(Please note that I am writing this 3/2 weeks late, so any omissions can safely be attributed to my imperfect memory)
Scotland? Ah yes, I remember Scotland. Last time I was there, must have been a good 25 days ago, but there are somethings I’11 never forget. Like the day spent on that big mountain – what’s it called -er, Ben something – Ben Craven? No, no, no, that’s not right. Ben Craggy? No, Ben Haggis, Ben Hovis, Ben Nevis! That’s it, Ben Nevis! It’s coming back to me now. We’d been up this really exciting ridge and the. weather was absolutely fantastically incredibly amazing and we got to and we slid down on plastic bags which was absolutely incredibly… sorry? You want to know about the journey home? But nothing happened, did it? It did? I’ll have to go away and think about this…
(Extracted from Conversations with my Conscience, Hull, 1986 (Bic Biro Press)
It was a bright, still morning. White wispy clouds hung low over Loch Cluanie, but they were widely scattered, reticent and introverted, as though afraid to compete with the tentacles of snow reaching down the gullies on the yellow-brown mountain-side. The pale sunshine mocked both cloud slowly but ane: snow, forcing the white fingers to retreat, relentlessly. ever further away from their reflections in the mirror calm loch, bright as a vast pool ofmercury. And surely here, Mercury, the Messenger God, was announcing: “Spring has arrived!” (They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I think I should have waited until I got my photos back.)
At the time though, as I pulled back the curtains to allow the Highland light to flood my bedroom, my emotions were:
- “Gosh, that’s nice.”
- “Pity we’re going home today.”
- “It’s ****** freezing in here, let’s get dressed and have some porridge.”
I got dressed and had some porridge, courtesy as ever of the indefatigable Mr. Minshull. We all then set about the cleaning, trying to resist the lure of the Great Outdoors in it’s most amenable manifestation. After struggling with the recalcitrant’ fluff o n dining-room carpet I gave u p wielding. the one-wheeled hoover and went out to feed my
When the cleaning was finished (well done Janet!) w e gathered round for group photies. Lizzie little reluctant to join the group, being preoccupied with a large male sheepdog which she was busy chasing and biting, I seem to remember that she got into at least one picture. About half a n hour , and many whirrs, beeps, flashes and clicks later, all the photographers were satisfied and we were ready to depart.
The car went first: taking Andrea, lain, Louise and Lizzie as the passengers. We said goodbye and wished Andrea well for her interview at Patterdale Y.H. If all went according to plan, we were to meet Andrea (brought by Amanda’s parents) at junction 36 of the M6 at 7pm, at the same time drop off Amanda. This arrangement seemed most unlikely to work.
Again, nothing much happened before we stopped for lunch, except for some uncertainty about which two bridges should be crossed while sounding the horn in order to avoid seven years bad luck, or some such nonsense. As we drove alongside Loch Lomond, thoughts turned towards lunch. The first place that we investigated had prices to match the Rolls-Royces and Jaguars parked outside, so somewhere with an inauspicious exterior but which proved on closer examination , to be a perfectly adequate cafe. We all piled in and had pies, beans chips (at least, Janet, David, Mark and I did, despite cries of “Boring!” from the other table). I’m sure the conversation was witty, sparkling and memorable, but I can’t remember any of it. After the main course we had cakes and scones – ah yes! I remember they tried in order t o arose because “scone” and “scone” both sound the same (i.e. “scone”) when pronounced in a Scottish accent. Anyway, I couldn’t ask for “scones” because it was a case of help yourself to afters.
When we had finished, some people brought some milk and Phil brought a vampire’s tooth.
Back on the road, we passed through Glasgow without incident. We stopped for petrol, Phil took over the driving, and everybody fell asleep (except Phil, fortunately). For a while we were puzzled as to why various bits of the hillside were on fire, but nobody was sufficiently awake/interested to come up with an adeguate explanation. When we reached Carlisle, we dropped Jane and Tim off at the station. We decided that we just had time for a cup of tea, and went into a nearby establishment (the name of which escapes me) which Amanda thought was nice and Phil and I thought was a product bourgeois capitalism (well, if a place hangs pseudo-cartwheels from the ceiling and sticks lights on them …).
I took over the driving and set off at speed (foot on the floor) down the motorway in an attempt to make the seven o’clock rendezvous. As luck would have it, we got to junction 36 on the dot, and so did Amanda’s mum with Andrea. So the plan had worked perfectly. But what about the interview? W e all got out and greeted Andrea and she said she’d got the job and everything was wonderful and we all said how pleased we were and how nice it would be to go to Patterdale and what was the warden like? and when was she going to start? and…
We got back to Lancaster and took Sarah to the station just in time to catch a train to Manchester. Those of us who were left (Andrea, Janet, David W., Phil, Mark and I) went back to Dave G.’s then got some fish & chips, then went to a pub. Next morning we took the minibus back and got the money back on the tyres and then we all went home and that’s it.
Ian.