On Overtoun Bridge

Overtoun Bridge is a splendid gothic, granite span that would not look out of place on the set of Sleepy Hollow. And we'd been planning the visit for weeks. Though when I say we, what I really mean is me, because let's face it, dogs don't plan.

The bridge straddles a stream-carved ravine, 15-metres below its high-walled walkway. If you were standing right here where I am now, nestled into one of the bridge’s semi-circular convex niches, overhanging the fast-flowing stream below, you would gasp at the sheer beauty of the surrounding views. Lush green woodland in every direction. Perfect dog-walking country. And my Millie, like any Border Collie who loves a real good rush-around, would be so in her element.

Except I don’t dare let Millie run loose around here. Just in case the stories that are told, of what happens to dogs at Overtoun Bridge, are true, and not just some Scottish urban legend.

Millie and I first met at Glastonbury. She was skinny, mud-soaked and abandoned. But then, I guess, so was I. Nathan, the love of my life all through Uni, had suddenly announced that living with me was suffocating him. He said he needed space to ‘find himself’ and left for a retreat in Nepal. It was only after his flight took off from Heathrow I discovered my credit card was missing. I’d contacted the bank and registered it stolen, which stopped any plans Nathan had for funding his navel-gazing. But the hundreds of pounds I’d splashed out on the Glastonbury tickets had already been processed.

So, I went anyway. Alone.

I’d kidded myself I would enjoy the festival even more without Nathan, who was always pointing out when I got things wrong, how I did things that were hostile towards him. He would say my problem was that I lacked 'insight'. That I wasn’t aware of the motivations behind my actions, like the time I put his white silk shirt in the colour wash with my red bra. I knew it was an accident. I was tired, and I’d been late for work and rushing, so hadn’t double checked. But Nathan was a psychology grad and he always managed to turn quarrels in his favour by using terms like 'reaction formation defence mechanism' when I was supportive of him, or 'repression' if I wasn’t. If I asked him what time he would be home, he would say I had a 'fear of abandonment'. If I spoke with pride of some achievement, he would say I exhibited 'narcissistic tendencies'. Sometimes I felt like I was nothing more than one of his case studies. Nonetheless, I wasn’t prepared for the way he bailed out on me.

I tried to convince myself that being in the throng of the festival would be just what I needed to wipe out the hurt, anger and loss I was feeling. And for the first couple of days and nights, it felt like that was true. But on the third night a massive storm blew up out of nowhere and the wind ripped my tent to shreds. I’d been exhausted when I arrived—it had taken me hours to hitch all the way from Durham to Somerset—and when I’m tired, Nathan said that’s when I don’t pay enough attention to detail. And I think I hadn’t tapped the tent pegs far enough into the ground. I spent the night wrapped in the remains of my pop-up tent, like a fatally damaged chrysalis. The only remnant of sleep I managed was broken by the sensation of waves of water lapping at my face. I thought I was drowning. Then I thought I was dreaming, but the sensation didn’t go away when I woke up. It was only as I opened my eyes and saw the beautiful twin brown beads staring back at me, that I realised the waves lapping at my cheek were the big, pink tongue of a Border Collie.

Millie.

I don’t know what her name was before I met her—she had no collar, and the only identifying marks she had were the scars of cruelty—but Millie was what I called her.

She looked hungry, so I shared my lunch with her—flattened ham and mustard rolls that were mostly still dry because I’d slept on top of them—and Mille hasn’t left my side since. Every adventure over the past year, Millie has been with me.

We love to travel upwards, Millie and me, as close to heaven as we can get. We’ve hiked tors on Dartmoor and walked to the top of Mount Snowdon. But Millie isn’t a puppy. I don’t know how old she is, but her muzzle is greying, and over the past few months, Millie has developed a limp in one of her hind legs. She never complains, but I see signs of her slowing, so our adventures need to have flatter ground. Which is why we started to explore old bridges.

Bridges make walking easier for Millie, though still give us the sensation we are above the world and all its miseries. But for this visit, I’ve left Millie back at the holiday cottage I’ve rented for the weekend. Not in the cottage itself though. Millie doesn’t like being left alone for too long and she becomes frustrated. At first, this meant chewed furniture and door frames, and I’d already lost my deposit when I moved out of the flat I’d been sharing with Nathan. If I had a car I could have left her in the boot. But we always travel by bus, train and on foot. I thought of tying her to a tree, but I’m pretty sure she could gnaw through the restraint. The kitchen has a pantry, which was a possibility, but Border Collies are intelligent. And Millie more than most, I think, because somewhere in her past she’d learned how to turn handles to open doors. So instead of leaving her inside the cottage, I’ve shut her in the cottage’s wood store. It’s bone dry, and I’ve left her food and water. The wood store has a padlock, and the key is on the same fob as the one for the front door. I can lock the shed, so there’s no chance Millie can open the door and come looking for me. It’s less than an hour’s walk to the bridge, so although the wood store is dark inside, I know she’ll be safe until I get back.

It isn’t because Millie doesn’t like bridges that I’ve had to leave her behind. Just the opposite. She loves them and is as good as gold even when I let her off the leash. But this one is different. You see, Overtoun Bridge has a reputation. And a bad one where dogs are concerned. The Dumbarton locals have their own name for it:

Dog Suicide Bridge.

It’s said that since the 1960s, over 300 dogs have jumped off Overtoun Bridge into the ravine below. Many have died. But of the dogs that have survived the fall, there is talk of those that race back up the sides of the ravine to the bridge’s parapet, only to jump straight off again. No-one knows why for sure. But there are plenty of theories.

The rational explanations include that of a dog behaviourist who confidently explains on YouTube how dogs have poor eyesight and a limited colour spectrum, so things can appear blurred to them. Also, dogs are much closer to the ground than us, which also restricts visibility. On the other hand, dogs have a fabulous sense of smell, over 100,000 times more powerful than humans, and so they tend to follow their noses. This, he explains, is the most likely reason so many dogs jump off the bridge.

The behaviourist’s theory fits in well with the naturalists, who remind us that nature, red in tooth and claw, is stalking the woods below. Wolves roam the area and are known to roll in their kill, giving off a powerful stench. A dog at heart is a domesticated wild animal, with all its primitive instincts intact and palpitating just below the surface. Maybe the dogs that jumped were following the smell of the rot. Maybe they just wanted to bring back a carcass for its owner. As a gift. Like Millie does sometimes. A dead rabbit. Once, even a kitten. I tell myself it’s just her nature, but I don’t like the way she kills.

Locally, though, scent and poor eyesight are no explanation for the superstitious, who point their finger at the supernatural. Local legend has it that the White Lady of Overtoun, believed to be the ghost of a grieving widow, has haunted the area to this day. Locals talk of sightings in the windows of Overtoun House and in its grounds, and some believe that it is the ghost of the White Lady that compels dogs to jump to their deaths. Whatever the truth of the matter, I was taking no chances. I feel guilty about leaving Millie locked up, but it’s for her own safety.

From my niche on the bridge, I watch as walkers pass by. Families. Couples. Groups of older singles. Lovers. I wonder which of these I will one day be part of. It’s a beautiful day, but despite the blue sky and sunshine, I think I detect clouds of tension pass across the faces of the walkers as they traverse the bridge. Their dogs, who one minute are trotting along, sniffing the ground and each other’s bottoms, suddenly begin to strain at their leads. One wire-haired terrier gives a low, throaty growl as he reaches the bridge’s mid-point. Despite his tiny size, he gives an almighty tug as he lurches and jumps for the bridge’s high parapet, and his owner, an older lady dressed from head to foot in tartan, is almost pulled off her feet. I see the blood drain from her face, and she hauls on the leash, shrieking ‘Benji, no.’ and giving the terrier such a slap that seems to be more out of fear than anger, like a parent who might want to teach a lesson to a small child who dashes into the road. Around her, the other walkers shorten their dog leashes and quicken their steps.

I turn my back on the hubbub and stare over the parapet into the water below. It is so clear that even from here I can see the rocks and stones that lie on the stream’s bed. As I look down into the water, I believe I can almost see my reflection. As I stare, a movement catches my eye. My gaze rakes the ground. And then I see it, almost camouflaged by the tangle of plant life: a magnificent grey wolf, its fore feet at the water’s edge, head bent as it laps from the stream.

The animal seems to sense I am watching and pauses to look up at me. I reach into the pocket of my jacket. My fingers search for my phone to capture the moment. But in their search they touch something else. Something larger. Bulkier. Something metallic. My fingers grasp it and pull it from my pocket.

The wood store padlock.

I stare at it in disbelief. I search my mind, retracing my steps before I left for the bridge. I remember filling the two bowls: one with dog biscuits, one with water. I remember moving the logs to one side to make more room for Millie. I remember laying the tarpaulin covering the logs onto the ground so Millie could rest on it. I remember telling her I would be back soon and not to fret. I remember her whimpering as my hand stroked her back, catching the tumours that are growing there. I remember Millie growling with rage as I closed the wood store door. But I don’t remember anything else.

The padlock is cold and heavy in my hand. I should go back. I should run as fast as I can. Before Millie opens the door. But my feet won’t move. The images are coming at me thick and fast now: Nathan’s psychobabble, the white silk shirt, the red bra, Nathan packing his bag, the chewed furniture that lost me my deposit, the vet telling me Millie’s tumours are malignant. That her only hope is a vet bill I can’t afford. I stand rooted to the ground.

Then I hear her.