(Re-)Discovering Scotland

Scroll down for photographs. Way back in 1989 I hitch-hiked and walked through parts of Scotland. In 2009 I spent a week in dreamy Musselburgh. It was high time to return to see so much more of that beautiful country. Aug 11-14. Edinburgh (or Embra “as our defiantly west coast colleagues call it” according to Saturday plus!). The build-up to the festival is huge. The Royal Mile is abuzz with ludicrously dressed groups of young people from all over the world trying to be funny and creative. Faces awkwardly painted, rather bad music and worse singing, coerced joy and clamour on every corner. A nightmare! As I was booked into a quiet B&B in Blackhall (off the beaten track) I decided to bide my time in that area. Actually, the Hillview part of town was so remote that the cab driver had to ask me for the “push code” in order to find the location via sat-nav. Scottish accents need getting used to. Slowly you tune in and understand. What he in fact meant was the post code (!). And another salient feature of the dialect was omnipresent: “I ken” for “I know”. Auld Reekie is magic when it comes to street vernacular. Lines heard in the Blackhall Lounge (a no-frills, low-key bar mainly frequented by elderly gentlemen and the odd woman at night) include: “Tam’s away down south”.

I ask Jimmy, the barman, if there have been any riots in Scotland. Answer: “No, we’re civilised!” John, 41, who grew up in South Africa, fills me in on the latest gossip and introduces me to the welcoming crowd of punters. No tourists here, for sure. A friendly man points to a pile of newspapers on a barstool and says to me: “Help yourself to the lot”. He talks about “three lassies, two guys”, orders “top please” (denoting a pint of Tennent’s lager with a drop of lemonade). Finally, a twenty-two year old lad strolls in, we have a chat and he informs his mates: “This guy’s a good guy”. A lady stops me outside the pub and asks: “Who’s on the bar tonight?” The barman himself explains to a wealthy golfer placing his orders that “it was quite a busy tea time” (referring to 1730-2000 hours). A short trip to Musselburgh and a long walk from Blackhall to the north-eastern part of town conclude my time in Edinburgh. BTW, in 1859 Jules Verne climbed Arthur’s Seat. In blazing sunshine I wait for the bus to Kirkcaldy, Gordon Brown’s former constituency. It’s pronounced KirCODdee (as if that harsh northern dialect wasn’t difficult enough!).

The bus takes me across the Firth of Forth Bridge and into Kirkcaldy. Scenic. Owing to the length of the high street (1 mile) it is also called the Long Toun. Pretty seafront. Tourist information closed of a Sunday. After two hours it is beginning to dawn upon me that there are virtually no B&Bs and the former hotel is now a dodgy night club. I ask the supervisor at the bus station and he laughs: “Nae hotels near here … nae bother”. I hop on the next bus to Glenrothes, a town with lots of green, about a million roundabouts and throngs of skangers/chavs prowling the streets with pit bulls. The sooner I get out of here, the better! Dundee is next. The Tae Bridge takes me into a decrepit seafront and a pedestrian zone that resembles any faceless German city centre. Express Citylink to Aberdeen. At least I get to see a helluva lot of Scottish landscape. Aberdeen Harbour is impressive, huge ferries look like blocks of corporation flats, in the distance I spy the Ibis Hotel and check in for two nights.

Every single soul in Edinburgh has so far tried to dissuade me from coming to the Granite City; “Aberdeen? Don’t go there”, without providing any explanation. In a nutshell: it’s a beautiful town sporting excellent gastropubs, a lovely breakfast parlour (the beautiful mountain) with many homemade ingredients (cranberry chutney; various oils and dressings). In spite of its portrayal as a violent and markedly gloomy backdrop to Stuart MacBride’s thrillers I thoroughly enjoy my days in Aberdeen (although the first landmark I saw from the bus was a vast graveyard with ancient tombstones and Celtic crosses – welcome to the town of the dead). The barmaid tries to rip me off at my first order, apologises, then I spend some time in the Tilted Wig, mostly by myself, nursing a perfect pint of Guinness, reading the local papers. The pub prominently figures in Stuart MacBride’s Dark Blood (p. 268): “The Tilted Wig was once the exclusive drinking hole of lawyers and their assistants from the Sheriff Court across the road, but […] the clientele had become a little less exclusive. Now they let anyone in.” Including yours truly! An old man (reminding me of Catweazle) strikes up a bit of conversation, a passing man tries to sell me a pipe (!), then asks for “sixty p”, before heading towards the harbour. Strange encounters – they make life (and I get an inkling of how Rankin and MacBride write their fiction – which basically writes itself… you observe and take notes). A few journalists are on about the “UK riots”, although none of them took place on Scottish soil. Everything good is referred to as English. Everything that’s English and bad is referred to as “UK”. If it had been Glasgow or Dundee rioting it would have been labelled “The Scottish Riots”. Language and politics. The Irish know only too well what it means. A random question on a tv quiz show yields the following answer: Lord Byron died of fever in Italy in 1824. Oh, and there are 12 inches in a foot. There you go…

I board the bus for Inverness and the bus driver asks: “You starting your adventure now?!” What does he ken that I don’t? When I mention my last trip to Inverness in 1989 he claims: “It’s a big city now”. Unfortunately, the man is right. I hardly recognize anything anymore, apart from the swelling river and the castle. Place is a traffic nightmare. More tourists than dreams. My B&B landlady recommends the scenic train ride to Kyle and I heed her advice for according to Martin Freeman in Reader’s Digest (August 2010, p. 41) “Life’s too short to do c..p.” Breakfast is first, however, and when the fire alarm goes off, they apologise as “it’s just cooking the mushrooms”. A mousey-looking German woman in her late twenties is reading a boring Scotland guide whilst nibbling on a slice of bread with some cheese. No wonder she’s travelling alone!

First ScotRail employs friendly “hospitality assistants”, we pass verdant highlands, lochs, rivulets and hills, abandoned cottages and hundreds of happy sheep. A few request stops line the tracks, Achnasheen is engulfed in fog, Strathcarron is a tiny hamlet with a hotel, sunshine galore, cloud, wind and drizzle again. The back arse of nowhere is only gorgeous! Kyle at last. It is an honour to walk across the Skye Bridge to Kyleakin where I wait for a bus to Portree. After an hour two ladies appear and ‘abduct’ me on the Stagecoach back to Kyle where I can board a Citylink bus to Portree. If it hadn’t been for them I would have reached my destination, if at all, after nightfall, with poor chances of finding accommodation. Emma from the local Tourist Information books me into a B&B for two nights, followed by two nights at the Rosedale Hotel. The little town is almost fully booked! In the quiet evenings I enjoy watching John Bishop’s Britain. Great accent. Check it out for yourself! Here is what he has to say about hamsters: “A hamster is the most pointless pet. Might as well paint a face on a potato!” Jeremy Kyle insults a few lowlife morons on his show: “You’re a disgrace, both of you!” Great fun…

I walk to Black Rock via Torvaig, climb the hill overlooking the fjord, drink liquid diamonds from the waterfalls and own the whole island until two sulking Germans sit down on a rock formation below. I greet them and recommend the falls. Reply: “Uh-huh”. I wish them a good trip and bid them farewell. Reply: “Uh-huh”. Bugger that for representing our country abroad…

John Bishop delves into the spicier parts of modern comedy: “Being on stage is like getting a blow job from a girl with big teeth. It could be brilliant, but it could go wrong at any minute!” Wonder if he would get away with that on an American show? When a waterbed-sized blonde called Sharleen [sic!!] appears on the screen I turn the tv off. Sleep comes as a merciful blessing that night.

A-level students in England, Wales and Northern Ireland are getting their results. The number of gap students has dropped by 40% as most of them want to get into university straight away. Morton’s Fork was a form of taxation in Tudor times. Do I really need to know? Ian Rankin admits he “can’t even draw a stickman”, but as a bestselling author he doesn’t have to… I learn that “lag” is a British slang term for inmates/prisoners. Anne Robinson excels again on The Weakest Link: A: “Where do you do your artistry?” Guy from Armagh: “In Umgola, it’s a village” A: “Oh, so it’s not a girl!?” The audience cracks up laughing. Sat, Aug 20. On the bus to Uig. Summertime and Celtic twilight. Then the rain comes down in buckets, wind picking up. Two Italian girls in blue jeans insist on alighting at the cliffs. The bus driver warns them: “You’ll fall and you’ll cry. I hope we’ll see you again!” Which we all do, on the bus back to Portree. Soaked to the bones and broad grins on their faces. The wind at Uig Harbour is so strong that I’m having some difficulty slipping a postcard into the letterbox!

Last night on Skye. Kyleakin. Saucy Mary’s. The pub is the hub of entertainment and operates a shop, a backpacker’s and a posh B&B where I’ve got a room for the night. Hardly a car passes, the village is bathed in eerie light, like Ireland it looks different every couple of minutes. Young people enjoy banter and drink, local hard man Hugh (“I’m twenty-one next Saturday”) and I have a chat, he’s ex-army, too, now working on the fishing boats. We get along very well. I meet some of his friends. He appreciates my mingling with the locals. “The other tourists never talk to us!” Bastards! And “You don’t even look like a German”. Lucky me, ha! When we part he insists: “Irishman – you’re more Irish than German!”

A young fella (well, he looks like thirty) is celebrating his 20^th, but he left his own party the night before: “I would either be robbed or not be able to hold my mouth”. In the Gents’ he looks at me and philosophises: “Ye can’t beat the scallops”. I order 6 huge prawns caught hours before – delicious! And at 7£50 a real bargain.

Two guys from Belgium are on about the lousy quality of the Isle of Skye beers: „Horrible!“ I meet Mara, a professor at Seattle University, we talk about Frisco, City Lights, the Beats and at breakfast she sees me off: “Come to San Francisco!” I walk across the Skye Bridge again, dodging the bus, and board the train to Inverness and on to Perth and wend my way back to city life.

The Royal Scotsman is at the station and it’s massive. Dining Car No 2. Observation Car. Crystal and silver on the tables. Peeking into an ancient past. Resurrecting Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, not to mention the Queen. Riding that beauty of a train remains a dream, though.

Aug 23-25. Edinburgh final. The Festival in full swing. I am grateful for my B&B in quiet Newington. A visit to the Book Festival, however, is mandatory. Illustrious names on whiteboards. I recognise two: Ian Rankin and Val McDermid. The former has got the top slot at 20.00, the latter is not here, her books for sale not signed. I end up buying a detective novel by a Scottish newcomer (signed) and a few language guides. Readings, theatrical performances and poetry slams all over town. In the basement of the Royal Oak pub an American student screams and bangs on a bucket, re-enacting Ginsberg, but it’s a far cry from Howl. Better off in the quiet bar upstairs, talking to the waitress. “Ian Rankin? He comes in here, not very often, but occasionally, with friends. He just sits and watches.” Why am I not surprised? The 1.8 mile stretch between the Oak (South Bridge/Infirmary St.) and Craigmillar Park is a haven for retailers and publicans. If you lived in Edinburgh, you wouldn’t have to leave that area at all, since everything is there, from seafood merchants to Asian takeaways, from newsagents and greengrocers to posh restaurants and down to earth taverns.

Dara O’Briain is on the telly again, poking fun at “morbidly obese people”. I enjoy a farewell pint of Orkney Ale in the Cask&Barrel. After a good night’s sleep and a lush Scottish breakfast my landlord wishes me “a safe journey”.

I’ll soon be back.

 

Recommended:

Bombay Feast (award-winning Indian takeaway), 32 Hillhouse Road, Blackhall, Edinburgh www.bombayfeastuk.com

The Rosedale (excellent seafood restaurant overlooking the harbour)

http://www.portreerestaurant.co.uk/index.html

B&B at 45 Gilmour Road, Newington, Edinburgh (quiet, luxurious, fantastic top floor en suite, gorgeous breakfast). Booked via http://www.scottishaccommodationindex.com/

 

To avoid/Things that “pish’d” me off:

Money exchange at a post office – don’t do it, the difference to Money Shop (or any other independent branch) is £13 (for €250 sold). €250 got me £198 at MS; £208 at my bank in Germany; £220 from Barclay’s ATM in Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Nearly all the B&Bs charge an extra 5% for any card transaction; hence they demand cash. In retrospect this would have been cheaper than selling my valuable euros! So you learn… Bring a few quid for day one, then get your pounds from a hole in the wall.

 

On various occasions (e.g. bus to Dundee) I had to share that poor girl’s experience: “The, like, girl behind me keeps, like, saying like, like, every other word. It’s, like, driving me insane.” Txt to Metro, Monday, August 22, 2011, p. 44, signed “Rebecca, like, Dundee”. For all I know she might have been on the same bus! I spare you the other mind-numbing lines…

 

The Prince of India (Portree/Isle of Skye). The worst Indian restaurant in the world. A rip-off. Watery lentil soup (dishwater?), four pieces of (I hope it was) chicken the size of a toenail, three spoonfuls of boiled rice at nearly three quid, a hectic Louis de Funès lookalike who got me seated at a tiny table in the draught. Overpriced muck – place should be shut down.

 

Young pimply lad at a Co-op counter (Portree) who kept asking shoppers if they had a blabla card, all of them being tourists, they said “no”, only to be asked “would you like one?” Tell the eejit I am going back to Germany soon and I don’t need his feckin’ card. Next day he hassles me again. I ignore the stupid question. He keeps on asking till I reply. Should have levelled him one (as no doubt some of my Dublin friends would have without hesitation). Or maybe I’m turning into a grumpy old man…

 

Oh, and concerning Spanish tourists I have this to say: stay at home! (Their English must be the worst in Europe, they always appear in groups, they block entrances and exits and won’t budge, they scream at each other at an abominable volume and they destroy any holiday feeling). Sorry, but that’s the gospel truth…and political correctness is for wimps and politicians.