Pt. 5 Scotland

Monday 10^th May 2010

My intention had always been to return to Somerset from here to drop off the big travel bag and oversized camera tripod that have been languishing in Gorebridge for the past year or so. I was going to leave tomorrow morning, and having reached Somerset, stay there the night, then ride across to Dover the next day; a total distance not far shy of 700 miles. It’d mean spending 10 hours riding to Somerset tomorrow, and another 3 hours across to Dover on Wednesday. Sod that for a game of soldiers; thirteen hours of motorway riding and I’m still in the uk, I don’t think so. So having come to that decision over a coffee this morning, Simon suggested I board a boat out of Rosyth in Fife, and sail to Zeebruge in Belgium. An excellent idea.

I went online and found the Norfolkline ferry site. A hundred and seventy pound on the visa-card later, and I was booked onto the 5pm out of Rosyth this Thursday. It’s a 20 hour boat trip across the North sea and the English channel; a fair distance really, so I can well imagine what the ferry will be like. Based on my past experience of ‘the further the trip the bigger the boat’ I can only surmise it’s gonna be big, probably half a dozen decks from vehicles to roof. It’ll have a fore, and an aft bar, a restaurant, and a couple of duty-free shops. There’ll be two cinemas, a gaming console play room, and probably a quiet lounge area. Amongst all this will be private cabins running along both port and starboard sides, and hundreds of reclining seats laid out jumbo-jet fashion on at least two of the decks, but I might be totally wrong. Either way, I’m now staying here till late Thursday afternoon, then I’m sailing my way to Belgium. What a brilliant way to begin the European trip.

I made a coffee and went outside. The air was totally still, but the sky was the colour of fish. I thought about the Aussie writer Tim Winton, and mentally thanked him for the use of that line, then I sent Lyndal a text telling her about the boat. She sent me a reply that she was drinking a Heathcote Shiraz right at that very moment, and eating white chocolate Tim-Tams. She said ‘talk about synchronicity’. Personally I didn’t get the synchronicity bit, but she also pointed out I’d have 16 days, and over three-thousand miles of riding before getting any real time off the bike in Paris. That’s gonna make for a very sore arse.

But all inspired by having an extra couple of days up my sleeve, I decided to go through my stuff all over again, and see what I could leave behind. Eileen had agreed to keep the bag and oversized tripod at her place till I get back, cuz Simon simply hasn’t got the space anymore due to the chicken breeding thing. So I sorted through and tossed out more of what I previously thought I’d need. Now I’m down to three Jeans, five T-shirts, two pair shoes, jocks, socks and a jumper. I’ve got other bits too though, like laptop, camera, vid-cam, camping gear, cables, leads etc, but I really do need all of that stuff…I think.

In the afternoon I sat in the lounge with Simon talking about our separate experiences in applied-photography. While I was fisting-around doing News pics for the papers, and the odd family portrait here and there, Simon was hiring hot-looking models, and doing glamour shots either in his own studio, or on-location somewhere funky. He went out to a shoot not too far away from here one day. The model was well experienced and really knew her stuff. She offered various poses and outfit changes and prop ideas. Then she started peeling off her gear and showing off what she got. Her husband then appeared and told Simon that he writes articles for porno magazines. “Show him your framed portrait sweetheart” he told his wife. “Aye, good idea” agreed Simon, “Is it a family shot”? He asked all a fluster and not knowing which way to turn. “Not really”. She answered, then ripped off her knickers, sat on the table and put her ankles behind her head, showing off her perfectly framed muff. It was around about then that Simon choked on his tea, flicked off his camera and said it was time to leave. A week or so later he heard a news report about a police bust not too far away from here, on a husband and wife team who were making home-movies and selling their porn. Conceivably, out-there somewhere there’s an episode in a porn flick about an embarrassed and hapless photographer not knowing which way to look.

Tuesday 11^th May 2010

It really was a nothing day today. I got up way too early, and just felt lazy all day. I sat around most of the morning talking about chickens and stroking the dogs. In the afternoon things weren’t much different, with the exception that I rode down the street and bought some Sizzling steak flavoured crisps. That little bit of excitement lasted me all the way through to about six o’clock, when I wandered down to see that murderous old broad, granny-May for the evening.

Granny May is a sweet little old Scottish lady, with a voice like velvety toffee. She wears Tweed skirts and pullovers made of Aaron or Shetland wool, on her feet she wears what Billy Connelly best described as ‘Scone-eating shoes; flat and brown and with just the slightest hint of Scottish-ness about them. Her hair is grey now, but sometimes it becomes blue, or even pink, depending on her mood. When she walks, it’s with a cane, and when she sits, it’s often with pain. She loves to read Agatha Christie novels, and thinks of herself as a Scottish Miss Marple.

I let myself in and wandered into the kitchen where May was cooking something wonderful. I made us both tea and carried them through to her parlour while she stirred and taste-tested her creation. Then she came through, eased herself into her chair, and sat with a wince then a laugh.

The telly was on, and political dribble was streaming from it like regurgitated boredom. “Och I cannae watch this nonsense nae more” said May, flicking the remote and finding something new. “They all need poisoning the lot of them,” she added with a devilish laugh “I know a few additives that’d shut that lot up”. I drank my tea, looking at the tiny oil-slick floating on top of it. She sniggered quietly, and looked at me over the top of her glasses. “There‘s over one-hundred poisons that are untraceable in the human body.” She told me. “Mind you, people nowadays dinnae realise it, the only one you ever hear about is Arsenic, but that’s so old-fashioned, there are much better ones around than that.” “Really?” I asked, intrigued by her murderous knowledge. “Like what?” “Och never you mind that son.” She answered, tapping the side of her nose. “Now then” She started. “Have you had your tea yet, because I’ve something on the go for you out there if your hungry” Then she let out a huge uproarious laugh that’d wake the dead to hear. “You’re kiddin’ aren’t you May?” I laughed. “Do really think I’m going to sit here and eat one of your chemical poison experiments while you sit idly by watching Antiques roadshow and sniggering fiendishly to yourself?” “but I’ve made Stovies”. She offered.

Now I’m not really sure what Stovies actually is, but it seems to be a mostly potato dish, with whatever meat you decide to add, along with onion, and vegetables and a few other bits and pieces. It’s served as a kind of thick casserole I guess, and is a hearty Scottish food, warming and comforting the body much like porridge does.

I couldn’t refuse, I was hungry after-all. So May hobbled out to the kitchen and returned with a large bowlful of steaming hot, and wonderfully smelling food, accompanied by a couple of slabs of thickly-buttered bread. While I dug into the meaty, tasty dish, May watched me intently. “How is it?” She asked, then followed it with. “Mind and clean the bowl .” Moments later it was. “See and mop up all the juice with your bread mind.” And then finally, “You’ll sleep well enough tonight after eating that.” She delivered with the devil in her voice.

And she was right, by the time ten o’clock came I could barely keep my eyes open. I struggled-on through the ghost stories and the tales of Irish ancestors who possessed the gift of ‘Sight’. I stifled yawns –though not of boredom- as May told of her life through wartime Britain; and I stretched out a pre-sleep rigor that threatened to devour me from the inside-out, whilst the whole time old granny May recited recipes for murder, and opening lines from her favourite books.

As I lay back on the couch at Simons place that night, my body felt warm and satisfied. Soon, the best nights sleep enveloped me that I had enjoyed for days. That night as tales of madness, murder, treachery and lost-love swam in my head, I dreamed of a place called Manderlay, and a woman whose name was Rebecca.

Wednesday 12^th 2010

In 2004 the actor Ewen Mcgregor and his mate Charlie Boreman took off on a trip from London. They rode two BMW adventure bikes 20,000 miles across Europe, Mongolia, Russia, Canada and finally through the USA to New York. They called the trip “The Long Way Round”. Since then, sales of BMW’s GS 1200 adventure bikes have gone through the roof, and every biker with any adventure left in his soul secretly hankers after one…me included.

The day started out sunny and mild. I was up early and doing the coffee and fag thing before the rest of the country had really got themselves going. Since Tuesdays ‘Getting it on Day’ had since become defunct, Wednesday had become the new Tuesday, even though Thursday was when I was actually leaving. Either way there was still some thing’s I had to take care of before boarding the boat for Belgium.

Simon went out for the day at about ten, leaving me at the laptop, tapping away at keys and searching through maps of the Alps. I made another coffee, then looked up the phone number for the Dalkeith branch of Lloyds Bank. A very sexy female voice asked me select option 1, 2, or 3 from her list of recorded alternatives. “I just want to speak to someone” I told her, after jumping through her silly hoops for the half doze-nth time . “I’m sorry” she replied “Was that, Open a new Account? Please press One to continue” Faaaaark!! Eventually she decided I obviously didn’t know what I was doing, and put me through to a living, breathing person based in Glasgow. After a few frustrated but polite words from me, he connected me direct to the Dalkeith branch of the Lloyds Trustee savings bank.

“Hi, I’d like to buy some Euros” I told Katrina when she answered the phone. “I’m just making sure I can get them from you before I come in”. “Are you an account holder here sir?” She asked. “No, my account branch is Oxford Street in London”. I told her. “Just a moment then please sir”. And then I was on hold. “How many Euros were you after sir?” She then asked when she remembered I was still there. “A couple of thousand”. I replied. “Just a moment please sir” Then I was back on hold again, while Katrina checked on the banks available balance. The minutes ticked by slowly, then Katrina came back on the phone. “I’m sorry sir we don’t have that amount here at this time, is there anything else I can help you with?” Anything else? She’s keen I thought, I hadn’t even finished with this inquiry yet. “Yeah, yeah, hang on a minute. How many Euro’s can I get off you then?” “Please hold sir”. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. “I’m sorry sir we don’t actually have any Euro’s here at all, we can get them in for you but we’ll require forty-eight hours notice. When do you need them by...oh really, that soon? Perhaps you should try the Post office”.

I pulled on my helmet and blasted eight-hundred and fifty cc’s of twin cylindered pissed-offness across to the nearby Newtongrange post-office, where my request for a couple thousand Euros barely raised a comment. Within minutes I was Euro-cashed and happy. I span the bikes back tyre in celebration, then headed for the BMW garage in Dalkeith, a couple miles further up the road.

A BMW GS 1200 really is the caff de foo-foo of bikes, a real all round performer that can match it with the sport bikes on a race to the country, then leave them behind when the road runs out, and go across the actual countryside itself; pot-holes, mud, gravel, wet slippery hills an’ all. They can carry an enormous amount of luggage too, and being such torque machines, lugging all that extra weight really doesn’t bother them. Aside from all that they’re made by BMW, so the engineering and reliability are second to none.

I pulled into the forecourt of Dalkeith BMW, parked my bike and went inside. There, in full living colour was the bike I’d come to see. A brand-new, ready to roll machine fresh off the press. I wandered around it ooh-ing and aah-ing, dribbling from the corner of my mouth and generally looking quite pathetic. A young salesman approached me. “Nice bike eh?” Stupid thing to say really, of course it was a nice bike. I wiped the slobber off my mouth and began my practised tale of bullshit that I hoped would get me a test-ride for a couple of hours. “Yeah great bike mate, I used to ride one of these back in oz, took it right across the Nullaboor to Perth and back again”.

“Really? me too”, he fired back immediately. Bugger, that wasn’t supposed to happen, what are the chances of that? I quickly countered with, “But I’m off down to Rome now, then back up along the Rivierra’s before a chill-out week in Paris, can’t wait to get going.” He did something strange with his lips and nodded his head a few times understandingly. “When I get back from this little jaunt though” I went on. “I’m heading back to oz via the middle east and Pakistan, India etc, and the only sensible way to do a trip like that is on one of these…isn’t it?” He couldn’t agree more, fifteen odd thousand miles of good roads, bad roads, and questionable terrain were what this bike was made for. I lifted the big brochure type price tag that hung teasingly from the handlebar. 13,499.00 inc VAT and on-road costs. “I take it that price is negotiable” I told him. “No” he answered simply, “But if you want to put a five-hundred pound deposit on it today, I’ll throw in the panniers, top-box and tank-bag, that’s a saving of nearly eight-hundred pounds on genuine BMW luggage. “Oh that’s pretty good” I said nonchalantly, like these amounts of money were neither here nor there to me. “So if I was to walk in here with a fist-load of cash” I tried again. “You wouldn’t be able to do some sort of price deal for me…really”? Smile, wink, nudge, nudge. “If you want to walk in here with nearly fourteen thousand pound in cold hard cash” he said, “I’ll not only throw in the luggage like I said, but I’ll let you take the bike home with you too” Ha-ha, very bloody funny smart-arse. “Normally I’d offer you a test-ride” he said, “ if your serious about getting one, but since you’ve had one before our policy states that once you’ve ridden one, there’s no need to test-ride another one because you already know how good they are. We don’t need to sell the bike, the bike has already sold itself.” Fuck, fuck, fuckitty-fuck, I’d blown it. I asked him for a business card anyway, and waffled some rubbish about coming back in when I was actually ready to buy. He asked me over to his desk and fished out a card. “What are these?” I asked, pointing to the little plastic things on his desk. “Golf Tees” he replied. “Really, and what exactly do you do with them?” I asked. “Well you put your balls on them when your about to drive-of” He answered. Well fuck me I thought, BMW really do take their driver comfort seriously don’t they?

I got back to Simons place and regaled him with my tale of motor biking woe. He just laughed and called me a dickhead. That night I treated the family to a nosh-up from the local chippy. Then I repacked my stuff all over again, and mapped out my route through France with a highlighting pen. By midnight, the nerves were jangling, and the pseudo-macho ego machine had taken over; I was less than a day away from conquering the world, and wanted everyone to know about it. Matty rolled a joint, took me outside and got me stoned. Within minutes, I was wobbling up the stairs to bed, singing melancholy love songs.