THE DAY
WE WENT TO ROTHESAY O
Stuart, my older brother, turned the ignition key
of his French car and waited for it to rise like a hovercraft. With wind firmly
caught in our sails, it was anchors away! In no time at all we were running
late! Immediately I was introduced to a variety of interesting cul-de-sacs and
back streets as our vessel tacked the wind while navigating and occasionally
plumbing the depths of a series of great lakes on the way to Wemyss Bay from
Glasgow. Our hearts became one with the windscreen wipers as they, with great
rapidity, attempted to slap the descended mists of clime and time into submission:
Late for a date.
The original plan had been to scale that part of
the West Highland Way that scrambles breathless over the “Conic” from somewhere
near Drymen. Our party was to wet its feet and/or whet its whistle in the hotel
in/at Loch Lomond at Balmaha. The first plan had been washed away down
the drain on account of Noachic deluge the dark night before. The contingency
plan was for Stuart to take his exiled brother, (who had departed Scotland’s
sultry shores some twenty-seven years previous) on a wee trip of nostalgia
“Doon the Watter” (or a portion thereof).
The car ferry was to set sail by the clock at the
Victorian Wemyss Bay Railway Station Pier and deposit its cargo (including the
Citroen) at Rothesay Pier on the Isle of Bute. Lunch was then to be enjoyed
ashore before the five or so mile drive to the short ferry trip at Rhubodach
which was to deposit us on a scenic road back to Glasgow via The Rest and Be
Thankful. But what did Robert Burns have to say about our day trip to
Rothesay? The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley… A barb
from the bard.
Reminiscent of marble tombstones, a solemn row of
porcelain urinals met the tourist in his time of need at the old railway
station lavatory before departing Wemyss Bay. Silence echoed like chanting
monks interrupted as the tourist left his mark. A moment was ceded to
indecision on account of the many washbasins. All offered to baptise the
visitors’ hands. The station clock quietly applauded as it checked the flow of
the spent-penny water going down the drain. Wise clock. The solitary blow-drier
began to huff and puff in a huff because it was in the hands of another. With
screwed-up dial our tourist tried to wipe away the worst of the wet on the
thighs of his sterling five-pounds bargain jeans. Stoically he left his hands
to match the wetness of the day.
The traveller strained to read the history of the
Wemyss Bay Railway Station that hung like an ancient trophy on the wall. Closer
scrutiny was afforded by fording a boggy moat of sorts. The obligatory station
pigeons were soggy and the bay’s seagulls could have done with the downdraft of
the “Mens” solitary hand drier.
Stuart would be great at poker. He betrayed no
glint of emotion when charged 38 pounds sterling for our return fare to
Rothesay, Bute. As a gunslinger goes for his gun he covered the event with
plastic. A lightning flash in a thunderstorm! As they saddled up, our visitor
resolved within himself to pay for the prophesied lunch.
One of the four things too wonderful for Agur, in
the Book of Proverbs, to understand was, “The way of a ship in the midst of the
sea.” True to Scripture the “Juno” with cargo aboard launched herself sideways
from the pier. The salty-sojourner mused, With a propeller fore and aft
could each end of the ferry in theory go its separate way? A launch for
lunch.
The thirty-five minute trip across the Clyde
estuary was over in no time! Landmasses quickly floated by not wishing to be
seen. The pair peered at these through ragged curtains of cloud flapping in the
wind. Low-flying pairs of birds dressed in scuba gear patrolled the strangely
calm waters for seafood lunch. The ferry soup-spooned its way through peaty
channels. A taste of Scotland at sea: scotch broth garnished with sprigs of
heather. Unable to get his bearings, Stuart struggled to name the points and
promontories that also floated past under the weather. But rain-soaked buildings
soon began clinging to Juno’s brow like tresses of distress on a cold and damp
damsel. Rothesay had glimpsed us from a window and was curling herself into
view.
There was a couple, fellow ferry sailors; a man
with a woman. Conversation struck. He hadn’t been back to Scotland for twenty
years. She never said a word. They were living in Stratford-upon-Avon. Niceties
about the English bard were exchanged as the unmistakeable sounds of Glasgow
bubbled forth from his vocal chords. He reminisced about days in Rothesay lang
syne: all pubs and “benders”. To this day she never said a thing on that ferry
ride. And how is it possible to live so close to Scotland and not come back for
twenty years? Prison? In deference to the Good Book the Tasmanian tourist took
that thought captive. Not wanting it to interfere with a good pub-crawl the
couple had left their vehicle at home. Car less and care less.
The ferry did its thing “too wonderful” and
embraced the Rothesay pier like a long-lost brother. Lead on MacDuff! Like
Columbus in the Americas, Stuart’s “hovercraft” gallantly splashed ashore in
slow motion. Subsequently it deflated itself as it docked in a nearby “free”
parking lot.
First port of call was a visit to plumber’s heaven.
The Victorian Gents at Rothesay is no “wally close”. The marble tombstones at
Wemyss were rows of derelict tenements compared to this. Monastic! Standing on
end, side by side, was an open white satin coffin after white satin coffin.
Polished brass with shiny copper pipes and timbrels played water-music in this
acoustic mausoleum. None of Jeremiah’s “broken cisterns that can hold no water”
here. One expected to see goldfish in the lofty glass see-through tanks
designed to water the white lilies of the valley below. Truly fit for a
king! Fifteen pence to spend a penny was money well spent! A flash flush.
The drive to the Mount of the same name as my
brother had to be cancelled due to inclement weather. No need to waste time
ascending a mountain to view scotch mist when a valley will do. Time was
multiplied on the contingent journey to a hotel for lunch. This, of course, was
due to the aforementioned inclement weather, not to mention the car of a
slow-moving tourist blocking the road in front. The secondary lunch destination
was eventually reached but exuded a damp and deserted look. So it was back to
Rothesay post haste.
The back door entrance to the Black Bull in
Rothesay kindly escorted us into a warm and dry place. The atmosphere was
friendly and the menu tasty. With wet jackets removed, sausage, egg, and chips
times two was the order of the day. The late lunch arrived promptly, over which
the course of action was plotted. A wee walk around, a quick look at the
castle, perhaps? Then it was off up the island to Rhubodach for the ferry over
to Colintraive which would lead us back to Glasgow, apparently. With appetite
assuaged we squeezed through the front door, ready to meet the elements,
broadside if need be. Coming in the Inn through the out door we went out the
Inn through the in door. Excited we exited.
A damp cloth was cast in the face of our joy while
a tear of quiet contemplation got lost forever somewhere in Bute precipitation.
Through moist eyes Rothesay was seen to be still mourning the sad passing of
her most famous young daughter, Lena Zavaroni. Many shopfronts wore her name,
like black armbands. The Pavilion lay shrouded in silence. The streets were
empty, awash with the tears for a day bygone.
Even Rothesay castle was unable to rouse itself. It
looked every bit of picture-postcard ruin, even when viewed through
rain-spattered glasses and steamed-up car windows. Does it always have a moat
all the way round all the year round? No time for storming castles! Our
Tasmanian tourist had a pressing appointment that very evening which was fast
approaching. His wife and he were to visit old acquaintances long forgot at
six. Time was of essence. To the ferry!
All that separates Rhubodach from Colintraive is a
ferry. In fact they are so close that three or four such ferries laid end to
end would just about join the two points! The wait for the ferry, therefore,
wasn’t long. Like the merry-go-round when we were kids, we were hardly on
before it was time to get off. The scenic route to Glasgow begins on the other
shore.
A sort of jovial woman met and welcomed us to the
other side. As Stuart handed her the ferry ticket through the rolled down
window of the Frenchified automobile he asked if this was the road to Glasgow.
“No,” she said. “It’s not.”
“It’s not?” re-inquired Stuart turning to me with a
questioned look. I looked, and sure enough the signpost pointed to the way to
Glasgow. “This is not the road to Glasgow?”
“No,” she said again. By this time Stuart was out
of the car. However, this time she did add a bit about the road being blocked
and washed away in places ahead due to flooding.
“What should we do?” was my big brother’s next
question.
“O, you need to go back and catch the Rothesay to
Wemyss Bay ferry. Anyway,” she added, “This ticket you’ve given me is no good
for this ferry. It’s only good for the Rothesay to Wemyss Bay one.”
Stuart apologised for his honest oversight.
“You need to get back on this ferry,” she directed.
“Thank you,” said Stuart. But as he tried to get
back into his vehicle he was mugged from behind.
“That will be twelve-pound fifty,” said the jovial
ticket lady. A sense of humour? No! She was serious!
This time Stuart had on his face one of yon
bewildered looks as he turned his head toward me. It seemed Dick Turpin had
ridden north of the border for the “summer!” And she did have us over an empty
whisky barrel. When Stuart began to fumble in his pockets, the tourist, all the
way from Tasmania, cracked under the pressure and said, “I’ve got it!” A
tourist trap on a tourist trip.
The six-mile drive got us into Rothesay just in
nick of time to see the back (or was it the front, it’s so hard to tell!) of
the ferry as it once more did its thing “too wonderful”. Forty-five minutes is
an awful long time to wait when you are really needing to be well on your way.
The day we went to Rothesay. O, what a day that
was! Rain can be a pain.
Purchase a copy of the eBook at:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/THISTLES-TREES-Neil-Cullan-McKinlay-ebook/dp/B0078H2GG4/ref=sr_1_5?keywords=neil+cullan+mckinlay&qid=1576443503&sr=8-5
Stuart
McKinlay: We watched A Christmas Carol with Guy Pearce. It is a
powerful evocation of Scrooge's wounding horrors as a child, careless brutality
as an adult, a raw and shockingly frank psychological post-mortem of a damned
soul teetering on the edge of Hell, and then... what? Magnificent acting from
everyone, the ghosts real, the spirits physical, and supernaturally omniscient.
It would scare the Dickens out of Dickens.
