Few people take epoxy resin adhesive on holiday. Fewer still have occasion to use it on the first day. I'd put my sunglasses down on a bridge parapet, and, predictably, sat on them. “Lucky I brought the Araldite, eh dear?”
My wife informed me that this little incident had convinced her our two weeks in Scotland would either make or break our marriage. Knowing me as she did, she'd immediately become resigned to a fortnight of lurching from one minor disaster to another. I tried to reassure her. We had in prospect a highly enjoyable tour around the most spectacular parts of the British Isles. The weather was glorious, the car had just been serviced, all B & B bookings were confirmed - what could possibly go wrong?
To me it seemed a reasonable point of view as we gazed down at the brown trout languidly making their way along the River Bladnoch near Wigtown. Next day, having moved on to Base Camp 2 at Helensburgh, we were more adventurous and decided on a swim in Gare Loch, undaunted by the nuclear submarine base only a mile away. Upon returning to the layby we were confronted with the sight of a locked car, with the keys smirking at us from the rear parcel shelf.
I swear that the pied wagtail observing my increasingly violent efforts to open the small, hinged window (the car was an Austin 1300, built in 1969) had an amused, “Another silly Sassenach tourist” look about him. At least the sun was still shining.
The window succumbed, miraculously without the glass breaking. We motored on, eager to reach Loch Oich and our first shared experience of camping. We'd planned about four nights under canvas to reduce costs. Forgetting the tent pegs was no problem, I assured my long-suffering partner - there were plenty of screwdrivers in the tool box. I was looking forward to exploring the path of the old Fort William to Invergarry railway at the side of the loch.
The ravages of both time and the Forestry Commission had obliterated all signs of the railway, which I later found had closed just before World War One. “Never mind, dear,” I consoled Avril, “let's go for a drink. There's a hotel just up the road.”
It was during this four-mile walk that we saw the first of very few wild animals of the holiday. The young deer lay at the side of the road, sightless eyes accusingly fixed on us. We offered a silent apology on behalf of our car-worshiping species and continued on our way. Avril was understandably thirsty when we reached the hotel, so I treated her to a pint of keg heavy (apparently the Scots term for bitter). She insisted we sat outside.
One of the few pleasures to compare with sipping beer al fresco on a warm summer evening in Scotland, is emerging from a tent the next morning and washing yourself in an icy-cold loch in brilliant sunshine. The sense of freedom is total. Birmingham, our home city, seemed light-years away. Even the noise from the R.A.F. Tornadoes racing down the Great Glen only gave a momentary sense of the end of the world. We struck camp and headed west.
The Isle of Skye has been eulogised so much there seems little to add. Suffice to say that a visit should be the aim of everyone who calls himself a discerning traveller. Few other places seem to provide such a deep sense of peace, tranquillity and escape from the pressures of everyday life. What induces this feeling is hard to fathom. Unlike Iona, Skye has little direct spiritual significance. It undeniably has far more visitors that most Hebridean islands, which can make some areas uncomfortably crowded. Since the opening of the bridge linking it with the mainland, it is no longer even an island.
Perhaps Skye's appeal lies solely in its sheer beauty, or the romantic association it has with Bonnie Prince Charlie. At any event, it was significant that during our three days in this gem of a place nothing whatsoever went wrong. Even the sun kept shining - until we drove onto the ferry back to Kyle of Lochalsh.
Week Two was far more typical of Scottish holidays. It was as if the rain, having been unavoidably detained, was intent on redoubling its efforts to ensure we didn't go home with a false impression. The damp began to affect the car, resulting in most of a morning being devoted to working under the bonnet in our landlady's garage. At one point I looked up to glimpse a pine marten watching me with a quizzical gaze. Or was it a stoat? It chose not to tarry - a rapid shake of whiskers, dislodging a sparkling shower of droplets, and it was gone.
That evening the rain paused awhile and we made the short trip to the shore of Loch Carron. The sun was sinking behind the mountains of Wester Ross. A gentle breeze rippled the surface of the loch. The last train of the day rattled by on the opposite bank, heading for Inverness. I switched on the car radio, hoping to find a local station playing suitable music to enhance the mood. It was, however, tuned to Radio One, which was playing "Pretty Vacant" by the Sex Pistols. The scene abruptly became decidedly less idyllic.
Our remaining time north of Hadrian's Wall passed quickly, and was becoming an anticlimax. Further nights camping were out of the question; we spent a fortune telephoning landladies, desperately arranging extra nights' accommodation. We covered most of the country, resulting in much of our experience of Scotland being through the car windscreen - not, of course, an ideal way to see anywhere.
Ironically in a land full of natural wonders, the fortnight culminated in the crossing of the River Forth. First-time drivers should proceed with caution at low speed. Not that the road bridge is unsafe - far from it, but your first view of the neighbouring cantilever structure (THE Forth Bridge) genuinely takes the breath away. Observation is best from the walkway of the road bridge - it's well worth stopping in North (or South) Queensferry and walking halfway across, lingering to let the scale of the thing wash over you. Is it its sheer size? Or the intrinsic beauty of those three colossal steel diamonds laid end to end? Or the ghosts of the 57 men who died building it? Whatever it is, I defy anyone with a trace of a soul to be unmoved. The Forth Bridge seems to sum up both Man's ingenuity and the indomitable nature of the human spirit.
These musings were suddenly interrupted by my sunglasses, which I was absently twirling as one does, slipping from my grasp and tumbling gracefully into the Forth 160 feet below. It seemed fitting to end the holiday much as it had begun. Avril just looked at me. “Hasn't been TOO bad, has it?” she said. It hadn't. what's more, our marriage is still going strong 30 years later.
