My Scottish holiday diary

A little write up of some of the notes I made whilst travelling in Scotland last week.

It is 10pm on a Friday night in mid June and we are pulling away from Inverness airport. It is a bus that poetically sports the colours of Scotland’s 2nd favourite beverage after whisky ……or so the ads would have us believe.

That’s right ‘pal’, the blue leather seating and bright orange metal work can only mean one thing and I point this out to my son enthusiastically.

“We’re on the Irn Bru bus!”

The man driving, does so with so much oomph, it is at odds with the sleepy building we are leaving.  It’s a pale, low slung box of an airport with gull call, wooden picnic benches and blue letters on the roof spelling ‘Inverness’ in a no-nonsense, functional font.

The bus driver’s face is Uncle Albert rosy, his white bushy beard tawning as though it has absorbed the scream of the gorse we pass.

The gorse here, is the colour of Sesame Street’s ‘Big Bird’. It bears little resemblance to the stubby mustard clumps from back home that tut lane ends as surly teens. Here, it illuminates entire stretches of road, clothing it in sleeves of teased yolk, ribboning the dips and bends with its bold. Yellow is such an unsung hero of a colour, I muse. Few wear it, and who ever chose the yellow Opal Fruit or Fruit Gum as their favourite?  But on these highland verges, it dominates, the prickly heads of green vegetation gargling the intense sunlight and spitting it out indiscriminately as golden buttered popcorn.

There are distant mountains and vast bodies of calm water. With the sunset backdrop, I feel as though I am drinking in the source of life. My stalked eyes plumb stiff limbs into the flowing abundance before me and both body and soul are rehydrated from their urban shrivel.

It is a warm evening and all of the little snappy windows on the bus are wide open, funnelling through those delicious flags of fresh air.  As we pass a forest, the scent of pine delicately perfumes the vehicle. The trees stand so proudly, a host of leggy supermodels striking poses, towering trunks dwarfing all else.

So many of the houses we pass are painted white. I wonder if the colour is a conscious way of reflecting the bright light I am bathed in, or whether it is done so they stand out to weary travellers hiking desolate trails in winter. I smile, remembering the way Scottish people pronounce the word ‘White’ and how much I enjoy it! The way the ‘W’ and ‘h’ birth from lips, as though the word ‘height’ becomes caught in an oral whirlwind as it exits the mouth.

I observe a lone Oystercatcher, resting on a patch of grass, the orange-red bill and black and white body adding even more colour to my pleasing postcard.

“The grass looks a different colour here”

Son says, his eyes alive on lime.

I consider the origins of the phrase “the grass is always greener” and whether it came about in moments like this in which people were captivated by the physical novelty of a different place. I wonder if studies have been done about the various shades and where in the world grass is actually found to be most verdant. I shake from the idle daydream, scolding myself for being such a nerd.

As we enter town and pass a ‘Premier Inn’, son inches forward in his seat.

“Why do you HATE Premier Inns and Travelodges?”

he pipes up in the loudest voice possible, courting the attention of the other passengers on the bus.

“Because they are the McDonalds of accommodation”

I tell him unapologetically.

“They are for people who can’t be bothered to think about where they are staying. You just get the same deal everywhere, wherever you stay.”

He grins mischievously, intrigued by those identikit, charmless cuboids his mother so despises.  I see his wheels turn as he contemplates the innards, the forbidden banality lying behind those mysterious doors of a ‘Premier Inn’.

Eventually, we reach our destination, a small Air B n B on the edge of town that will be our base for the next 4 days. It is spotlessly clean and scattered with reminders that we are indeed, in Scotland. There is plaid bed linen that has plumped pillows with pictures of Highland Cattle on them.  The living room holds a large canvas smattered with purple heather, whilst soft furnishings in slate grey evoke misty mountains and the depth of peat infused lochs. 

Janet, the Air B n B host has made a late night arrival with a child, a breeze. 

“I know you will get here late, so I’ve made up the sofa bed for your son and left you some bread, butter and milk so you can at least have some breakfast in the morning”

I already feel mothered by this kind stranger, although I have to unplug the imposing plug-in air freshener that assaults my sinuses like an ageing floozie in ‘Tweed’.

I scour the room for the nearest window, battling the tinny yap of metal blinds.

Bloody blinds! I always forget how to navigate them, which bit I’m supposed to twist.“Patience, Julie!” I tell myself, remembering the numerous sets of blinds I have wrecked in the past in my desperation to see uninterrupted vistas and take in air. I recall my ‘blind rage’ moments, how previously I’ve managed to mangle several of the smarmy zen buggers into tramps’ concertinas within seconds.

After several deep breaths, I mentally congratulate myself that I have successfully opened a window without damaging the blind.

Yes son! This is how it’s done!

As I take a late night shower in this cute - and now well ventilated - little haven, my newly pyjama-ed son thrilled to have an entire sofa bed to himself, I feel blessed.

My tired eyes peruse the selection of flyers about local attractions that fan the circular, smoked glass table. The peacock tail positioning seems so quaint and yesteryear.  I appreciate the care Janet has taken to find pamphlets in so many different languages.

Schottland, Escocia, Écosse……

Ah! You wouldn’t get this at the ‘Premier Inn’, now, would you?

Шотландія.

Alright…….I concede *maybe* you would……