June 4 Haste me back
It is my last night in Scotland, and I shall be sorry to leave. Apart from one wet day on Skye, the sun has shone throughout and I have received nothing but kindness from all the people I have met.
And never more so than this morning, when I turned up unannounced at Britain’s only 12 hole golf course, at Siskine on Arran, to enquire whether there was any possibility of a game. Seeing that I was on my own, James and his wife Greta, invited me to play with them, and as they have been members there for 41 years, there was plenty of local knowledge for me to draw upon! The course was laid out in 1896 and is deeply old-fashioned, with lots of blind holes, but the fairways
were burnished, the greens keen and the views breathtaking
It is my last night in Scotland, and I shall be sorry to leave. Apart from one wet day on Skye, the sun has shone throughout and I have received nothing but kindness from all the people I have met.
And never more so than this morning, when I turned up unannounced at Britain’s only 12 hole golf course, at Siskine on Arran, to enquire whether there was any possibility of a game. Seeing that I was on my own, James and his wife Greta, invited me to play with them, and as they have been members there for 41 years, there was plenty of local knowledge for me to draw upon! The course was laid out in 1896 and is deeply old-fashioned, with lots of blind holes, but the fairways
were burnished, the greens keen and the views breathtaking The 4th greeen Siskine
Arran is an island of two halves – wild and mountainous to the North, gentler and more fertile to the South. It is a beautiful place, with an appeal all of its own. I camped at Lochranza in the north, having come across from Kintyre on the little ferry. I can’t say I detected many Celtic echoes – for much of its history the island was controlled by the Norwegians – but I’m glad I visited.
There was a nasty moment this morning, when the otherwise impeccably reliable Carmen refused to start. I turned the key and nothing happened. Not once, but several times. Eventually, and for no apparent reason, she changed her mind and decided to go. I set off with a sigh of relief, although a seed of doubt had been sown, and I suppose it was inevitable that I should find myself first onto the ferry to the mainland, parked right up against the bow door, so that if Carmen failed to start when we got to the other side, no-one could leave the ship! My heart was in my mouth as I turned the key, and I was the most relieved man in Ardrossan when she burst into life.
This evening, I’m staying at a ‘holiday park’ at Prestwick. This has the undoubted attraction of being on the edge of Prestwick golf links, where the first Open Championship was played in 1860; and the distinct handicap of being directly under the flight-path of airliners using Prestwick airport. But it’s handy for the ferryport at Troon, where I shall be catching the hydrofoil to Larne in Northern Ireland tomorrow morning.
Did I play golf at the historic Prestwick links? No I did not. The green fee for 18 holes is £115! That’s the same as the annual subscription at Durness. Assuming I went round in about 90, it would work out at £1.27 a shot!
Beer is expensive here as well. A pint of gassy McKewans set me back £2.95 when I cycled into town this evening. At the Lochranza Hotel last night, a pint of Deuchars IPA (which was good) left me £3.20 the poorer. What with prices like those and the smoking ban, it’s hardly surprising that many of the pubs I’ve visited seemed to be struggling. You wouldn’t come to Scotland for the pubs. They tend to be functional rather than characterful. With Celts, the drinking and the company matter far more than the surroundings. Which is something I shall have to bear in mind in Ireland, where a decent pint is even harder to find than in Scotland, especially if, like me, you’re not mad keen on Guinness or Murphy’s.
So farewell Scotland. You have been good to me. When the sun is shining as it has been these last two weeks,
there can be nowhere more beautiful on the whole of God’s earth. Ireland has a lot to live up to.
Arran is an island of two halves – wild and mountainous to the North, gentler and more fertile to the South. It is a beautiful place, with an appeal all of its own. I camped at Lochranza in the north, having come across from Kintyre on the little ferry. I can’t say I detected many Celtic echoes – for much of its history the island was controlled by the Norwegians – but I’m glad I visited.
There was a nasty moment this morning, when the otherwise impeccably reliable Carmen refused to start. I turned the key and nothing happened. Not once, but several times. Eventually, and for no apparent reason, she changed her mind and decided to go. I set off with a sigh of relief, although a seed of doubt had been sown, and I suppose it was inevitable that I should find myself first onto the ferry to the mainland, parked right up against the bow door, so that if Carmen failed to start when we got to the other side, no-one could leave the ship! My heart was in my mouth as I turned the key, and I was the most relieved man in Ardrossan when she burst into life.
This evening, I’m staying at a ‘holiday park’ at Prestwick. This has the undoubted attraction of being on the edge of Prestwick golf links, where the first Open Championship was played in 1860; and the distinct handicap of being directly under the flight-path of airliners using Prestwick airport. But it’s handy for the ferryport at Troon, where I shall be catching the hydrofoil to Larne in Northern Ireland tomorrow morning.
Did I play golf at the historic Prestwick links? No I did not. The green fee for 18 holes is £115! That’s the same as the annual subscription at Durness. Assuming I went round in about 90, it would work out at £1.27 a shot!
Beer is expensive here as well. A pint of gassy McKewans set me back £2.95 when I cycled into town this evening. At the Lochranza Hotel last night, a pint of Deuchars IPA (which was good) left me £3.20 the poorer. What with prices like those and the smoking ban, it’s hardly surprising that many of the pubs I’ve visited seemed to be struggling. You wouldn’t come to Scotland for the pubs. They tend to be functional rather than characterful. With Celts, the drinking and the company matter far more than the surroundings. Which is something I shall have to bear in mind in Ireland, where a decent pint is even harder to find than in Scotland, especially if, like me, you’re not mad keen on Guinness or Murphy’s.
So farewell Scotland. You have been good to me. When the sun is shining as it has been these last two weeks,
there can be nowhere more beautiful on the whole of God’s earth. Ireland has a lot to live up to.View from campsite, Lochranza, Arran
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