Taken from the 1970 Bonnet Guild Festival Guide

Just as real Glaswegians see their city with the eyes of love, and therefore see something that nobody else sees, so do real Stewartonians view their favourite town. I say this because, though I find it hard to believe myself, some people don't like Glasgow. And I understand that some people don't like Stewarton.

Well, it's been my experience that most of the people who say they don't like Glasgow have never been in the great city at all or have just passed through it and no more. I think it's the same with Stewarton. You could motor fairly rapidly through Stewarton and not be notably impressed. Even if you stopped long enough for a meal or a drink, you might still think of Stewarton as a grey wee place with no special character. And how wrong you would be!

I can't really remember the first time I visited Stewarton, so that shows that the place can have made no special impression on me. But I do recollect, not long after the last war, deciding to walk over the Fenwick Moor for a story for my newspaper. To accomplish this I thought the best way was to take one of the many trains to Stewarton and walk across the road to Fenwick and carry on when I got there.

So I took a train to Stewarton on a bright summer's day and was not long discovering the dreadful fact that Stewarton was dry! Walking, I find, is a thirsty business. I looked at my map and could see no comforting inn between Stewarton and Fenwick, so I started walking like mad across the pleasant countryside. Flushed and frenetic I dashed into Fenwick and found that it was dry too. Even today, when I'm driven across the Fenwick Moor, I shudder as I think of that dreadful experience all these years ago.

The next time I remember being in Stewarton was when my wife and I visited friends who lived at Lochridge. But, once again, I hardly saw Stewarton, except for the station, ¹wadays it's the station that's about the last thing you see in Stewarton.

But events overtook me and I found myself getting to know Stewarton better and better. I don't want to go as far as the wee Glasgow man who was seen rushing down the steps of the Kelvingrove Art Galleries during the Picasso-Matisse Exhibition shouting, "Let me out! Let me out! Ah'm beginnin' tae like it!" I'm quite content to stay as often as possible in Stewarton and get to like it better and better.

But here's the point. Most people don't like Glasgow until they're shown round the place by a Glasweigian. I find it's just the same with Stewarton. Some Stewartonians took me in .hand. I don't mean native Stewartonians only. My assessment of a Stewartonian is not whether he or she was born in the place, but whether he or she is devoted to Stewarton. So that means that you can be an "overspill" type and still a Stewartonian.

The Stewartonians who took me in hand were all daft about Stewarton. Their daftness rubbed off on me. ¹w I go around the town looking on buildings and fields and ruins and trees with almost a sense of proprietorship. As the with-it people say, Stewarton is my scene.

To tell you the truth. I'm beginning to get worried. What if, some day, I shed the dust of Glasgow from my shoes and flit to Stewarton? What if the fascination of Stewarton exerts such an effect upon me that I am hypnotised into believing that it is the only place in the world?

No, no-I'm a Glaswegian. I must hold on to that. In fact, I'd better away out to Dennistoun and have a look at a wally close and convince myself and say to myself 30 times, "Stewarton is great, but Glasgow is better." And I hope I believe it!