The Treasures of Drumory may be unique in more ways than one. Firstly, it took over 25 years to complete. Secondly, as a consequence of this timescale, one can perceive the efforts of two different writers at work: the young man who wrote Book 1, and some of Book 2, was only 20 years old, whereas the more mature man who completed the novel, was 45. More specifically, Book 1, conjures up a sense of animated characters straight out of One Hundred And One Dalmatian Pups, indicative perhaps of an amateur writer at work, whereas the remainder of the saga, was written by a seasoned storyteller. The Treasures of Drumory, began in 1984, when I was engaged in my first official job as a "Monumental Inscriptions Historical Researcher." An impressive title for sure but translated, I was just someone who recorded the information from headstones situated in the graveyards of the Garnock valley, in North Ayrshire. This information was sent to the Scottish Records Office in Edinburgh, where it was transferred on to microfiche mainly for the purpose of enabling people to trace their ancestors. I remember it was a beautiful hot spell in April. And during my lunch break, I could be found chilling at the back of Dalry cemetery (lying sunbathing on a tombstone). Strangely, I heard this quiet, angelic voice utter, "Stewart, tell me a story." I opened one eye and seeing nothing untoward, I thought I had imagined it and so closed my eyes again. "Stewart, tell me a story," the voice repeated. This time I sat upright and there beside me was the head gravedigger's little son. I forget his name now, but he started school later that summer so he couldn't have been more than 5 years old. I looked about, thinking my colleagues had put him up to it but when I realised no one else was about, I yielded to his charms. Now around this time, I had been fascinated by a documentary about a young boy from the rainforests of Peru whose nose had been eaten away by a virus. You may remember him as the boy David character from Desmond Wilcox's documentary? Well, call it fate or plain coincidence, but right there and then I married him to a story that combined my passion as a boy for fishing and rambling. The story I told this boy is what you would now recognise in part 2 of Drumory, where Qwon and Truro first encounter little Susjee at the Garret, on the river Shoda. In the novel, the Shoda replaces the river Garnock, whose source can be found beyond the hills above Kilbirnie, where I grew up. Later that same day, as I cycled home, I thought to myself: Jeez, I think I enjoyed that more than he did. I couldn't stop thinking about it and like another major novel that I was to commence work on over the next 10 years, I fancied I could commit it to paper as a short story. I never dreamed it would actually develop into a novel far less the great saga that it is today. I always thought I was going to make something of my life, I guess we all start out that way, but I'll never forget the night I snapped upright in my bed (the summer of 1984) and gazed into the darkness of my bedroom, grinning like an idiot. For in realising that I had enough meat on the bone to develop my short story into a fully-fledged novel, I finally knew what I was going to do with my life: I was going to be an author. At that time, no one who knew me would take me seriously. I was always the crazy joker of the pack. I didn't like that but I guess it was a part of me that compensated for the fact I had no direction in life and didn't want to draw serious conversation to the fact. I certainly wasn't ready to join the rigmarole of the 9-5 brigade. From 1982 - 1984, I amassed fond memories of lying in the sun at a sleepy pool on the Garnock, wondering how I could continue this lifestyle for another few years and how I might stretch my dole money out in order to cater for my weekend excursions with the lads. I guess in a conventional sense I was lazy, but I certainly wasn't afraid of hard physical graft. I'd already trained for and completed the first Scottish People's marathon in 1982, when such a pastime was still considered extreme. At school, I remember studying for 4 weeks before each exam and thinking: my brain is fried. I can't take any more school life but if I'm going to take it easy over the next few years I better get some qualifications behind me, or people will say the reason I don't have a job is because I'm stupid. I duly attained 4 Highers and 7 O'levels. Not bad. Now if you think someone would have to be crazy to work on a novel for 25 years then I should mention, I actually stuck it away in a drawer for 16 years. The main reason being, I had a serious case of Writer's block. Drumory, is centred around a mini utopian society and I ask you: what does someone in their early twenties know about funding and sustaining such a society? Remember too, this is something mankind has failed to create and maintain since the dawn of civilisation. Anyway, there is a field along the Garnock, about 300 metres upstream of Herriot Avenue, where I lived. This area has been spoiled by a manmade flood barrier but I will always associate it with the many days I spent walking endlessly around its perimeter, trying to solve my daunting utopian question. I became not a little depressed at the time and in the end, I decided to back-track and edit everything I had written thus far in the hope that the answer would suddenly occur to me. So began a practise which has dogged me ever since: I can never read anything I've written without editing it, sometimes to the point of distraction. I'm nostalgic by nature, I guess that's why I've kept a diary since I was 15. I started to save every rejected A4 page of words and in time I accrued an enormous cardboard box full of the stuff. I was so convinced I was going to be rich and famous that I felt it was my duty to preserve it all for posterity. I even saved every biro pen that I exhausted with all those rewrites. Then, when I moved my family to a new home in 2006, I stowed this box in our cellar and a few years later when I checked on it, the whole lot had turned to paper-mache. Oops…I can don a sarcastic grin when I think back to that period of my life but to describe it as frustrating would be an understatement. Oftentimes I was downright depressed. During that period of Writer's block, 1988 to be precise, my wife Christina entered my life, and my writing career came to a grinding halt. I think I was actually relieved when she turned to me one day and said, "Your writing is all very well and good but do it in your spare time. Get a real job." Well, what can I say? I always had a penchant for feisty women. Conventional life had finally got its hooks into me and for the next 17 years or so I barely looked at this manuscript. Work on other novels consumed nearly all my spare time. Thank goodness for my children though. In 2006, when Niamh was 6 and Nathan 4, I realised if I didn't turn my attention back to Drumory, they might be adults by the time I got round to finishing it and by then, maybe they would have no interest in reading it. So, I took the decision to halt work on my war-time saga (The Fidelity Saga) and devote myself to the task of finishing Drumory. There was just one problem though, my heart wasn't in Drumory anymore. Before my kids came along, I had resigned myself to completing it in my retirement. But I knew I owed it to myself and my kids to finish it while they were still young. That turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made and to this day, I consider it the greatest personal achievement of my life. Back in 2006, Drumory was far from finished and every other day I would dream up a brilliant piece of plot only to realise the whole thing was continuing to mushroom with no end in sight. I can honestly say, that from 2007, for the first time in my life, I could see age-lines beginning to appear on my face, not to mention grey hairs on my scalp. These were demanding times. There I was, trying to write during the day whilst looking after the needs of our 2 children, till Christina came in from work; then I'd go out to do a late shift with T Mobile. Oftentimes, when I returned home, I'd get back into my writing, sometimes working right through the night. Writing novels may be a fantastic profession but it's also the loneliest. Finally, on the 19/12/2009 at 5.05pm, after 25 years, I finished The Treasures of Drumory. Here's an extract from my diary at the time: "…So that was it. At 5.05pm, I brought the kids into my study and even insisted Christina follow us (she did, but as ever she just acted like, yeh yeh, hurry up till I get on with more important things). I got Niamh to type THE and Nathan to add the word END. Very fitting, what? So, that was it, done! Finished! And yes, I did feel joyous. Elated. Not that I was jumping up and down, there was a tremendous amount of relief in there too remember…" Now it was time for the business of editing, and it's here that I feel bound to mention my lifelong friend, David Sharp Clarkson. Let his name be writ in stone. Without his practical criticism and suggestions, The Treasures of Drumory and indeed everything I've ever written, would not be anywhere near as good. It's embarrassing to think how raw all my novels were in their original state. For instance, Susjee (2 syllables, Sus, and Jee. Reverse them and you get Jee Sus. Get the idea?). had no special powers whatsoever until David suggested giving him some. I had been set against that from the outset, as I wanted everything about the story to exist within the realms of possibility. The solution, was to stretch the known examples of certain human conditions to suit the characters and situations in the story. In the case of Susjee's psychokinesis skills, one could cite Uri Geller. As for his noseless face, there was an article reported in the Weekly World News, 1/11/1988, about a girl with a similar condition. Then there's Susjee's incredible size (less than 2 feet). Chandra Bahadur Dangi, a Nepalese man, stood at a mere 21.5 inches tall (54.60cm). It should be mentioned, that David spent the first half of 2010 editing my manuscript - and this was after a 10-hour shift at his conventional job. Upon reflection, if anyone had told me on the 19/12/2009, that I was going to have to do several edits of this trilogy (around half a million words per edit) before it would be fit for publication, I think I would have gone into meltdown. As of 2024, I had completed no less than 15 edits. Dr Diana Hardy's character is my tribute to Princess Diana, and the wonderful work she did with children. Next, when I began dreaming up names for the novel's title, characters and towns, some of them came to light in interesting ways. For example, when my daughter Niamh was about 5 years old, she came running into the house lilting this strange word over and over. I thought it sounded interesting and decided to pay homage to her by adapting her word for the name for one of the two towns in Drumory: Aldygadee. Also, when I was a boy, there was a popular children's story program on TV that I used to watch faithfully every day after school. In seeking to pay homage to its creators, I used part of its title to create the name for my fantasy world: Drumory. Can any of you old-timers out there guess what it was? It was Jackanory. Next up, is Guy Clarkson (Davie's cousin and another great childhood friend and influence). He is portrayed as Truro in the story. A few years after I first began work on Drumory, Guy was enjoying a spell of making homemade bombs, which inspired me to let his character do the same. Now, you can't go spouting off the chemical properties of homemade explosives in a book without first providing the necessary data to support your claims. So it was, we commandeered my father's mini whisky barrel (house ornament) and stuffed it with our most successful explosive mixture to date. This we placed between the branches of a small tree along the Garnock, c200 metres upstream of Herriot Avenue. We then covered it with small rocks (I couldn't get my head round the idea that these extra weights would actually conduce a more powerful explosion). Anyway, just like in the movies, we lit the fuse and ran like hell for cover over by the river, where we waited…and waited…eventually I got fed up and called Guy a … However, as I made my way back to the test site, the bomb exploded and scared the living…out of me! That scene made it into the story too. It wasn't a fiery explosion, more like a loud bang with plenty of white smoke, but it did the job. In the story, a few extra ingredients had to be added to support Truro's invention, but I think I did it justice. As for Guy? Well, he became a distinguished Chemistry lecturer at Warwick University. I always refer to him as professor Clarkson, it brings a smile to his old chops… Many of Qwon, Truro and Susjee's initial exploits in the book capture the spirit of my youth (Hutchy was the third member of our gang). I'll never forget the unsurpassed excitement we three experienced exploring and fishing the rivers and dams in the hills above Kilbirnie. Also, roaming the local forests with our trusty spears, knives, and bows and arrows. Ahhh, salad days indeed boys; the veritible joy of it, the ineffable excitement, just happy, happy days.