to shoot the incident as described, without disaster, and my credit was shakily maintained. I hope that it all taught me a lesson.

Watch Out For Fake Addresses and Friendly Dogs, Too
       Every incident in the book did not come off quite so happily. There is one scene in the Fort William police station, where our hero has the identity of a Glasgow gangster thrust very determinedly upon him by the local constabulary. They insist that he is this bad character from Glasgow, and demand his address. Getting tired of denying it, and looking wearily about for inspiration, Ewan perceives a "Dial 999 for Emergency' notice beside the telephone, and uses this. But, knowing that few streets, even in Glasgow, will run to so large a number as 999, he hurriedly remembers 'doon the Dunbarton Road,' that every Scot knows as a long, long trail indeed. Every Scot, yes but not every Englishman. Not Frank Lauder or even Bill Travers. I was not there when this shot was taken, in the studios in the South, and the director and star, quite missing the point, made the declared address 999 Dunbarton Street. No laughs. No nothing. Just, flat. One of those things! A small matter -- one's familiarity with regional street numbers and names -- but it caused a colossal silence, as I have told you when they were shooting the scene in the Fort William Police Station. The reverse can apply, of course, and a shot gets laughs where none were intended -- as in the case of the police dog.

       This fierce-looking Alsatian grew in fact to be very fond of Bill Travers. In a scene where Bill finally makes his bolt from the mainland, back to his island, with the police hot on his heels, the dog is supposed to come baying over the brow of a sand-hill just as Ewan was pushing off his rowboat, somewhere near Ardnamurchan, and, too late, to bark and bark after him as he rowed out of the picture. But the wretched dog, loving Bill, insisted on running into the sea after him, and jumping into the boat. Time and time again the film-makers, the actors, and the dog-handler re-shot this incident, to get the animal to do its piece. But no - always it ran on and into the boat, to smile angelically up at Bill. At length they had to let it have its way -- and so, in the finished picture, we see the savage brute dashing down after the escaping truant, jumping into the boat, and sailing away with him in blissful companionship, the epitome of felicity and affection. Which gets one of the biggest laughs of the film - only, the dog was a problem for the rest of the story; for of course, there was no way of dropping it thereafter, and it had come into every scene --- since these were on small islands. And any film-maker will tell you how much work and headaches an animal in any scene involves.

       There is one incident in the book that I am very disappointed not to have seen in the final picture. It concerns the long, narrow main street of Fort William, which most of us will know as a bottleneck, however diverting, of the first order. In the novel, I bring a large and unruly mixed flock of cattle and sheep, off the nearby MacBrayne's steamer, plus a broken-down cattle-float in the centre of it all-in the interest of traffic congestion-so that our Ewan can make one of his brilliant escapes from the clutches of the law. I should have loved to have watched this scene re-enacted in Fort William's elongated thoroughfare at the height of the tourist season, with cars hooting plaintively for a mile on either side, cattle poking their noses into souvenir shops, sheep invading the cafes, and Bill Travers showing his police-captors how to control angry stirks by inserting a couple of fingers of one hand up the nostrils and gripping the root of the tail with the other, twisting in alternate directions. For some reason, Frank Launder did not include this epic shot in this programme -- he never told me why!

       It isn't as though Fort William would have been unduly upset by anything of the sort, I'm sure. They must be used to that sort of thing in the West Highland metropolis, after their method of digging street drains along the said thoroughfare, this would have been a mere nothing. When I was doing research for this story, I had occasion to park my car approximately where the cattle would have milled, and went into one of the said cafes for much-needed refreshment. Whilst I was therein, the most colossal crash and bang shattered the normal cacophony of motor horns and seagull cries that form the background to life in Fort William. Buildings shook the cafe rocked, glass tinkled, and my tablecloth all but blew away from under my cup of tea. To my panic stricken inquiries, the waitress merely answered that, och, they were just digging a bit drain. And surely enough, when I staggered out amidst the dust and smoke, I found that was what they were doing, indeed -- digging it in solid rock, evidently, down the middle of the street, with utter sang-froid and large quantities of gelignite. Lumps of rock, as well as thick dust and grit, lay everywhere -- half-a-dozen of them on top of my car. One commercial traveller was ruefully examining his shattered headlamps, and a lorry driver philosophically sought to bend back his twisted license plate to recognizability. "Always leave your car windows open in Fort William," a kindly passerby observed to me -- presumably advice of some significance. I still have three sizable dents in my car's roof to show for that cup of tea. All of which of course, is neither here nor there.

Some Unexpected Side Benefits
       I get a great lot of letters from readers about my books, not all of them to be described as fan mail -- since the breeze that the said fan flows can at times can be distinctly chilly! This applied to The Bridal Path, as to others. But perhaps the most satisfying and morale-boosting letter that I have ever received arose out of this. book. It came from B. Biro, of Surrey, one of the best-known and talented book jacket designers in the country-in the world, no doubt. He had done many dust covers for my novels before this, but had never been in touch with me personally. He wrote that in doing the wrapper for The Bridal Path, he had read the book with such an enormous enjoyment that he felt he must write and say what a pleasure it had given him. He said, amongst other things, that I had established a situation full of possibilities and had developed these themselves." And so on.

       Well, well -- this is praise indeed. For of course, a professional book jacket designer, especially one at the top of the tree like Biro, has to read hundreds and hundreds of novels. He is, in fact, reading them all the time, and reading them hurriedly and in far from the best mood for enjoyment, looking for incidents that call best form the subjects of' his pictures for the wrappers. For such a man actually to sit down and write me a fan-letter, was a great compliment. Whisper it! He has never done it again since, though he has designed a lot more wrappers for me! Now you may think that I am shockingly conceited in having mentioned this -- and you are right. The point is, of course, that I am trying to establish, belatedly, that it was quite a good book before ever it was such a successful film! Fran Launder, bless him, deserves most of the credit for the film, this is just myself trying to remind everybody what marvelous material he had to work with. Do I get away with it?

A Ten-second Star
Mind you, I like to claim as much credit as I can get for the film, too. After all, I did appear in it, for fully 10 seconds. Early on in the picture, coming out of the island church -- that's me in my old crotal Harris jacket, putting on my cap and looking embarrassed. Only nobody's apt to look at me, for Bill Travers is just in front of me, and there's an awful lot of him, and my late wife is by my side, and my daughter is just behind, and being women they tend to steal the scene. Nevertheless, this coming-out-of-church scene is really a gem. It should be. We rehearsed and shot it 23 times; And, since I was the author, I refused to allow my womenfolk to go hurrying to the accountant to collect extras' pay. I never heard the last of that!

       So that is The Bridal Path. Now, for me, no more than a pleasant enough entry in my ill used bank book, and a lot of clippings in my press-cuttings book . . . such as the one from Natal Daily News that mentions that in 1952 The Path was one of the books most in demand at Durban Municipal Library, or from the Daily Record, which alone of all the newspapers had the wit to steal a march on all the others by declaring -- refreshingly -- that "author Tranter does not quite achieve the full sparkle", or Time Magazine's review of the film under the headline "A Blype o' Clishmaclaver," which goes on to say amongst other jewels, " . . . she smashes him back an ca's him nae mair than a bluntie blellum. The neist lass he meets is a scroggie auld scaul' that showks him out for a sliddry jaukiner to the bobbie" . . . and so on, for 400 words. What the great American public made of all this is not to be known. Enough to turn them against the picture, whatever else, I'd say. Ochone, ochone!

       And lastly, that wee bit in the Edinburgh Evening News which read: "Royal Choice -- The Bridal Path, which received its premiere in Edinburgh recently, would appear to have been an early choice for Royal holiday viewing. The copy that arrived at the Graumont Cinema this week bore a label announcing that it had come from the Royal Household at Balmoral.."