A Trip to Scotland Part 5 of 6 by KimB

[Editor's note: This is a many part story by KimB.
The series will be published weekly.]

The train ride to Edinburgh was relatively uneventful and I arrived at the train station in good form. I made it to the Hostel and this time I had the British Pounds to pay the room fare for several days.

Edinburgh is unlike Glasgow in so many ways. It is a beautiful city and everywhere you look history has marked the streets and alleys. Nothing there in not important. The layout of the city, the great castle at the center, the shops along the streets and avenues everything has something of interest to see or learn about.

I spent one day wandering around the town and passed by many shops. I ended up walking down “kilt row” where every shop sold kilts. I went into one and learned quite a bit about kilts. First you have to belong to a Clan to have one. If you don't have a Clan, you can be assigned one and then you can wear a kilt. You cannot wear just any colored kilt only the one from your own Clan as each Clan has its own color and pattern. And kilts are for men, women wear plaid skirts with their Clan Colors.

I passed by a Scottish Bakery where I went in to look at what they had on offer. Of course the French have wonderful pastries and I wanted to see what they had at a Scottish shop. I talked to the clerk about what everything was. I asked if they had a “Bal More Al Cake” or had they heard of one? No, they had never heard of such a cake but they did have some Short Bread Cookies and I can safely say those were WONDERFUL!

I went to the Tourist Bureau and asked a nice lady there if she could help me find someone who had Airedale Terriers for sale. She said she'd never been asked that before but she'd give it a go. She'd need several hours to find out anything and to come back later.

I continued to wander around the town and I saw two Scottish Police Officers on horseback. It was a wonderful sight and I wish American Mounted Officers would spend some time checking out how they do it in Europe. These were not only Policemen but Horsemen too. They had HUGE horses and they trotted smartly down the lane. I watched until they were out of sight wishing our American Officers could look half as good and still get the job done. One thing about the Europeans and their horses, they've been working on them for a lot longer than we have and they know a whole lot more than we do too. Only our American Hubris keeps us from learning there are better ways to get things done.

I went back to the Tourist Bureau and the lady waved excitedly, “I found someone!” she said as I approached. She gave me the name of the person but then things got a bit mixed up. The paper said: “Jimmy Grey Newcastle upon Tyne”. There were some numbers after that. She said they were the phone number and I could call from the box outside on the square. I had heard of Newcastle but there was no address. She said just call Jimmy Grey and he'd give me directions. So I went out to the square where the red phone box was.

Phones are mysterious no matter what and in those days there were no cell phones or text messaging. In France, I had to go to the Post Office to make a phone call or send a telegram. No one had a phone in their home. The horror stories about using the French phones were amusing vignettes passed around the dinner table there. I was quite suspicious of the Red Phone and I was not disappointed. The directions were simple: Dial the Number, Put the money in when it goes “beep”. What they neglected to mention is that there are quite a few different “beeps” and I must have stuffed a small fortune in the coin slot at the wrong “beep”.

At last I got Jimmy Grey on the phone and instantly we had a problem. I couldn't understand anything he said.

I kept repeating: “Do you have Airedales for sale?” “Can I come to buy one?” “Where to do I go?”

His answers were: “Yes. Yes. Peter Lee Horton Newcastle on Tyne”.

“Who is Peter Lee? Where are you?” I kept asking.

“Jimmy Grey Peter Lee Horton Newcastle on Tyne. Take the 3 o'clock bus and I'll meet you at the depot.”

The Tourist Bureau Lady gave me directions to the bus depot and I raced to collect my gear from the Hostel and got on the 3 o'clock bus to Newcastle. I had my bag, my guitar and was on my way to buy a dog but I had no idea where I was going.

A Trip to Scotland Part 4 of 6 by KimB

[Editor's note: This is a many part story by KimB.
The series will be published weekly.]

My Rescuers were a wonderful family that lived in the suburbs of Glasgow. They had a 3 bedroom apartment in a 3 story brick walk-up building in a small complex on the outskirts of the city. There was a large expanse of lawn and some swings for children to play on.

The flat was very comfortable and I was soon made “at home”. The son and his wife were still traveling so I was given the open bedroom. A daughter, my age, who lived at home, had the second bedroom and the parents had the remaining one. There was a small sitting room with comfortable arm-chairs set up for watching the TV.

We began to exchange stories and while they had heard from their son about his meeting with me, they wanted to hear first hand how we had met and how I'd helped him on his travels. I learned about them too. He was English and had come to Glasgow many years earlier for work. He had met his wife while working and settled down in Glasgow. He said that was one reason I could understand him: he didn't have a Scottish accent! He said when I called, I was lucky he had answered the phone because the rest of the family had quite a thick one. We all laughed when he said, the 3 of them had debated who was to go collect me as they were sure I would not understand his wife or daughter's accents.

Their hospitality had no ends. That evening the daughter took me to a Rugby Match and then to a party with some of her friends. They were all keen to meet a real-live American. I don't think I was very good company though as 499 mugs of hot milky tea were still working their way through my gut and I had to excuse myself often. But it was great meeting loads of people my own age! I can vouch that they know how to party in Glasgow!

The next morning, I was astonished to wake up when the Mrs knocked on the door and brought in a tray loaded with hot breakfast foods! I was so embarrassed that she had gone to such lengths. She smiled and said she did it everyday for everyone and as I was her guest she would treat me just like the others. It was just like in the movies: oatmeal, eggs, toast, bacon and well, more tea. It was delicious!

As the others had previous engagements, I spent the day helping the Mrs with the chores of the house. It wasn't much different than at home, except everything is in miniature. The stove, the washing machine everything is designed to take up as little space as possible. I helped her make dinner and she said that night's dessert was “jelly”. I wondered what she meant, so I pestered her to tell me about it, was it blackberry or marmalade? In another different adventure, which I shall perhaps someday relate, I'd run into a “jelly” for dinner and while it had an amusing aftermath, I didn't want to “make a fool of myself” again either. But she remained quiet and I had to wait as we prepared the dinner. Soon she opened the refrigerator and took out of a wrapper a rectangular yellow something. It was about half the size of our sticks of butter. She showed this to me and said, “See, jelly.” I still had no idea what it was and she smiled and said, “You'll like it.” Then she heated some water and put the yellow stick in it and as it started to melt I could smell the familiar fragrance of “Lemon Jell-O”!

At dinner, the Mr and Mrs told me that if the weather was good the next day, they would take me sight-seeing. We would take a drive out along some of the famous Lochs and thru the hills of southern Scotland. It was a wonderful plan and the next day, could not have been better. The sun was out, it was warm and there wasn't any fog or rain on the horizon. We piled into their car and I received the most wonderful personal tour of Scotland. Anything of importance we went to. I saw the lochs and the hills and the waterfall and the heather. The sun lasted all day and we had a wonderful outing. They gave me a piece of Scottish Heather to carry as a good luck charm on the rest of my journey.

The following day, the Mrs took me to the shops in Glasgow. She had her regular shopping to do but said there would be time to look at the stores if I wanted to go along. Who could resist? The shops where not like the big stores or malls at home. They were medium size or small and often had one or two specialties. She explained that Edinburgh had better shops but it was a days train ride from Glasgow and she didn't get to go often.

At last the day came when the banks would open and I could exchange my French Francs for British Pounds. They asked if I would stay longer with them but I said I had to continue my search for my Airedale and that I had to return to University too. The Mr had done some basic inquires and said there was no one in Glasgow that had this type of dog and that Edinburgh was the next best place to try.

So, we said our good byes and thank yous and I boarded the train to Edinburgh. This time I had British Pounds in my pocket and thought, “Nothing more could happen...”

A Trip to Scotland Part 3 of 6 by KimB

[Editor's note: This is a many part story written by KimB
The series will be published weekly]

My now friend had explained that my job was to keep the truck driver awake on the long road to The North. This wasn't too hard for me as I had loads of experience with long drives and travels with the family back home. I chatted and told stories and sang songs, sometimes with the guitar and sometimes without and basically talked my way North. I sang in English and French. My truck driver enjoyed my songs even though my french singing is not all the good. I sang the French folk songs I had learned and he knew many of them but sometimes I would sing one he had not heard before. He was always surprised at what I could pull out of the hat for entertainment.

A regular intervals the truckers would pull into a British Truck Stop. While they are similar to American ones coming off a Clover Leaf Ramp they are not the same inside. These were pretty antiseptic cafes and the food is not too appetizing. I didn't drink coffee in those days so I didn't miss it on the menu. However, tea was everywhere! Tea! Tea! Tea! Hot tea with milk. I wasn't a tea drinker either being raised on Lipton Iced Tea with Lemon; hot tea with milk was rather revolting.

By now the four of us (the 2 truckers, my new friend and I) were all buddies. They all seemed very taken by my trip to Scotland in February and each was determined to see that I got to my destination in one piece. There was a sort of rivalry about who would buy my tea (with milk) at the truck stop. I always ended up with THREE big mugs of hot steamy milky tea to drink. The first time the 3 mugs appeared, each carried by their respective purchasers, I drank one but tried not to drink the other two. First, it was revolting. Second, the mugs were enormous. And third, I wasn't that thirsty. After a short while I got a kick from under the table by my new friend and a nod to “Drink Up”. I got the “hint” and downed the 2 mugs of tea with a “friendly smile” and a “thank you”. Both of the truckers looked pleased and we headed out to the road again.

Every few hours we pulled into another Truck Stop and the 3 mugs of tea were repeated. Each time I had to drink the 3 mugs, smile and say “Thank You”. The others had no problems drinking several of these mugs each but I was downing many many more than I had ever imagined. All through the night I drank 3 mugs of tea and by morning I wasn't feeling too spiffy.

Soon my new friend got off on his way back to his home. We exchanged information and he asked me to come and teach French at the Summer Camp his School had in France. This was a great compliment to my French and to my new friend who only hours earlier had declared “war on Americans”. Next the other trucker turned off to get his load of lamb and mine continued north to Glasgow. As we neared the city, he was very insistent that he give me his route for the next two weeks and if I needed a ride back to France, I could meet him at any of the destinations he gave me. I thanked him for all his kindness and stepped out on the roadway with my bag and guitar and waved goodbye to him as he headed down the road.

It was quite early in the morning and the sun was just starting to come out. The roadway was pretty quiet and I waited to catch a ride. Soon a lorry (British for truck) came by and the driver pulled over to pick me up. I asked “Glasgow?” He nodded and motioned for me to get in. I put up my bag and guitar and climbed in the truck and we headed to the city.

As I settled in he asked “Ha ja hed bikfist dearie?” I turned and looked at him totally astonished at what I had just heard! He said again: “Ha ja hed bikfist dearie?” Again I looked totally puzzled! I had no idea what he was saying at all. Not one clue. It wasn't English and it sure wasn't French. I was completely at a loss as to what to say. He seemed to understand that I didn't understand, so he said “Ha ja eaten?” Finally I got it! He wanted to know if I'd eaten breakfast! I quickly said “Yes, I'd had breakfast” (well actually 99 pints of hot milky tea). And we began to chat. His Scottish accent was a challenge but soon I caught on to the lingo and I told him about my trip to Scotland.

He asked how I ended up in Glasgow, I told him that's where the truckers were going. I told him about my trip so far and that I also wanted to buy a dog and I'd come to Scotland to find one. I told him I wanted to find an Airedale Terrier and I thought I could get one in Scotland somewhere. I didn't know where though and was hoping someone would tell me who had a kennel. He didn't know anyone with Airedales but that his day-route went around Glasgow and his run home went near the Youth Hostel I had planned to stay in and if I wanted to ride with him for the day he would drop me near the Hostel. I could see some of Glasgow that most folks never see and I thought it was a great idea.

We drove all over the outskirts of Glasgow but as the day wore on my kidneys began to complain about the 999 mugs of hot milky tea I had to drink and I just could not pee often enough to suit them. As my grandmother used to say; “ Herod, my dentures are floating away!” and I could have spent the day in the restroom peeing. Evening soon came and my trucker took me to the neighborhood where the Hostel was with directions how to find it. It was only a few blocks from where he dropped me off but by the time I got there, I had to find the restroom RIGHT NOW!! There was nothing for it; I dropped my gear in the lobby and raced up the stairs looking for the restroom: nothing, I raced down the stairs to the basement and SUCCESS I found the restroom and barely made it in time: another 50 mugs of tea were gone. I went back up to the lobby to check in.

As nice as the truckers had been, the Hostel Clerk was not. First he gave me heck for leaving the lobby without checking in. I explained I had to go to the bathroom and couldn't wait. He said, he knew why I'd left (it was sort of obvious I was in distress) but that was no excuse. Then came the bad part. I arranged the room for the weekend and handed over the passport and then he asked for the rent fee – in British Pounds. Oops!

I had managed to get £1 British Pound from the truckers on the way North but it was Friday, late afternoon, the banks were already closed and to make matters worse: Monday would be a Bank Holiday in Scotland. I didn't have enough British money to pay for the room for the weekend or to eat either. There were no ATMs in those days and even though I had loads of French Francs and Traveler's Checks, he would take none of it. I was just stuck. Stuck in Glasgow with no place to go or stay. Things looked grim indeed.

I had to think for a bit about what to do. I was in sort of a panic. Some of the other residents of the Hostel had come over to see what the problem was and began to offer help. No one at a Hostel has any money, if they did, they wouldn't be staying at a Hostel. But some offered to start a “whip round” to help me out until the banks opened on Tuesday. The clerk was told that somehow the money would be forth coming and to book my room for the night until they had collected enough. Then a group of them shepherded me into the day room and sat me down to chat. I was greatly relieved that I had a place to stay and that I could repay everyone when the banks opened.

We had a lovely visit, about 10 of us sitting in a nice room and exchanging information about our travels. Not too many Americans come to Glasgow, so I was an “instant hit” with the group. They asked me to sing some songs and I did my best rendition of “The Four Mary's” which really made them all cheer!

They asked me if I didn't know “Anyone in Glasgow at all?” I thought a bit and I did have a phone number of someone in the City. I had gotten the phone number of the parents of a Scottish couple I'd met in France on a completely separate adventure, the story which I will save for another time. I pulled out the number and the group helped me to make the call.

A nice man answered the phone and at least I could mostly understand him. I did my best to explain who I was, how I'd gotten his phone number, what the problem was and could I possibly exchange enough money with him to pay for the weekend at the Hostel? I could give him collateral for the exchange, I only needed a few British Pounds until the banks opened. He didn't hesitate one bit, he said he'd be right over. The Cheering Section went wild!

Just a short while later an older man came into the day room asking for me and said he had the money I needed. However, he said, if I wanted I could come and stay at their apartment until the banks opened up. He was very kind and said he knew who I was and that I'd done a great kindness for his son and daughter-in-law in France and wanted to repay it with the hospitality of his home. How could anyone refuse?

My cheering section helped me collect my passport and money from the Grumpy Hostel Clerk who looked peeved that I had gotten away and they all waved good bye as I got in the car and headed to the suburbs of Glasgow.

A Trip to Scotland Part 2 of 6 by KimB

[Editor's Note: This story is a many part story written by KimB.
The series will be published weekly]

At last I was headed north from to the Pas de Calais. In those days there was no Chunnel and the only way to get to England from France was either by airplane or ferry. Ferry suited me just fine. I drove through the northern fields of France which are flat and unlike the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. The day was clear and the sun out, and even if it was February, the scenery was beautiful. I had many adventures but some I will save for another time and will continue with this particular one as I traveled to Calais.

Begin: A short digression about foreigners in France.

First, if you are not born in France and your family has not been in France for centuries, you may hold citizenship, a french passport, speak the language flawlessly, be honored by the French with their most prestigious French Literature Awards but you are not French. Their views are different about what makes someone French and its not just a piece of paper. In Bordeaux, where I was living, the French people there are not consider be be true French, they are considered to be English. This is because a long long time in past history, Henry II of England married the Eleanor the Queen of Aquitaine (Bordeaux). The lands passed to the English Crown and many wars were fought over them. Their sons, Richard LionHeart went on the Crusades in the Holy Lands and John Lackland gave us the Magna Carta. After many wars, the lands passed back to the Kings of France and they have remained part of France ever since. Lots of movies have made that period popular among Americans: The Lion in Winter, Becket, Robin Hood and others. The French however still consider the Bordelais to be English.

If you are not French, there isn't much chance of “passing” as a french person. Your style of dress, the way you walk, the way you eat, the way you talk all mark you as a foreigner. You can always spot another foreigner a mile away. So, after you learn this, you can stop pretending to “be french” and just enjoy yourself. Which is exactly what I did.

End: A short digression about foreigners in France.

As I drove north to the Ferry, I spotted a man hitch-hiking his way north. In those day, it was really pretty safe to hitch-hike and motorists could pick people up without qualms or worries. I could tell he was a foreigner a mile away and since there were really no tourist stops between Paris and Calais, I figured he must be British and had come to Paris for the day and was in need of a ride to the Ferry. Unlike the USA, distances in Europe are rather compact and even by car, Paris to London is only a few hours drive plus the hour or so on Ferry. People all over Europe can take day-trips to any major city for an outing; it was not uncommon.

I pulled over and asked in French if he wanted a ride to Calais. He gratefully accepted also in French and got in the car. We continued to talk for quite some time in French. His French was excellent and I wondered how long it would be before he would say sometime about me “not being french”. Our chat continued as he explained he was a school teacher in England and had come to France to pick up some literature to use in in classroom. I decided I would break the ice and I told him: “I speak English, I am an American.” That was sort of a “whoops” moment. He turned to me, stunned and speechless for a moment, then he blurted out in a loud voice (with a proper British accent): “I'm going to tell you right now, I can't STAND YANKS!!!!” then a short pause, “Do you want me to get out?”

Well, I was a bit stunned to say the least. I had met many people who did not like Americans and for all sorts of reasons but I had never encountered anything quite like this. First I wondered if I'd made a bad error picking this guy up and then I wondered how this adventure was going to end? I thought a moment and said. “I'm sorry you don't like Americans. I am going to the Pas de Calais Ferry; if you want a ride to the Ferry you are welcome to stay. If you want to get out I will pull over.” He thought for a good while and asked if he could continue to the Ferry.

We traveled on for a bit in awkward silence and then I quietly asked him “Why he didn't like Americans?” Slowly, he began to explain. A short synopsis is: he'd never met a nice one and they were all bullies and greedy to boot. I said to him, “I'm sorry you never met a nice one but we are not all the same you know.”

We completed the half-hour or so drive to the Ferry in silence where I parked the car and he got out. I never expected to see him again. I headed to the ticket counter to arrange the Ferry Ride to Dover. I had some funds for the trip but I had not planned on the cost of taking the car to England and back. It was too expensive and I would have to leave the car behind and continue on foot. So I grabbed my bag and guitar, locked the car and got on the Ferry.

It was evening and the water was crystal smooth. The sunset colors flamed and danced over the smooth water and I went to the front of the boat to catch the first glimpse of England and to write in my diary. I could hear English accents all around and it was so strange to not hear French. I saw my first Scotsman, an elderly man in full kilt, as he headed to the canteen totally unaware of how shocked I was to see “live man in a skirt!” It was like landing on a foreign planet: they spoke English but I didn't understand anything.

I sat writing my thoughts in the diary when I heard: “There you are! I've been looking all over for you!” I looked up and it was my surly passenger walking towards me with a friendly look on his face. He sat down and said, he'd noticed that I couldn't bring my car and he knew I wanted to go to Scotland too. He was traveling to the north of England and had found some truck drivers willing to take a passenger. They were French Truckers and were going to haul lamb from the North back to France. If I wanted he would introduce me and I could pick which ever trucker was most amenable to me and he would ride with the other one. I agreed of course.

We went down together and met the truckers, both were very nice. The truckers were friends that ran the route every week and needed some company on the long ride to The North. I selected one and we all chatted together in French until we landed in England then we got in the trucks and headed out on the road.

My sight-seeing plans were a bit askew; it was night-time. We barreled up the M1 in the darkness where all I could see where the headlights of passing vehicles.

A Trip to Scotland Part 1 of 6 by KimB

[Editor's Note: This story is a many part story written by KimB.
The series will be published weekly]

In my late teens I had the opportunity to study in France. Adventures abounded all throughout my years living there. Some where good and some not so good, but all were wonderful in their own ways.

I had inherited a car from my brother who had returned to the USA. And while our views about this car may differ it had one constant characteristic while I owned it: it was always breaking down. This unique feature of the car lead to all sorts of adventures and unexpected turns of events.

I had been in France for some time studying at the University of Bordeaux. How I ended up at the University of Bordeaux is an entirely different set of adventures than the one I am telling now. Perhaps sometime in the future I will explain how I ended up in Bordeaux at all, since my original destination was the French Mediterranean City of Montpelier.

Never-the-less, I was in Bordeaux and decided I wanted to take a trip. Other adventures had taken me around much of central and southern France so I decided I would go to Scotland. It was February and I thought that it would be a good time to take a few weeks from school for a holiday. There is something special about being 19 – you are not working on a full deck yet and Scotland in February sounded just fine to me.

I took the car in for a check up and told the mechanic I was planning a trip. I told him I was planning to go to Scotland for a few weeks and could he please see that the car was running properly. He said: “You are going to SCOTLAND? NOW?.... I'd better add some more anti-freeze....” Like I said, being 19 you are not working with a full deck yet.

The day of departure came and I handed a bag of cat food to my neighbor who promised to look after my cat while I was away. I put my sports-bag of clothes and my guitar in the car and headed north. It was wonderful weather, cool and clear. I knew most of the roads going to Paris and I determined I would stop at any spot that took my fancy. I wanted to see all the châteaux in the Loire Valley on the way north.

One of my favorites is Château Chenonceau. By the time I made the trip I spoke very good french and was well versed in French History. I knew a great deal about the history of this château and that many great historical people had lived in it. I knew that Mary of Scotland had grown up in France and was betrothed and married to the Heir of the French Throne – Francis, Le Dauphin. When he became King of France, she became Queen but only for a short while. When he died, Mary was forced to return to Scotland and her life took a totally different turn of events. Mary's Scots Guards had carved their names into the wall of the chapel there – a sort of “Kilroy was here” graffiti. Catherine de' Medici had lived in the château while she plotted the futures of the Kings of France and Europe. Not only was it a beautiful place but the history of Europe once revolved around the corridors.

The château is not a large one and most tourists are in and out in 30 minutes or so. I spent hours walking along looking at everything. There is a grand ballroom that stretches across the river. I looked at every tile and decoration covering the floors and walls. I walked the halls over and over. In France most fireplaces are not small sedate things; they are large enough to burn whole trees in. In the main hall the large fireplace had huge trees burning in it and was the only source of heat in the castle.

After looking at everything, I decided I should make some notes in my diary. So I went to the main hall and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace and took out my pen and notebook. Not too long a time passed before one of the guards came over to see what I was doing.

We had a wonderful chat. He was so impressed with my french and my knowledge of the château that we talked a long time about the place. After a bit, he said, “You must be uncomfortable sitting on the floor like that?” I assured him I was fine; the fire was warm and if it was not against the rules to sit there, I would be OK. “No,” he insisted, “I will make it better for you.” He then walked across the hall and picked up one of the chairs lining the wall and brought it for me to sit in! I protested it was a valuable museum piece and I couldn't possible sit in it. I can tell you one thing, you will never win an argument with a Frenchman, so don't even try. So I sat in the chair in front of the fireplace.

A bit more time passed and he came back to say the château would be closed for lunch but if I wanted he would lock me inside the castle to continue my writing during the lunch period. I readily agreed and as he left I heard the great lock click on the front doors.

So, I sat in the chair in front of the great fireplace in the Château Chenonceau, alone in the castle where great events had taken place. Where Mary of Scotland's fortunes had changed, where Catherine de' Medici had hosted great parties and fireworks that shot across the river. Where the Kings and Queens of France had once lived and wrote in my diary: the memories of a 19 year American Girl on her way to Scotland in February.