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.

In December of 1987 we drove to Nuremberg where we marveled at the largest Christkindlmarkt seen anywhere in the world. This traditional outdoor shopping market was usually in the town square. We could hardly walk between rows of shops, stalls, and kiosks. For every shop, there were three Essen kiosks, offering many German delicacies to eat, with plenty of good, cold, German beer, or nice, hot Gluhwein, to wash it down.

We sampled the Bratwurst, Germany's hot dog; the Frichedillen, Germany's hamburger; the Erbst Zuppe mit Brat, pea soup with sausage; and the Kartoffel-Pfannkuchen mit Apfel-Soße, potato pancakes with apple sauce. The Schmaltz Brot, bread covered with a thick layer of fat was not my wife's favorite. Our finest purchase was made that evening, a Nuremberg Angel for the top of our own Weihnachten Bäum, Christmas Tree, also referred to as Tannenbäum. When we returned home, we completed preparations to visit the United Kingdom.

We entered London by way of Tower Bridge. We had left the Manheim staging area at midnight and drove helter-skelter through Belgium to board a night-time ferry across the English Channel to arrive in Dover early this morning. I cringed as I watched our bus travel on the left side of the road. We think the Brits drive on the wrong side of the road, while the Brits claim they drive on the right side, which is the left side.

The famed Tower of London was not a single tower as I had imagined, but was a walled-in fortress with several towers and dungeons. We were greeted by a Yeoman Warder, a Beefeater, a retired British soldier. He talked with a Cockney accent I could barely understand. I turned to my wife and said facetiously, “When I look at our guide, all I think of is a bottle of gin.”

The Beefeater conducted a great tour, including the Crown Jewels; recounted fabulous stories, of which I am not certain half were true; and introduced us to the ravens strutting in the courtyards. I looked furtively at my wife and asked warily, “Do you really believe, my love, that when the last raven leaves the Tower of London, the Tower will figuratively self-destruct?”

As in Paris, we did it all in London, including St. Paul's Cathedral, a Christopher Wren masterpiece, where we entered the Whispering Gallery, an acoustic playground, under a 365-foot dome. I faced a wall at one end of the Gallery and whispered. “Can you really hear me?”

My wife was facing the other end of the Gallery and she replied, “Loud and clear.” I heard her without turning.

We spent a day at Windsor Castle, where we took in The Royalty and Empire, Madame Tussaud's fascinating exhibition recreating the magnificence of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee celebration of 1897. The Windsor and Eton Central Station was the original site to which her guests were brought by royal train from London.

Back in London, we toured Westminster Abbey, across the street from the Palace of Windsor on the banks of the Thames River. The Palace contained the Houses of Parliament, and featured the largest square tower in the world, and the more famous clock tower, Big Ben. When Big Ben struck the hour, I glanced at my watch and said jokingly, “Big Ben is three minutes slow.” Cater corner from the Palace stood Westminster Abbey, where every English monarch, except two, were crowned since William the Conqueror in 1066, longer than nine hundred and twenty years ago.

We joined thousands, Brits and tourists alike, jammed against the outer wrought-iron fence at Buckingham Palace to observe the changing of the guard. We tried, in vain, to get one of the guards, resplendent in his red coat and huge, black, beaver shako, to smile. So I just took a picture of my wife being dwarfed as she stood beside him. We drove by Downing Street. The Bobbies would not let us anywhere near #10. But we peeked at the Horse Guards, magnificent in their red-and-black uniforms and feathered helmets, sitting intensely still with saber drawn in front of Whitehall.

While in London, we ate the typical Big English breakfast, with enormous sausages, fried eggs, baked beans, fried potatoes, kippers, and huge breakfast rolls. But we skipped Tea at the Ritz because I would not spring for nine and a half pounds, $16.00, to gorge ourselves on cucumber sandwiches, scones, and strawberry tarts. And I would not substitute the Brit's tea for their beer, not with London's famous pubs at hand.

We did a pub crawl one evening, eating pub food, and drinking pub beer and ale. My wife wagged an index finger at me as she said grimly, “There are more than seventy thousand pubs in the UK. Are you trying to drink a pint in each one?” She poured me into bed that night

We went to Beefeater's for a medieval, five-course banquet, with unlimited wine and ale. Henry VIII was, of course, present to pose for pictures. And we shouted ourselves hoarse when the jousting began.

During free time, we dashed through Harrods, cruised through Piccadilly Circus, and shopped on Oxford, Regent, and Bond Streets. On the last street, we spotted a window sign that read, “English spoken here. American understood.”

We wandered through Madam Tussaud's Wax Museum on Marylebone Road. My wife winced in the Chamber of Horrors and her jaw dropped upon learning that Marie Gresholtz Tussaud, while imprisoned in Paris during the Reign of Terror, modeled heads of famous persons using heads from decapitated bodies to make death masks.

Early one morning we ventured out to Portobello Road and Petticoat Lane for shopping in the street. Then we walked to Covent Garden and the Jubilee market. We wended through Camden Passage, ending at Camden Head pub to slake our thirst.

Contrary to public opinion, London Bridge is not now, nor was it ever, falling down. In 1968, it was dismantled and moved to Lake Havasu in Arizona. If your children wish to see London Bridge falling down, you'll have to take them to Arizona.

We acquired tickets to Theater, not to newly opened Les Miserables or Starlight Express, but to Phantom of the Opera. I was happy that our seats were not under the chandelier.

The culmination of the trip was New Year's Eve, when we took The Tube to Trafalgar Square to witness over one hundred thousand Brits blowing off steam. We remained on the periphery and observed the crazies paint-spraying each other, sometimes to match their different colored punk hair-do. Noses were pierced, long earrings dangled, and tattoos were evident. The]]> Thu, 07 Jun 2007 08:16:14 PST