Scotland Pt.3

Thursdasy 6^th May 2010

The road that cuts from the A68 through to Haddington reminds me of the road that joins Stranrar to Dunfries on the west-coast.. Both I’m sure were designed by a biker, as both have these lovely long, sweeping, high-speed bends, and little curvy here and there’s to keep you on your toes. I blasted my way eastward, revelling in the power-charged buzz. Within ten minutes I had fuelled up at Pencaitland, and within ten minutes more had booted the bike through to the postcard town of Haddington, and over it’s ancient bridges that straddle the Tyne. I wound and weaved my way onwards. On to the high-speed A1, past the solitary and enigmatic ‘Long Stone’ and then a couple miles further along onto the left-hand fork that leads into East Linton. I parked the bike in the forecourt of Torness motors, gave the mechanic my paperwork and keys, and made myself a coffee in the waiting room. Within minutes the bike keys were back in my hand along with a shiny new MOT certificate. “Spot on” he told me, “Not a thing wrong with it, see you next year”. I fired up the bike and rode back towards Gorebridge through a fine veil of rain. By 9.30am I was sitting on the couch, twiddling my thumbs and wondering what to do with the day, a fishing trip’d be good I thought.

But it was kinda driizzlin’ and chiily like Scotland knows best, and being all Antipodean as I am, I don’t do cold and wet very well. I decided the fishing could wait another day, and went upstairs to have a look at my latest accumulation of clothes et al instead.

How many pairs of jeans do you need for a five-week trip I wondered, is seven too many? I decided it probably was, but since I’d just pulled another two pairs out of my sodden rucksack just yesterday, I figured I wasn’t really to blame for being too ambitious on the jean front, nonetheless, something would have to go. Twelve pairs of socks too many? probably. Nine T-shirts? way too much. A pair of hiking boots, two pairs of dress shoes and one pair of trainers? definitely outa bounds, especially the dress shoes, even more especially as I wasn’t actually packing a suit or anything that even resembled formal attire. When I get back to Somerset on my way through to Dover, things are gonna have to get dumped. I looked at my fishing rod leaning quietly in the corner. “Yes, I know” I said, “ I’ll take you out tomorrow”.

As the day wore on and the drizzle slowly abated, I again thought about putting a diary of my travels up on the web. I contacted this friend I got called Bendy-chick, who runs a graphic art design and greeting card company. We swapped a few e-mails to toss the idea around, then eventually she put me onto this blogging site, shoved me in the right direction and told me to get my finger out; and so I did. I spent the evening putting together a new online presence, and getting myself all blogged-up. Then, when I’d written what I thought was a decent account of what I’d done so far, I selected ‘Select all’ from my e-mail address book, and pressed ‘Send’. Not much happened at first, then I got an e-mail alert telling me I was sending in excess of 500 e-mails, and as such it was probably classified as SPAM. I then got another e-mail from google telling me my account would be frozen for 48 hours while they checked out what I was up to. I should have gone fishing instead.

Friday 7^th May 2010

It occurred to me when I awoke that it had been a week since I’d given up work, and tentatively started out on this journey I was on. How was I feeling about it all I remember thinking as I opened my eyes in the pre-dawn light of day. Pretty damn good actually, was about the best I could manage in my pre-caffeinated state of just-arose. I fell out of bed and wandered downstairs to infuse myself with wake-up juice. Simon was finger-picking his Ukelele, and strumming out ‘Autumn leaves’ as I entered the lounge-room. I made us both coffee, then went outside to ram down a fag. Yeah I was feeling pretty damn good alright, rested, fed, relaxed and happy; just what my soul had ordered. I sucked in another lungful of smoke, and swallowed the last of my coffee.

“I was thinking about going fishing today” I told Simon, as he plucked out Peter Gunn. “I might head down the glen for a couple of hours, see if I can catch myself a Troot”. Then I wandered off to the local corner-store to get some things and bits.

Walking from Simon’s place to the local shop always makes me think of what it must be like living in Bosnia. The houses themselves are small, bland, featureless, flat-faced, pebble-dashed affairs with postage stamp gardens decorated with cigarette ends and empty Iron-Bru bottles. The blocks of flats en-route are the local domicile for the drugged-out and aimless, whose only pastime seems to be collecting shopping trolleys and piling them up out front. The streets are crowded with broken-down cars, and discarded bicycles. The small triangle of park close-by the shop is so well trodden that the once tree-dotted and grassy landscape is little more now than a vandalised and compacted mix of ring-pulls, fag-ends and dirty gravel; I arrived at the shop. A tortured youth with pimples for skin accosted me as I walked to open the door. After several attempts at communication I worked-out he wanted me to buy him ten Lambert & Butler. He pressed three pound in questionable coins into my palm, and I headed inside to gather my bits plus his cigarettes. Should I really be contributing to the local delinquency I wondered as I paid for his smokes? Probably not, but then I remembered being a kid too, and how vitally important these things are to your street-cred. I came out of the shop and tossed him the packet. “Good onya cobber” he ventured in pure Gorr-brig droll, with a friendly, big-toothed smile. “No worries sport” I replied in my best dinky-di. “You have yourself a good day yeah”. I walked back along the road, and the sun began to shine.

The phone buzzed, it was a text message from a woman I knew. I heard you were in town, it said. Come up and see me sometime. I quickly replied that I’d be over on Sunday afternoon, then I wandered upstairs, grabbed my fishing gear, and went outside and strapped the rod onto the bike.

Ten minutes ride from here is the Esk river. It flows from way up in the southern uplands, near to where the rivers Tweed and Clyde also have their source. Unlike it’s bedfellows though, the Esk no longer supports the great runs of Atlantic Salmon that it did a hundred years ago; it does however, enjoy a good population of healthy, good-sized Trout. It flows through a woodland Glen of Spruce trees, and fir and bracken. Granite boulders laze here and there as sentinels guarding a sacred place; and the air is clear and refreshing; kinda like Abba in a Volvo.

I parked the bike and wandered steam-side to see what I could see. The water was low, fast-flowing, and clear as Gin. The sun that shone brightly now was dancing on it like woodland sprites at an ecstasy party. My head blurred for a moment as it caught me full swing, making me giggle, making me high. The river was alive and filling me with it’s energy. I couldn’t wait to get started. I tackled-up quickly and selected a fly, then cast it to a likely looking spot and watched the fly drift down on the current. I re-cast to the same spot again and again, there just had to be a fish down there somewhere. Several casts later, I was searching out another likely run.

Two miles of tramping over bracken paths and fallen trees, four lost flies, a stumbled and grazed knee, and countless tangled lines later I resigned. I sat by the river, smoked a cigarette, and watched it do it’s own thing. I wondered if they had rivers like this in Bosnia. Places where you can hear your heart beating, and feel the life of the land. I was mesmerised by the perfection of the world all around me, although the Trout remained unimpressed by me. I bid a thankful and peaceful adieu to the Esk, and climbed back aboard my steed. Before too long I was chomping on thick Lentil soup, and watching politicians argue about the state of the country.

The day had been great, though nothing too great had actually happened. I stood outside at night and smoked my day’s last cigarette. Above me the stars were out in their millions and I could see beyond forever; way off into eternity.