What can I say about Scott that I haven't already? Well, quite a lot as it happens. So I'll reveal some of it first and then account for the intense 24 hours we spent together before heading off to Glencoe. In the same way that the Banburys and the Eriksens paint a great picture of Scots abroad (in the broadest sense of abroad[1]), the Mckee enthusiasm comes across in their descriptions of great adventures and in the sweeping pictures they paint, literally and photographically. If Scott creates one of his all too infrequent picture stories about North-Eastern Australia or far Western Scotland I immediately want to go there. The very next day. They are the places most people don't usually think of going for a selfie on a bucket list. St Kilda, Okains Bay, Geraldine, a 60s balcony in Port Douglas[2]. There are pictures of the ordinary that somehow don't look ordinary. For our grand tour of Ecosse, Loch Lomond was verboten as was the NC500 and probably Skye. Scott is the consummate salesperson so there was always a good reason and a more beguiling alternative. In fact so many of the beguiling were recommended that we had to sneak past a few of them to get to our daughter Kate's wedding on time. But first we were about the meet Christine and Scott was about to meet Shelley-ann (Shan) for the first time at their beautiful home bursting with the fabled Scottish hospitality. A feast was in preparation. Out came the maps and Scott's seemingly bottomless reservoir of knowledge about Scotland. We knew our next major milestone was to be the Oban to Mull ferry. We didnae make the Arduaine gardens sadly, for reasons that will be come obvious in the next instalment. As the call of the glen beckoned, Christine and Shan decided to leave the old farts to it. A wise but sad decision. The world is a better place for the philosophical decisions we made between midnight and 4 am. I was mightily relieved 3 or 4 hours later when our hosts persuaded us of the folly of attempting to explore the Trossachs in Campy. "We'll go in our car," Scott insisted. What a trooper. "You can set off when we get back. You'll have plenty of time to get to Glencoe." We had a booking to park Campy at the National Trust for Scotland HQ there. En route to the spectacular Duke's Pass, over which I'm very relieved I didn't have to pilot Campy with a tender head, Scott pointed out Lake Menteith. "Only Lake in Scotland," he said with a grin. I wasn't going to be the one to challenge him on that expedition. Lucky me because I eavesdropped a bit of Facebook banter between Mr Mckee and a friend a few days ago (more than a year later) that went something like this: "Some Scottish bloke (I won't mention his name) once told me that Katrine was not a loch but a lake. Or was I still drunk on that early new years day?" quoth Scott's mate. The putdown was quick and merciless: "Naw, that guy I told must have been very drunk, because it’s Menteith that’s the lake ... ." There were Loch Achray and Loch Katrine to come. I mentioned before that Scott tells a story with such enthusiasm it just comes out better without even embellishing the facts. This ship involves an extraordinary story in its own right. I have accredited the pic to its rightful owner[3] and have flagrantly copied and pasted the words below ... SS Sir Walter Scott is a small steamship that has provided pleasure cruises and a ferry service on Loch Katrine in the scenic Trossachs of Scotland for more than a century, and is the only surviving screw steamer in regular passenger service in Scotland. It is named after the writer Walter Scott, who set his 1810 poem Lady of the Lake, and his 1818 novel Rob Roy around Loch Katrine. In 1859 Loch Katrine became Glasgow's main water supply, connected by aqueducts and tunnels to the city more than 30 miles (48 km) away through a hilly landscape. The Trossachs became very popular in the Victorian era, and there were early steamship services on the loch. The Loch is surrounded by wooded mountains, and has romantic historical connections including the birthplace of the outlaw Rob Roy MacGregor. Queen Victoria had a holiday house built overlooking the loch. William Denny and Brothers built Sir Walter Scott as a "knock-down" ship; that is, it was assembled with bolts and nuts at Denny's shipyard at Dumbarton on the River Leven, the pieces numbered and dismantled again, transported in pieces by barge up Loch Lomond and overland by horse-drawn cart to Stronachlachar pier on Loch Katrine and there rebuilt with rivets and launched.[1] Denny's assembled Sir Walter Scott at their yard in 1899 and completed its reassembly and launch on the loch in 1900. All ships in the UK must record a measured mile for seaworthiness. Sir Walter Scott completed its measured mile on the Firth of Clyde when bolted together, before being disassembled, transported to Loch Katrine and riveted together again. Its original cost was £4,269, which included a delivery charge of £2,028.[2] Sir Walter Scott weighs 115 tons, is 110 feet (34 m) long and has a 19 feet (5.8 m) beam. It is powered by its original three-cylinder triple-expansion steam engine and has two locomotive-type boilers[clarification needed] which until the end of 2007 were fired by solid fuel fed into the firebox by a stoker. At a time when most steamers changed to oil-fired boilers, the Sir Walter Scott kept using solid fuel to meet the requirement of ensuring that Glasgow's water supply is not polluted, changing from coal to coke to reduce air pollution. In a refit at the end of the 2007 season the boilers were altered to run on biofuel. During this refit, the superstructure was rebuilt and a forward deck cabin was added.[3] Some consider the modified superstructure an abomination, destroying the classic lines of this Victorian era steamer. The vessel has a crew of five.[1] I can't improve on that, nor can I faithfully reproduce my friends' enthusiasm. The above text came from Wikipedia to which Shan and I make regular contributions so I won't feel too guilty about that, either. As we left Loch Katrine, Shan and I both detected a conspiratorial grin pass between the Mckees, followed by an imperceptible nod. Some obfuscation was involved during the next part of the trip with Scott veering off occasionally on to side roads until we hadn't an idea where we were. Then we walked for a while until he proudly stopped. "Take a look at that," he whispered in Glaswegian dialect half drowned out by a hand held up to his mouth to prevent the announcement carrying too far. Shan was the first to spot what he was on about: Apparently the existence of the tree is one of the worst kept secrets in Scotland but its location is withheld as a matter of national pride by anyone who knows where it is. This is probably a good idea as the area was peaceful and undoubtably a terrible hazard for the unsuspecting cyclist. Returning to the car, Scott and Christine suggested one last detour to the town of Doune. "What is there," we chorused. "Doune Castle," they responded. At this point Christine sensed we were having a mental block. "It's where they filmed Outlander[4]." "I've heard of it," Shan ventured. It was obvious I remained none the wiser, being a complete ignoramus about historical dramas ... "... and the battlement scene from The Holy Grail," Scott nudged the conversation. "You mean Monty Python and the Holy Grail," I ejaculated. "Aye." If you were to ask me to identify my favourite scene from the whole of Monty Python, I wouldn't have to think for more than a second. "Holy shit, that's where they filmed the coconut scene," I exclaimed as the castle came into view. For those who think this place is best known as the filmset for Outlander, indulge us oldies briefly to check out its other starring role ... [5] A year down the line and we'll also be catching up on Outlander. And so back to Campy for us to continue our journey. On our return to Buchlyvie Scott gave us directions to get us back to the most scenic Campy-friendly route to Glencoe. First of all we had to retrace our footsteps alongside Loch Inchmahome. Just stirring. Looking forward to a Mckee hike along our Ridgeway. Would that Cromwell's cannonball, lodged in our Norman church, could be a fossilised coconut. Coming up: A sad place, a mishap, stonking scenery and a proper island. Endnotes:
[1] Anything from the Trossachs to Bordeaux and even Melbourne [2] I made this one up because he never seems to actually say where he is ... it often just unfolds [3] Photo Comp 2018 entry: In Highland Waters - the SS Sir Walter Scott on Loch Katrine in Scotland, by Colin Smith [4] An historical series that had been aired on Channel 4 amongst others [5] I do love a completely pointless argument. The Pythons excelled at them and this was the greatest of the lot
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The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley. To a Mouse, by Robert (a.k.a. Robbie) Burns, (1759 - 1796)[1]. Up the Clyde We had booked our first overnight stop in Scotland, at Culzean, overlooking the Clyde. Our scheme had been to visit Dumfries en route so that we could take in the Robert Burns House museum and I could visit the legendary specialist Whisky and Wine Merchant, T.B.Watson Ltd. We have become quite experienced motorhome travellers so we took the precaution of asking the friendly staff at Annandale if there was anywhere to park. They gave us detailed directions, even consulting fellow colleagues with local knowledge. We returned to our 7.3 metre behemoth with optimism. The A75 would take us right there, we just needed ensure we didn't take the bypass. There was no problem finding the correct exit and I was getting excited. My extant friend, Robbie Burns, had exhorted me to visit the museum and I'd definitely find the appropriate whisky and wine for the call-of-the-glen. It was further than we thought to the edge of the shopping precinct and I forget how many ever-decreasing circles of the town centre I made looking for a parking. There wasn't even a place to stop. A switch in strategy to ever-increasing circles was no more successful and we eventually gave up and rejoined the A75 more than an hour later. Now I know why they are often called ring roads. We still had 130 km to go. Shelley-ann (Shan) and I used to call these Nick Broomfield moments. Burns moments may be more appropriate from now on. The Scheme was to spend a few nights acclimatising to Scotland while overlooking the Clyde Estuary before travelling up it. Looking over to Arran and Kintyre from Culzean (pronunciation anything from "Klane" to "Coolain" ) Despite feeling a tad frustrated as we left Dumfries, our spirits were lifted by the splendid landscapes we crossed during the next few hours. Which all goes to show that the operative word in the quote from To a Mouse is "aft" (pronunciation anything from "often" to "occasionally"). This is where Serendipity comes in. As you can see above, the campsite was worth it. The staff were friendly and helpful and the view was to die for. The next day we walked to Culzean Castle where we joined the National Trust for Scotland as a "senior couple" and learned that many of the hairy cattle we'd been admiring en route were not Ayrshires but Heilan Coos. Believe it or not ye Sassenachs, Heilan Coo is a breed rather than an affectionate moniker. We developed a great affection for these cuddly looking beasts and have bored our friends by involuntarily shouting Heilan Coo at inappropriate moments. We didn't have sufficient courage to test the "cuddly" bit, I'm afraid, but here's a gratuitous picture of Shan with the castle's own gasworks in its picturesque setting alongside the Firth of Clyde. The venerable pile and its gorgeous grounds have a colourful and fascinating history in addition to manufacturing its own gas from coal . If it's more detail on gas production you're after ... Shan and I were feeling virtuous, having walked to and from the camping site to the castle and then around the grounds, a quite hilly round trip of more than 8 km. We hoped, with irritating smugness, that the National Trust for Scotland would be playing its part in the campaign to reduce obesity by discouraging the continuous stream of Range Rover, BMW, Audi, BMW and Volvo fawbefores carting kids around the internal road network. YES. I did say VOLVO. I thought that Volvo owners were supposed to be lithe and hairy and wear Scandinavian woolly jumpers? Not irritatedly tailgating walkers in their diesel guzzling XC90s[2]. The call of the Glen Culzean was a lovely interlude but it was time to move on. Our next scheme was ... I'm going to press a PAUSE button here because I've had an epiphany as to the origins of the word "scheme". Not everyone knows the connections between South Africa and the disaffected parts of the "United" Kingdom. Many disaffected Scots found themselves in remote parts of the Orange Free State, the equally disaffected Boer republic, united in their suspicion of the Ungrish. Irish people, too. Shan's ancestors were Huguenots who ended up in the "Vrystaat" via Ireland (after a few generations). The etymology of the Vrystaat version of "scheme" might originate (bear with me) from the Scottish bard himself. Not many Seffrikin born people of my generation could claim that they've never been challenged with "Vutt is you scheming men ... is youze checking me skeef?" or "Youze scheme youze gratemen"[3]. I've done a few coarse translations of these so I mazewill share them with you: "What are you plotting there, man ... are you regarding me with intent to do me harm?" or "You have delusions of grandeur, man (i.e. greater than my own)". There's a big difference between lazy sentence construction and the added expressiveness of a local vernacular or patois. Hate the former. Love the latter. When in Rome ... OK that's enough of my pontificating peroration, time to press PLAY again: Our previous scheme in Dumfries had gone agley. We needed a contingency scheme vis-à-vis my failure to procure an Islay malt and some reasonably respectable wine. We consulted the site staff who suggested the Majestic on the outskirts of Ayr. It was Sunday and parking outside should be a breeze. It was, although the beverages were safe rather than spectacular, which is what I'd been hoping for at T.B. Watson. We still needed to get to Buchlyvie, having circumnavigated Glasgow. I had visited the home turf of Charles Rennie Mackintosh many times and had travelled East with Scott and others often. Neither Shan nor I had ever been downstream on the Clyde and it had seemed like a good scheme to follow the river upstream from Ayr. I had been poring over maps for months, including ferry crossings at Greenock. Ferries are wonderful things in Scotland and to be embraced in any travel plans. More of that later in this series. It probably comes as no surprise that this scheme had gone agley. We had proceeded through Largs, enjoying the coastal scenery (we do like a good bit of coast) but were halted just short of the appropriately named Routenburn. Route him burned. Shut. Geschlossen. My copilot immediately went into contingency mode and announced that there was a short detour over the hills to Greenock. We just needed to retrace our footsteps a few miles to Largs and turn left. That was closed, too. There was nothing for it but to go to Paisley. Next and only time we saw the Clyde again was when we crossed the bridge to Old Kilpatrick. It was blerrie lekker[4] to see Scott's broad grin as he guided us into the ample McKee courtyard an hour or so later. Flying the flag for Scotland. The somewhat battered McKee Saltyre heralds the view while keeping Campy safe for the night. Coming soon: Avoiding Loch Lomond - it's all a bit Pythonesque. Endnotes
[1] For the full poem please visit the place I found it [2] Apologies to those of my friends who are considerate, safety-conscious, Volvo-owning tree huggers xoxoxox. I'm sure you're sticking pins in my effigy as we speak: "Die you selfish motorhome hypocrite. You are generating enough pollution to poison the whole UK." Fair point. There's no answer to that. Please leave an appropriate comment on my blog. I will genuflect, complete with birching, accordingly. [3] You really need to say these aloud. Phonetically. There is a treasure trove of examples in Ah big yaws?: A guard to Sow Theffricun Innglissh; Malong, Rawbone; Published by David Philip, Publishers (1973); if you want a copy [4] "Very nice" in Akrikaans Serendipit|y n. The faculty of making happy and unexpected discoveries by accident; hence ~ous a. [coined by Horace Walpole (1754) after The Three Princes of Serendip (Sri Lanka), a fairy-tale] ... The Concise Oxford Dictionary of current English - 6th ed The term has become a little bit of a cliché in recent years but no other word would have had its similarly sibilant susurrations alliterating with Scotland. While we did experience Fortuitous Fortrose, as a title it would have excluded many other little gems. Mull was one of the gems. A chocolate box small harbour town on the Sound of Mull, Tobermory was somewhere we'd been planning to spend a while on the Isle. We were having such a relaxing time on the other side of the island we only had time for a quick stop in the car park. Serendipity had intervened, even though we'd extended our stay. Enough of that for now ... we'll come back in a few episodes time. 2019 The last year of the teenies was a huge one for us. Shelley-ann (Shan) retired at the end of March freeing us up to #Roaminate together and April was our first opportunity. Our beloved only daughter, Kate, was getting married in May and Judith, her grandmother, was turning 90 in Hermanus in the Western Cape in June. We'd always wanted to spend some quality time in Scotland and by the beginning of April most of the long range wedding details were set in concrete. If we swanned off for the month in Campy[1], we'd be back in time to help with fine tuning the arrangements The plan was there was no plan. Just get out of Dodge (England) as fast as possible for a 7.2M behemoth. Avoiding motorways. We ended up just North of Buxton on the first day and spent the night in a splendidly bleak site on the edge of Parwich. The village pub was a main attraction but required a stroll down the hill, returning up a quiet lane in the dark. I'll concede that it was quite cold. Madame was not keen to leave Campy's cosy warmth so I resorted to a G&T after chatting to a fellow cyclist, the only other inhabitant of the site, who'd done about a gazillion metres of ascent that day. The next day we determined to sleep North of the Lake District and had to take to the M6 for a while to achieve this. We found a spotless site near Knock in the middle of nowhere where Madame was vindicated by a substantial layer of snow over the North Pennines right in front of us. At least the snow was pretty to look at from Campy's picture window. We could have gone in a more or less straight line from Knock to Gretna Green but were tempted to climb up to Alston, which has claims to be the highest market town in England. It is situated at about 1,000 feet above sea level and rivals Buxton, which makes similar claims and which we'd visited two days before. Some people bag Wainwrights. Campy was bagging market towns. Had our faithful steed known that the route down again from Alston in a North-Westerly direction was closed, Campy might have demurred in the first place but the alternate route took us past Unthank Hall on the upper reaches of the Tyne. This would probably mean not a lot to most people but Shan and I are fans of The Unthanks singing ensemble. In my case to the extent that I'm listening to and being inspired by the group's song Flutter while I type. We arrived at Gretna Green just before lunch but it didn't really commend itself as anything other than a fuel stop and instant wedding destination. We pressed on to the Annandale Distillery where I failed to notice the preceding 1 on the price tag of the 60.2% ABV[2] peated Man O' Sword on a special promotion. I was surprised at what a bargain I was getting for £16.95. I repeated the "b" word to the sales assistant and he seemed to agree. Unfortunately Madame had been absent during the entire transaction. She doesn't drink whisky and had used the opportunity to escape to the lav. She came into the shop as I was proffering my credit card and couldn't believe my male stubbornness in going ahead with the £116.95 transaction anyway. How long has she known me? We decided to compound my idiocy by having lunch in the restaurant there. It was lovely and the people working in it were welcoming and informative so it was a grand entrance to our first major holiday in Scotland. What do Annandale and Milton Keynes have in common?[3] A little bit of background Before we embark on our first big Scottish trip, some background knowledge might be useful. We've always wanted to take Campy on a leisurely stroll through the grandeur that wonderful country offers. But, Campy keeps reminding us it is an almost 1,000km round trip on motorways to the border before we start, which is not very leisurely. We needed a longish break to do it justice. The previous time Shan had ventured into Scotland was in 1983. We had been to a wedding in Shropshire and were staying with friends of my parents[4] in Solihull. Reg, our nurturing host, had planned our 40 mile journey from Solihull to Shropshire for us. Inch by inch. He consulted friends and then invited relatives around to sanity check the route, during which time adjustments were made. You can imagine the deep intake of breath when we announced, the next day, that we were planning to do a more than 2,000 km 5-day trip from Solihull to Wales, the Lake District, Inverness, Edinburgh and back to Henley-on-Thames. It did involve doing a ton on the M1 on the way back in our rented Fiesta. But we made it, including a manic but compulsory stop in Inverness to send Reg a postcard. We also managed 4 overnight stays in Llanbedrog, Buttermere, York and Tomintoul. More of the latter later in this series. This time there were friends and relatives to visit. A "call of the glen", A Viking reunion and many other delights. One of my all-time favourite ex-colleagues introduced me to the call of the glen when I started visiting Glasgow and Edinburgh on business. Essentially, a post-work trip to the pub with colleagues followed by a meal satisfied most of the troops but there were those who needed a post-prandial malt to restore equilibrium. How else was the world to be set to rights? The last time I saw Scott McKee had been some time in the 90s when we'd set the world to rights in an ancient pile near his home North of Glasgow. He sensibly walked home. Struck out across the fields kitted with a head torch. Terrified sheep scattered back into the darkness in fear ... Coming next: Shan and I strike out for the Clyde estuary and beyond Endnotes:
[1] Campy is the silly name we gave our spacious motorhome as a joke and it stuck. To the extent that our friends also refer to it by that name. [2] Alcohol by volume [3] The magenta-ish sign in the first picture says "PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON BELLA OR BARLEY. THANK YOU" The sign is not the answer but please feel free to answer with a comment via the appropriate button below. [4] When we moved to the UK in 1987, Angela and Reg became our surrogate parents. Angela had known Dad since the mid 1940s.
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AuthorMark Harrison - making travelling an adventure Archives
April 2024
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