Scotland Pt.4

Saturday 8^th May 2010

After yesterdays massive helping of fresh air I slept like a log. I’d got to bed relatively early too, and because of the great nights sleep, when the sun broke the morning horizon and beamed in through the window at just after 5am, I was awake and was raring to go; problem was, everyone else was still in bed. I figured writing was a quiet way to start the day, so I opened up my laptop and scribbled down some words. I’m not too sure that they made much sense though really, something about Goldfish and rubber-bands I think. I pushed the computer aside and then just sort of sat there on the bed pondering life as I do from time to time.

I thought about when I should leave here and get on with getting on. Monday was too close to contemplate, and Wednesday was just too far away; okay, so Tuesday was the obvious choice. That was it then…Tuesday became getting it on day. I also thought about what I’d be doing with myself when I was done with this little jaunt round the continent. Would I simply come back to the uk, get myself settled and back into the work routine for a while; it has it’s merits after-all, like money. Or would I maybe come back up to Scotland and ride right up north to finish off the trip I started last year but got rained-out on? Maybe I could go right up to John o’groats and get the ferry across to the Shetland Isles? That’d be awesome I thought, but then so would be getting on a plane to Cairo to fulfil my lifelong ambition of seeing the Pyramids. From there I could travel to Jordan to see the ruins of Petra, and from Petra I could go northwards onto Israel and the Holy-land. Maybe I could head back to Europe again, Istanbul perhaps; but what about Africa though, or Scandinavia, or the Ukraine and Russia? What about Spain and Portugal? How about Algeria, Morrocco and Casablanca. What the hell, why not New York? It just went on and on, so many places to see, and all the time in the world to see them. After a couple hours of pondering, I realised that the world really is my oyster right now, and that I can do any damn thing I please. That made me very happy, so I jumped off the bed, went downstairs and cooked up a great big breakfast to celebrate my imminent world-wide globe-trotting adventures.

By now everyone else was up too, and the tv was set to the uk election channel, but as politics bore me beyond belief, I went and had a long soak in the bath instead. Well that was my intention anyway, but the hot water ran out too soon, so it was either an ankle deep pleasantly hot bath, or a shin-deep tepidly temperatured bath. I opted for something in between, and stayed there just long enough to get washed, shaved and irritable.

In the afternoon I wandered down to see old Granny May. She’s not my granny of course, but rather, the mother of a childhood friend in Melbourne. We sat in her lovely parlour, eating scones and drinking tea, and reminiscing about times long gone. She showed me the scar on her leg from her recent knee replacement surgery, I showed her the scar on my chest where my heart had been torn from my body. We laughed, we cried, we ate more scones and drank more tea.

By the time I got back up the road I was exhausted. The early morning, the half-cold bath, the tea, the tears, the travel, the Goldfish and rubber-bands had all taken their toll. I walked back into Simon’s place, went straight upstairs and zonked-out for a couple of hours.

About tea-time I was woken by a text from Toby in Somerset, asking when I was heading back down that way. I replied that Tuesday had become get it on day, so I’d probably see him sometime Tuesday night. He got back to me saying he’d have the couch ready for me, and that he hoped I didn’t mind roughing it a bit. Roughing it a bit I thought? If only he knew some of the places I’d slept.

That night I opted for sleeping on the couch at Simon’s place, it seemed only fair to take my turn there too, and besides, I needed to get in practise because couches, benches, tents and sleeping-bags were all heading my way tres bientot.

Sunday 9^th May 2010

Oh god my back is still aching. Even though I’ve spent nights on ferry terminal benches, airport couches and sleeping rough beneath the stars, nothing prepared me for a reclining couch with a solid middle bar that lined up perfectly with my spine. I hobbled off the couch, rammed down a coffee, then went for a walk through Bosnia to get the morning rolls and stretch out the cricks, creeks and cracks from last nights sleep. As I walked back with rolls in hand, I reflected on my earlier impressions of Gorebridge and the fact that maybe it wasn’t really as bad as I first thought. Although the houses still kinda looked the same, I began to notice that the majority of postage stamp gardens were in actual fact quite well tended, and indeed that most of them had Tulips in full bloom, and the wilting yellow remains of Daffodils now moving past their use-by date. There were rockeries too, and here and there I could see that people had put in small vegie patches where lawn had once been. Sure the fag-ends and Iron-bru bottles were still dotted about the place, and the shopping trolley pile by the flats had grown even higher, but on the whole the gardens really weren’t that bad. I could see in through curtain-drawn windows too, and beyond the glass to the window-sill ornaments and vases sporting fresh-cut flowers. Doors were open here and there, and music wafted out on the morning sun, along with the provocative aroma of bacon frying, and freshly ground coffee being brewed. The streets were still lined with cars of course, and the discarded bikes still lay where kids had last thrown them, but the place had a restful Sunday feel about it, and aside from the gentle tones of David Gray’s life in slow motion, the only sound came from the birds chattering and careening overhead. I thought Bosnia had found it’s peace that day, but maybe it was really me.

Sunday morning came and went as mornings generally do, before too long it was Sunday afternoon, and I had a date with a woman to keep. I got myself washed, shaved, groomed, polished and whatever, slipped on some leather, and fired up the bike. Moments later I had Pink Floyd playing through the headset, and I was heading straight into the shining sun; quarter of an hour after that I pulled-up outside this cute little old-stone number in the nearby town of Bonnyrigg. I stepped off the bike, pulled off my shades, walked through the gate and knocked on the door. She answered it, her hair was cropped blonde and urban-grungy, and she looked just as I remembered her from last year; just as she’d always looked, we’d been friends for over thirty years. Her daughter stood right behind her, her long, coppery-brunette hair framing an elfin mischief-filled face. We hugged and friendly-kissed, then made our way into the kitchen where the kettle was boiling and sandwiches lay half-made.

Presently we were drinking tea and catching up on where we’d been and what we’d seen. Sarah told me about her endeavours to become school head-girl, and of her passion for Shakespeare and Othello. She on study break right now and swatting for English and French exams. She’s considering becoming a translator for the UN, or possibly a vet, or maybe even a photographer, or perhaps a model. She’s a smart, funny chick too, and at the end of the day I reckon Sarah could become anything she turned her mind and attention to. Then Eileen’s son Jack appeared, I held out my hand to shake his, then decided it would be funnier to squeeze his nose instead. Moments later he was holding a tissue to it as blood oozed from my over zealous greeting game. He pulled out a BB gun, and we took turns firing it at empty tin cans and milk cartons, but me being me, I couldn’t resist the temptation to start shooting the little plastic balls at his skinny little white bare legs. “Come on Jack” I pleaded, when he yelped and squealed in pain, “it can’t hurt that much surely”. He fired one at the back of my thigh, and even through my jeans the bloody thing stung like hell. I went to grab it back off him, but he had the gun firmly in his hands, and despite my pleas for clemency I bore the full brunt of his vengeance for another dozen shots.

After a couple hours though it was time to get going. I hugged Eileen and told her I’d see her again real soon. I hugged Sarah and told her I’d write on her wall at Facebook, I slapped Jack across the back of the head, then shook his hand and poked him in the eye. The sun had shone the whole afternoon, and the world was a beautiful place. I stepped back on the bike, and headed on home.

The sun was still shining in Gorebridge too, and Simon was out the back putting up a new chicken run; so I wandered out to give him a hand. The Stereophonics drifted in from the garden next door where a bbq sizzled teasingly. We stapled wire onto wood, and screwed wood onto stone as above me the sky of almost-all blue saw the cloud start fast moving-in. We finished the run as rain began to fall. Dinner-time arrived, and then evening bled into night.

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.