On the Road with Mum and Dad

The sky looks like it's made up of dirty cotton balls all bunched together. The wind is showing off how it can make the rain fall sideways. The grey granite buildings are a fine example of why you should never employ a gloomy architect. In short, outside it is- as the Scottish would say- dreak.
“Come on, then,” I say to Mum, Dad and Eddy, “let's go explore Wick.”

Mum and Dad had arrived in Scotland after a week travelling around Ireland. Eddy and I, giddy with the emotion of finishing up at the hostel and readjusting to 'life on the outside', met them at Glasgow's Prestwick Airport. All our luggage had to be tetris-packed to fit in our trusty, but not overly spacious Nissan Almera. It fitted nonetheless and we folded ourselves in and set off on our great Scottish tour.

Our first stop was Edinburgh where we decided to chase away the cobwebs with a walk up Arthur's Steps, the magnificent crop of rocks that dominates over the lower end of the Royal Mile. It was promisingly clear when we started, but as we climbed and climbed, the mist rolled in from the Firth of Forth creating a veil of haze over our view. We reached the top, puffing and panting and stood, peering out. A long way in the distance we could just see a very small, union jack flapping around, but the famous grey castle to which it belongs had slyly disappeared into the mist.

The next day, rugged up and ready, we wandered around the cobblestoned streets, visiting what was by now (on my fourth visit to Edinburgh) the regular places- the cathedral, the Elephant House (aka the 'Harry Potter' cafe) and Greyfriar's Kirkyard. We're not usually the sort who likes to hang out in graveyards (if we were, we would have felt much more at home in Whitby the next week) but the graveyards in the UK are fascinating places and we wandered through quite a few: Greyfriar's in Edinburgh with its shrine to Bobby the faithful dog, St Andrews with its elaborate marble tombs, portals to the happy ever-after of plus fours and tees, and the peaceful old Inverkeilor cemetery where some of my grandmother's ancestors are buried.

A few days later we left the east side and drove into the Highlands, through the beautiful Cairngorms National Park. This area, also known as Speyside is malt whisky country and we headed to the Glenlivet Distillery to see what it was all about. We took a tour, but with the combined noise of the machinery and the Contiki people who made up the rest of our group, I missed the section of explanation between picking the barley and, hmmm, everything up to the tasting of the free sample at the end. I did enjoy seeing the huge old storage houses with row after row of barrels, patiently waiting for their twelth, fifteenth or twenty-first birthdays.

Following our drams at the Glenlivet, we continued on to our accommodation for the evening- a hostel called 'The Lazy Duck' that I had chosen mostly on the basis of its name, being of goose vintage myself. It turned out to be a peaceful haven of fragrant woodsmoke, exotic wildfowl and red squirrels. Whereas 'Chase the Wild Goose' has 48-beds, this hostel only had 8, along with some camping pitches. I think it had been a while since Mum and Dad had had to sleep in bunk beds but with direct views out on to a platform where the rare red squirrels comes to feed, I don't think they minded over-much. In the evening the couple who own and run the hostel, Valery and David came down for a chat around the fire. After discussing our hostel managing experience with them and how much the working environment differed to this one, David leant back comfortably in his chair, and said, almost as an aside, “You know, we are looking for someone to come and help out in May.”

The comment hung, uncommented on, suspended in the air, before a change in the wind blew it our way, where it crawled cosily into the back of our minds, waiting for the right moment to present itself again.

Meanwhile, we hit the road again, heading up to the top edge of Scotland. The rain started just past Inverness, and got progressively heavier the closer we got to Wick, where some silly person suggested we leave our nice cosy car for a stroll. That didn't last for long, and we continued on, now soaked through, up and around the rough coast line that makes up Scotland's northern border before hitting some truly amazing scenery around the Kyle of Tongue. The sun came out, and suddenly the water was sparkling, the hills were glowing and our decision to drive all the way up there seemed to make sense again, especially after a night in the very nice Tongue Hotel. The next day dawned cloudless and the drive around the north-western coast line was stunning. This remote corner of Scotland is full of surprises- white sanded, expansive beaches, grand old hotels in tiny villages, and, despite being on the same latitude as Moscow, a relatively mild climate due to the warm currents of the Gulf Stream. That night we stayed in another hostel, this one an old lighthouse keeper's cottage at Rua Reidh, reached by a winding, narrow dirt track where the main traffic hazard was a sheep napping in the middle of the road. The isolation of the place is softened on the inside by nice, warm rooms and on the outside by sea views across to the Isle of Skye and the Outer Hebrides, and (for the lucky traveller) the sight of an occasional sea otter splashing in the shallows.

The next day we visited Eilean Donan Castle. The clan McLeod tradition of greeting their visitors with the severed heads of mutual enemies displayed on stakes was abandoned a little while ago and instead the kilted guides and tea shop staff cater their welcome to the more squeamish modern crowd. Near the castle, the mainland is connected to the Isle of Skye by a road bridge. We crossed over to have an explore on the island, famously reputed as Scotland in miniature. As we'd just spent the last few days seeing Scotland in proportion we took it fairly easy. We ate both nights at the Dunvegan Hotel and on the second descended down to the locals' bar and slipped into the pool lounge. Luckily, no one else wanted to play that night as the game that proceeded was not exactly snappy. Dad surprised us all with some slick cue work but I'll reserve comment on the rest of us. The time was well spent however as the evening sun decided to finally surface from behind the clouds and the view of a sunset over a Scottish bay with the faint silhouette of a distant castle took the edge off a girls' team loss.

The next day marked our return to the mainland, and passing through Fort William we stopped in at the hostel to give Mum and Dad a tour. Nadine and Tobi, the new managers, already had a few stories to tell. On their very first night, after they'd gone to bed, a fight broke out in the kitchen between some hot-headed guests. When one of them grabbed a knife, someone called the police, and Tobi woke up to find the Banavie constabulary interviewing their guests in the lounge room.

Nadine and Tobi were still smiling despite it all, and the hostel was looking great with new pot plants and a Bavarian flag flying high.. Eddy and I had no regrets though as we waved goodbye and continued on our road trip with Mum and Dad down to Stirling. It is an impressive town to approach with the castle, perched on a rocky crag, a watchful presence over the surrounding plains. We went for a tour where the enthusiastic guide made everyone jump as he recreated the sound of cannon-fire (those pesky English!) then pointed out the scars in the exterior where the building was struck.

Perhaps it was the influence of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, both of whom are strongly linked to Stirling, but we decided it was high time to invade England. We stormed the wall (Hadrian's), and by the evening found ourselves eating pizza (all that Roman stuff made our stomach's rumble) in Durham. A trendy university town that Bill Bryson identifies as his favourite in the UK, Durham gave off a great vibe. It didn't have the underlying air of seediness that a lot of tourist cities have, but that's probably because all the seedy people have moved to nearby Whitby.

At least that's what it felt like to me, walking around the historic sea port the next day. To be fair, there was a Goth convention on that weekend so there was a fairly interesting crowd milling around, but what got to me was the rows of bedraggled amusement arcades, their tinny music gnawing at your soul, and the witch-like tour guides, with their rotting teeth smiles that could make young children cry. Maybe I'm being overharsh. It's possible that all I was seeing in Whitby was the result of a shortage of dental practitioners and a thriving alternative scene. That said though, Whitby is most famous for Captain Cook leaving from there, and as we got back into the car, I didn't blame him.

We cut a trail inland across the windswept Yorkshire moors but my mind was back in Scotland. A little earlier, Eddy had called up David from the Lazy Duck Hostel and told him we were available if he still needed volunteers for May. He had accepted our offer and we were due back up there in a few days. It meant cutting our tour with Mum and Dad short as well as postponing paid work for another month. What most concerned me though was the fact we were going back to work at another hostel having barely recovered from the last. But I needn't have worried. Our next hostel experience was destined to be very different from our last.

In the meantime, we still had a few days of holiday left and decided to spend them exploring York (or Yorvik to those vikings out there). We approached the famous wall that surrounds the city, joining the ring-road that circumnavigates it, but every time we tried to take a turn-off to get inside its boundaries we were thwarted by 'no right turn' sides, bollards and one way streets. They may have built the wall a long time ago but as far as we could see it was still doing a very good job of keeping strangers out. However our persistence was rewarded and when we finally found our way in, parked at the hotel and headed out to explore, it was hard not to be charmed by the old city. As you walk down the cobblestone streets, the old buildings seem to lean in over you while the ringing of the Minster's bells washes over the town. It is also a very stylish place and the elegant shop windows were mesmerising for someone who had been cooped in Fort William for four and a half months.
“Come along, Susie,” Eddy says exasperatedly.
In the end I have to concede that sparkly jewellery and pretty dresses aren't likely to be needed while looking after the ducks and cleaning the bathrooms at the Lazy Duck Hostel. Luckily there are other distractions.

On the morning Eddy and I head back up north, Dad goes to pick up a rental car for the rest of his and Mum's trip. We separate our baggage and pack up the two cars and then we say goodbye. Just for now. They head south to the Peak District and we head north back to Scotland. I'm a little sad but it's been a great journey and as we zoom back up the motorway, I put the seat back and stretch out my legs, ready for the next thing.