Last Saturday...

[rhythmaning]

Last Saturday, I drove across to the west coast to visit some old friends, my never-christened-godson, and the mother and sister of my cats; these were all at the same place, a small hamlet called Skipness, at the end of a road on Kintyre, overlooking the craggy mountains of Arran. Kintyre is the scraggly bit that droops down into the Irish Sea. (Apparently, Kintyre used to be used as a test of law as to whether images of men were pornographic: anything more erect than Kintyre was censored.)

My friends moved back there during the summer; M, who I have known for more than twenty years, grew up there (when she wasn’t at an English boarding school).

It was a good drive (with a soundtrack on the way there of Lloyd Cole [Mainstream], The The [Mind Bomb], and the Dedication Orchestra [Ixesha/Time], in case you were interested); my wife had decided not to come, struck down mid-week with asthma, so I was chanting loudly to myself. It is a drive I have made a few times recently – the ferry to Islay (file under: magical islands) leaves nearby Skipness, and we were there in September, and then across to Skipness in November, too. It is a windy (curved) and a windy (blowy) road; past Tarbet on Loch Lomond-side, there are few straight bits, and lots of slow drivers (and I have no doubt that the locals would classify me as such, though that doesn’t stop them tearing past me on blind corners). The Alps – the Arrochar Alps, that is – were snow-covered, and glistening in the lunchtime sun. The road snakes in the wrong direction for a while (going north when I want to go south; it probably even takes me east somewhere), following the coast up and down loch, then cutting across an isthmus so that the sea is now on the other side.

There are some beautiful old bridges by Inveraray (where a sign proclaims: Inveraray Jail – Open All Year; I bet the crooks loved that), one of them still in use, a tall whale-back that takes the cars down to single file before they glide into the white-painted village. A little further on, at a small village called Minard, the road again becomes single file: I can’t help thinking that some curmudgeonly householder inflicted this on the driving public, refusing to sell a yard of land that the council needed to widen the road: so for the length of their house, the cars have to wait for each other to pass, controlled by their very own traffic lights. (I am sure that f4f3 will tell me why the road really narrows at this point, but I quite like my version; I imagine the curtains twitching as I am halted by the lights, a voice behind the window saying, …got another sassenach bastard!)

Past Lochgilphead, Lochgair and Ardrishaig, where the brightly painted pub has boarded windows. A lot of the coastal villages have brightly painted buildings, lots of deep blues, yellows and oranges; in others, like Inveraray and Lochgilphead, all the buildings are white. For long distances, the road hugs the coast; I wonder what it will look like if global warming really does raise the sea-level – by only a couple of metres, let alone the ten metres that has recently been discussed.

When I first drove this road, there were no roundabouts in Lochgilphead; then one appeared at what used to be a t-junction, allegedly because people went to Lochgilphead to take their driving test – which stipulated that drivers had to navigate a roundabout; now there are three on the main road in the village.

Tarbert (not Tarbet; it can get a bit confusing, this road), another brightly coloured village on an isthmus – in fact, there is Tarbert on the east coast and West tarbert, a mile or so away on the west coast (the name Tarbert is derived from a Norse word meaning “where to drag the boats across”, or something like that; it is a common village name in Scotland).

From just south of Tarbert, the road to Skipness is single track, but not too busy; it has a few sharp curves, and some steep hills as it climbs back over Kintyre from the west coast to the east, and some blind corners. The law states that there is always a car around the blind corners, and it is always going too fast (I bet they say the same about me); it is probably the same car, just waiting for me each time.

At Skipness, I got a glass of wine and put another sweater on, and settled down in front of a fire and the tv to watch Scotland beat England at the rugby. I wasn’t conflicted at all: I was definitely supporting Scotland this time, disliking the arrogant bias of the English commentators and the smugness of the team. I wasn’t expecting Scotland to win, since they often don’t. I know little about rugby – they have changed the rules since I had to play at school, and I didn’t understand it even then (preferring to keep a safe distance between the ball and me, whilst running around sufficiently energetically to stop the games master shouting at me; this could be a metaphor…).

So I sat with S whilst my not-godson ran in and out. though mainly out; everyone else seemed to be off riding horses.

After the rugby, we went to a “concert party” in the village hall: a Gaelic choir recital. I doubt this part of Scotland was part of the gaelteach (apologies if my spelling is awry), Gaelic-speaking west coast, though the concert master introduced on song as coming from Campbeltown, the whisky-producing town that is the main centre on Kintyre, so I could be wrong. Most of the songs were mournful, concerning loss and remembrance; sometimes, longing and abandonment were thrown into the mix, too. It was quite a beautiful sound, either just voices, sometimes with a guitar or harp. This was a first for me: I don’t think I have heard Gaelic singing before. The choir were from Stirling – definitely not part of the gaelteach - though the singers were mostly brought up on Lewis and Skye – places rich in longing and abandonment.

It was a clear, cold night; and the house was cold; despite a hot-water bottle, I had to put on layers when I went to bed, and I still had cold feet. There was an old toy castle stacked on top of the wardrobe in the bedroom.

Sunday was a beautiful, clear day, and I helped M and the kids build some jumps for a riding lesson later in the day. Actually, they built the jumps and I kind of wandered around, taking pictures of the ruined castle and the ruined chapel and the Norman stones it contains. There are a lot of animals there; several horses, ducks, geese, chickens, guinea fowl, turkeys; there used to be goats, too, but I didn’t see them this time. And then there are the wild birds, oyster-catchers wheeling in the air by the beach. I couldn’t help thinking that if anywhere was ripe for avian ‘flu, it was here; in fact, I was thinking that as I ate my breakfast of goose-egg scrambled eggs. Another first: I don’t think I have had goose eggs before; they were rich and yellow, and rather nice.

I wandered round the garden, pottering about, until it was time for the riding lesson, which seemed like a good time to head home – it was just a flying visit.

The weather was beautiful for the drive back. (Music? Edwyn Collins [Gorgeous George], Prefab Sprout [A Life of Surprises], and the Clash [From Here to Eternity – Live] – ah yes, the Clash: I was shouting loud for the Clash!) The mountains were clear, it was wonderfully sunny, and I couldn’t help thinking I should have been heading south to the long beach at Machrihanish than east back to Edinburgh. South of Tarbet – on Lomondside – the police held up the traffic: they were transporting something; I don’t know what it was – people, perhaps, or nuclear waste maybe – nor where it came from: it came onto the road at a small junction, before the Helensburgh turnoff, before the dual carriage way. Whatever it was, the police were sticking with this truck, three police cars – one in front and behind at all times, and the third stopping anyone doing anything else. They were effective: the spare car racing ahead to shut down junctions, and then following on, holding up the traffic; on the dual carriage way, the police drove two abreast, stopping anything overtaking. So it was a slow crawl to the Erskine Bridge, trapped behind a police escort.

Comments

[itchyfidget.livejournal.com]

That's very evocative, thank you :) Driving around Scotland is one of my favourite things ever :)

[f4f3.livejournal.com]

Thanks for putting a smile on my face. I drove back up from Ardrishaig yesterday morning, not so clear and bright, but with empty roads for most of the way, and I always seemed to catch up to the inevitable timber lorries just before a straight.

The single carriageway at Minard is quite new. I'm grateful to it, as I once had a puncture there, and if it wasn't for the convenient verges then I'd have held up traffic to Campbeltown while I was changing my tyre. When it was two lane, the slightest thing (like a lorry meeting another) could block the road, and I don't know if you noticed, but there's a school entrance on the South side of that little stretch, which must be much safer now. Or maybe they just had to put in a traffic light for drving tests - the only other one on the road is at that bridge in Inverary.

You might well have been behind nuclear waste, or even a decommissioned warhead or two. That junction heads straight over the hills to the naval base at Faslane. The road was straighted to take lorries carrying cruise missiles a decade or two ago, and makes a lovely longcut onto the A814 to Arrochar. It adds about 15 minutes to the journey, but on a clear day the views from the missile-friendly layby overlooking Faslane are stunning, and the 814 up alongside Loch Long (is it Loch Long there?) is a great roller-coaster full of ovine speedbumps (Frankie's K: Well done on missing that sheep! ME: What sheep?)

Ah, longing and abandonment, the Western Isles primary export. When I was clambering about in Crinan Woods on Monday I came across two ruined crofts that I keep meaning to explore, and walking on Sunday went past Kilmory Orb, a long deserted village. All lost to the white plague, when the lairds replaced tennants with more profitable sheep.

When does the Skipness seafood shack open again? I'll be down looking for some prawns and maybe a pot of mussels.

[rhythmaning.livejournal.com]

When does the Skipness seafood shack open again?

The last weekend in May, apparently. We'll be there sometime after that too...

[rhythmaning.livejournal.com]

Thanks for the bit about nuclear waste - I had suspected that. Kind of sad, I think.

I have often seen Hell's Glen marked on maps, and though I really must go there, but I never have. Maybe next time someone tells me to go to Hell.

There is something about the names around Arrochar: Rest and Be Thankful always makes me smile.

[f4f3.livejournal.com]

One of life's great pleasures is stopping at the bacon butty van at the top of the Rest and ejoying the view while tucking into something fried.

[unblinkered.livejournal.com]

*sniff* Missing Scotland now......