Charlie Marioni, a deserter from the French Navy in WW1, made a hut here using driftwood using the rock face as the N wall. He lived here for 13 years, then was forced to leave. A local farmer then burned the hut - and the rock has traces of this burning.

THE CULLEN CAVEMAN
Audrey Saunders
When you hear that the kind looking man in this picture, lived in a cave near Cullen, you might be mildly interested. But when you find out that the mystery man had lived there for 13 years after deserting from the French Navy in World War 1, the tantalising aroma of a good yarn starts to tickle the nostrils.

Charlie Marioni did not enjoy French Navy life, so one day when his ship was berthed at Plymouth, he took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. After lurking around the south coast for some months, while eluding capture, he started to make his way over to the east coast before heading north. He used the name of Moodie as an alias.

He must have seen a lot of coastline on his travels, but there was something about the cliffs, 2 miles east of Cullen on the southern shore of the Moray Firth that took his fancy. There was a little crevice in the rocks, too small to really be called a cave, but Charlie Marioni decided he had had enough of wandering. The spot had sufficient potential, he felt, to become home. in its favour was a supply of spring water.

How he fed himself, while establishing his toehold in this remote place is not known. But it was November, 1920, and it would not have been easy. Piece by piece, he collected driftwood from the beach and built a shed-like structure, which had a door with a round window upon the front of his crevice in the rocks.

Scavenging from shipwrecks along the beach, Charlie gathered about him, a stove and other kitchen equipment, and he made some furniture from driftwood. He asked no one for permission to set up home, but as he did no harm, nobody complained. Sadly, this was not always going to be the case – unknown to Charlie, someone had noted his presence and was unhappy about it.

Charlie found that the soil round about him was fertile, so he planted potatoes and other vegetables to feed himself. He ate fish freshly caught by himself and stewed rabbits, which he snared on the cliff faces, so life became a little more bearable. As can be seen in the picture, the vegetables were grown on raised beds, kept in place with stones. Everything was neat and tidy. Now equipped with something to trade with, Charlie went into Cullen and started to earn a few pence selling his vegetables.

No one, it seems, is alive today, who remembers talking to the man, but he was such a famous character in the area that there is a wealth of anecdotal information. Although Charlie was not a talkative type, he was well liked. Once people got to know him from their bartering in town, they started to call on him in his cliffside home while they were out walking. Cullen folk really took to him, and his reputation even spread beyond the boundary of the town.

People began making special trips to see him. He responded by buying himself a fiddle and was reputed to be pretty good. Another of his enterprises was to ask the local chemist to take some photographs of him outside his Cliffside home. Charlie had the photographs duplicated so that he could sell them to interested visitors. Some of the photos are still in existence and show Charlie playing his fiddle or stroking his kittens.

The kittens were his only company during the stormy winter nights when the wind rattled his rustic door, and the salty spray penetrated every piece of clothing. They grew to be his closest friends. When you live in a shed, fixed to a cliff, on land that belongs to someone else, you need all the friends you can get.

Then trouble began brewing on Charlie’s horizon. The shed was built at the bottom of the cliffside, like the top, there was land tenanted by Mrs Murray, who had been uneasy at his presence from the outset. As the trickle of visitors became a regular stream, she became increasingly cross at the disturbance to cattle and crops on her farm. Supported by the local estate, which owned her land, a complaint was made to the authorities that an illegal, unregistered alien, had set up home without permission.

Charlie had lived in his Cliffside home for 13 years, untroubled by the authorities who it seemed, had turned a blind eye to his unorthodox lifestyle. In return, his influence in the area had been wholly benign. But once his presence was officially notified, the authorities had to do something. Despite a strong expression of support from Cullen people, Charlie received an unwelcome visit from the police and was arrested. He appeared shortly afterwards in front of Sheriff More at Banff Sheriff Court charged with failing to register as an alien.

Although Charlie led the life of a beachcomber, he managed to put on a good show in court, appearing in a smart suit and tie. To give Sheriff More his due, it appears that he had considerable sympathy for the hermit, especially when he heard from witnesses how well he had behaved.

Nevertheless, Charlie was fined 20 shillings and ordered to register himself in Banff as an alien. He had come to court with £20 in his wallet, money he had saved up over the years of trading, so the fine was not a problem. But the jolt to his peaceful existence was. Shaken by the rude intrusion into his life, Charlie decided it was time to move on. He told some friends in Cullen that he intended to return to France, But before he left, he had a sad duty to perform.

It would have been cruel to leave his only two companions, the cats, to fend for themselves on the beach, so he kissed them farewell, and drowned them both before walking dejectedly down to the railway station to leave Cullen forever. What a lump must have risen to his throat when he saw the crowd of well-wishers who had gathered to see him off.

As soon as he was gone, someone made sure he would never return – his home of 13 years was burnt down.
Charlie went to Leith to see the French consul about the possibility of
returning to France. It would seem that the answer he received was not promising because he never went. The last heard of the old man was that he was in an internment camp in England, where he died four years later.

Today, visitors to Charlie’s old haunt can still see the remains of his vegetable beds, and his water supply is trickling yet. Of his home, all that remains is a black stain where the fire finished it off.