The man who stares at goats

Feral goats have had some bad press but in Galloway they are part of the mountains — and they produce fabulous meat

- PATRICK LAURIE

Galloway is famous for its goats. Some of the old herds have been living wild since the days of Robert the Bruce and, while they can’t be classified as truly native, it’s hard to ignore centuries of freedom and independence. It’s not uncommon to find goats on the loneliest hilltops during the summer months and I’m often cheered by the jolly sound of their bleating in steep, desolate mountain places between Newton Stewart and Carsphairn.

The Galloway Hills have some excellent place names to describe steep cliffs and treacherous mountain passes. When I was a teenager, I found an immaculately preserved billy goat’s skeleton in a lonely spot called Nick o’ the Dungeon. Ignoring the horrible smell, I pulled off the skull and brought it home on my back.

After a couple of years to weather in the rain, it came indoors and I wrote “Nick o’ the Dungeon” on its forehead to mark its point of origin. The horns hang on the wall like a satanic altar and it has sometimes been a useful incentive to enforce good behaviour among visiting children: “Finish your vegetables, or I’ll have to send for Nick.”