Scotland - My Very First Exposure!

                 What could possibly happen between arriving in Scotland at Prestwick airport and traveling to Dunoon?  It was just a short pleasant drive or was it?  You won't believe what happened to me!!

The beautiful Holy Loch in Scotland - no "Nessie" here.  Only MY heart!

             Landing in Scotland from the States seemed an exciting adventure.  As it turned out, LIVING there was to be my biggest one.   It all began at the Prestwick Airport and continued on the trip to Dunoon in County Argyll.   My sailor husband Tom, was stationed near Dunoon, at Sandbank with the US Navy, on the USS Simon Lake, a submarine tender.  It was late September 1966.

            Tom was making the long trip to Prestwick in an old Austin-Healy he’d purchased from another sailor.  I had been on a plane for 16 straight hours.   As soon as I disembarked, I needed to pee!  While waiting for him to arrive, I went to the toilet (loo) in the airport.  


              That was my first mistake.  They did NOT have "toilet paper!"  They had what looked and FELT like the thin bakery sheets with which you pick your donut out of the display case.  They were even in the same kind of dispenser.  Those sheets were waxy, thin and stiff!  Arrrrgh!  This was NOT starting well...

           In great dismay, I sucked it up, made do and left in a hurry.  I couldn’t wait to get to our “home” in Dunoon, to REAL toilet tissue! (Fat, fluffy sheets, rolled on a cardboard tube.)  What else would shock me this day?   If I’d only known I would have gotten right back on that plane!

            After a hearty welcome at the airport when Tom arrived, we loaded my luggage in the car trunk (boot), and started for Dunoon.   The sweet Scotland air was crisp and cool.  I breathed deeply, feeling relieved he was there to help me get used to things.   


          He apologized as our old Austin-Healy lurched and chugged along.  (It only had 2 of 4 gears and reverse.)  He’d bought it for $100 off a "guy" he knew.  Yeah, that "guy" had sure seen HIM coming.   As we struggled to climb hills and maneuver in traffic with only two gears, I chuckled.

 

          Another of Tom’s wacky business deals and not a good one, either.    “What the heck”, I said, “The sun is shining and I am in SCOTLAND!”  I was filled with optimism.  The lush green beauty of the countryside along the road lulled me into a sense of peace, safety.

           As we drove the winding road from Prestwick Airport, I was amazed by what I saw.  Small cottages with thatched roofs, and farms with rock walls, instead of wooden fences.  Row houses, all mashed together in a line, each with a  small back yard, looking like nothing I'd ever imagined.  


           Old churches, quaint hotels, older buildings with European architecture, things of great beauty dotted the landscape.   Rosy-faced Scots smiling and waving.  Purple heather covering the gentle hillsides of the highlands.  It was just gorgeous!


           As we drove I encountered something very strange and confusing.  At most congested intersections in the towns was something called a Roundabout.  (It took Utah over 40 years to get one of these!)  This was the most frightening and strange thing.  Drivers in Scotland did not drive straight through busy intersections or simply turn left or right.  No, they had to make it difficult!

           At these roundabouts, cars were entering from streets adjoining and traffic was going in a CIRCLE!  Everybody was driving around this huge, two (sometimes 3) lane circle!  When your car reached your destination street on your left, (sometimes right) you exited the circle onto it!  Talk about weird!    How were you supposed to know which way to go?  My head began smoking...

Okay, you tell me which way to go!!

            About driving in Scotland...  They drive on the wrong side of the road over there, on the LEFT SIDE! 


            I had noticed something was wacky when I got into the Austin-Healy the first time.  Tom was sitting behind the steering wheel – on the RIGHT hand side, normally the passenger side of the car in the States!  Uh, oh.  This was going to be a big problem for me.  How on earth would I learn to operate a car from THAT side?

           My mind buzzed wildly.   And, how on earth was I ever going to remember to drive on the LEFT instead of the right side of the road?   (Well, I didn’t always!)  That caused panic in me, and terror in other drivers.   Imagine their reactions to see me barreling down the WRONG SIDE of the road straight at them!  


           Yes, Scots CAN jump five feet straight UP!  Boy, did I get to see that!

           Once, later on,  a local man, who was a bit drunk, stepped out of a pub (a bar) door built into the curved wall of the little village of Kilmun.    I almost wiped him right off the doorstep, driving on the RIGHT SIDE of the road!  You should have seen the look on his face as he flattened himself like a tick against that doorway.  He sure wasn’t expecting a car from that direction, on that side of the road!   


           I think he spun around after that and wobbled back inside for another drink…  Poor guy, I think I added TEN years onto his age that day!

           After we negotiated the traffic roundabouts in a few towns, (and I had stopped hyperventilating) we began to drive in fairly uninhabited areas of the countryside.  Just as I began to relax and enjoy the gorgeous scenery around me, another unique Scottish land feature popped right up in front of us!


           Coming around a curve on a hill of trees, we were suddenly faced with a terror right smack in the middle of the road!   Yeah,  a FLOCK OF SHEEP, just standing there, not even moving off the road.   I couldn't believe it.

           Tom LAID on the horn and slammed on the brakes, fast.  The sheep did NOT move, despite his wild honking horn!  Neither did the shepherd, who stood there, just glowering at us.  This was totally unheard of in my world:


          In the first place (#1) in the States there would NEVER be sheep on a road.  Sheep belonged in a pasture, a fenced pasture!


          Number 2, (yes, #2!) they would have parted like the waters of the RED sea before Moses, in fear with a car honking at them!  


           The sheer fright of possibly being hit by a car would have scattered them like leaves in a wind IF THEY WERE IN THE US!  I've seen lost sheep jump six feet in the air over a fence to get away from a CAR!  Not so here… The sheep, bleating loudly,  SLOWLY began to move.  Just like THEY had a right to be there!

                    Grinning over at me, as we sat there waiting for this motley flock to GET OFF the road, Tom told me that in Scotland, SHEEP had the right of way!   In fact, he informed me, there was a hefty fine if you hit one!   Whhaaat?  


                     He said ALL livestock had the right of way in Scotland, and you’d better not hit any.   My jaw just dropped in disbelief.  


                    What kind of place was this when ANIMALS had the right to the road and CARS did not?   Are the Scots crazy??!!

In Scotland "shepherds" are just called "herds."

                    The shepherd who was walking with a burly staff, moved the sheep across the road at HIS leisure.   (I had seen molasses move faster!)   He continued to scowl at us.  His busy dog was nipping the sheep's heels, working them in orderly fashion to get them off the road.  The shepherd whistled to the dog and it instantly changed directions.  


                    That was impressive - a whistle-commanded dog!!  Finally,after about five minutes, we were able to drive on.   I sighed and thought to myself, "Can this place get any weirder?" (You have to realize I was 21 and dumb as a stick, as all young people that age are.)

                    As we rode on through the beautiful countryside of Scotland, our two lane road narrowed down to one lane.  Strange, I thought.  They must not have traffic here or… we were lost!  Before I could get myself worked up over that, something even more upsetting happened.

          Farther down the winding, hilly road I spotted one of the most shocking things I’d ever seen in my life.   I will never forget it. 

                    Just over a knoll below us was something BIG and dark right in the middle of the narrow road.  In the crisp air of the highlands, heat was rising from whatever it was,  in a pale mist.   I stared at this apparition, squinting ahead to make out what it was.  


                     I figured it was a probably pile of fresh cow POOP or dirty straw that somebody had lost off their truck (lorry) on the road.  Why would a farmer do that, leave his dumped pile of crap/straw on the highway?  Didn’t these people care about other drivers? 


                                        First the sheep, now THIS?

                    Well, when we got almost up to whatever it was, Tom slowed to a stop.  He did NOT try to drive around that dark steaming pile.  In fact, he got out of the car and started WAVING his hands in the air and shouting at it!  (I thought he’d lost his mind.  Shouting at a pile of steaming CRAP?  What on earth had that boy been drinking?)

          Quite unexpectedly, that "pile of crap” MOVED!   That thing swung an ugly head around toward Tom, exposing foot-and-a-half-long horns on each side of its massive head!   Then it GOT UP!  


                          It was the size of our CAR! and PISSED!

           This creature had dirty, straw-matted, stringy, dark hair that hung down to the ground and a massive body like a buffalo!  It was huffing moisture in a cloud of steam out of its nose.   This huge thing looked like what I had imagined a YAK would look like!  I had never seen anything like it in my wildest dreams.  The beast stood, head lowered, and just snorted at us.   
                            I KNOW I swallowed a kidney!

  

          Tom vaulted back to the safety of our tiny car, slamming the door tight!    We sat there anxiously watching the beast.   My husband honked the horn.  Several times.  My mouth just hung open.

This photo by Graham Turner shows the lethal horns Highland cattle have....

           This thing, (which  I learned later was a HIGHLAND COW), its eyes covered completely by long hair, just stood, blowing mist out of its nostrils, contemplating BUTTING us into the next county!   I was totally petrified, thinking it was going to charge us. 


          Why were there no FENCES to keep that thing in?  Who let it just lie down on the road?  (Oh, right, livestock had the RIGHT of way here!)

Convinced finally that it was time to move off that warm paved road, this monster of a huge highland cow sauntered slowly to one side, ignoring us.  Tom slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and GUNNED the car past it, and kept right on going!    


          Shaken, I embeded my finger nails into my car seat and tried to calm down.  (That was too close for comfort.)  I peppered Tom with questions, to which he had no adequate answers.

           What was next, I wondered?  Rob Roy HURLING himself off a rock onto the car, screaming like a BANSHEE, brandishing a sword?


            I shuddered.  Scotland was a scary place!   I looked back to see the monsterous Highland cow disappear in the distance.  Whew!  (I want you to know here and now, that when I departed Scotland for the States, I took with me, not one but TWO hand-carved sailing ships made of gigantic  Highland Cow HORNS!   And told the story of my first encounter to everybody!)

           The scenery grew more beautiful and pristine as we drove along, hurrying now, on to Dunoon.  Craggy rocks jutted out here and there on the hills.  Green fields hemmed in by low rock walls, began to become common.  Herds of sheep, goats and (normal-looking) cattle grazed tranquilly in pastures on both sides of us. 

                 It was breathtakingly gorgeous in Scotland!!

           Gurgling brooks "sung" as they trickled down slopes beside the road, feeding green shrub and flower-lined banks.  Cute little rock homes dotted the road now and then.   It was like something out of a Jane Austin movie.

            Farther down the road a few miles, Tom suddenly let out a groan.  I looked over at him, and then out the front window.    What I saw took my breath away - a HUGE bus speeding toward us!  (Remember the road had narrowed to ONE lane?)  

            WHERE were we going to pull off to let that huge bus go by?   (In the STATES we always had two lane roads with asphalt or gravel shoulders to pull off on.)  Here, the road edge dropped away steeply down, treacherously! 

                       So, what did my idiot husband do then?  

            Tom jammed his foot on the gas pedal and SPED UP!  I grabbed the door, my heart pounding a wild tatoo on my ribs.  He was racing toward the bus!   Was he trying to kill us both?  I think I collapsed a lung right there inhaling so hard.

          He gripped the wheel, gas pedal to the floor, intent on his apparent "death mission!!"  Just as we topped a small rise in the road, racing toward our deaths, I saw it.  

                         There was a sign: “LAY-BY- ahead.”  

          A "Lay-by" is a pull off spot on the side of a one lane road.  Seconds before the bus should have demolished our tiny car, Tom whipped us over onto the flat Lay-By area on the side of the road!  He screeched to a halt.  The huge bus roared past us, rocking our car like a tornado rocks a leaf!  It had never even slowed down!  I gasped for air. 

          Then, I realized my hands were still gripping the seat, my knuckles white.   Prying them off, I breathed in.  Would this wild ride ever end?

          Well, the drive on to Dunoon was uneventful after that.  Thank heavens! 

         We passed some more thatched huts, this time with oiled paper windows instead of glass.  Humble little farms with rock walls instead of wood fences, dotted the road as we passed along.  I never saw a single chicken along the way.  Curious.

          I gawked out my window at heavily garbed men with beards, farming or walking alongside pony carts.  Everybody seemed to have a dog.  Some folks stood talking to others, and looking very strange to me.  They had funny hats, wore long coats, vests or sweaters, pants tucked into high boots. Some carried staffs.  

          Most stared at me, staring out the window at them.  Chunky women in scarves, heavy socks, and coats over dresses, hung wash on clotheslines in their yards.  A few smiled at me.  My too-white staring face must have shocked them silly.

          There were not many trees on the slopes of the purple heather-kissed hills around us.   Wood must be a precious commodity here, I thought to myself.  Homes were clustered together between long open spaces.  Flocks of sheep grazed everywhere.   

           A few small gardens were here and there, between buildings, and behind rock walls or chicken-wire fences.  It was like time had stood still here, even though it was 1966.  I felt I was in another older era.  It  really did remind me of Jane Austin's books.

          There were NO big truck farms like in the States, NO massive cattle ranches along our drive.   NO freeways, NO heavy traffic or congested four-lane roads.  NO sprawling urban ranch houses, NO high electrical towers, and NO skyscrapers.  It was idyllic!   I only saw lots of dogs, cats, cattle and a few pigs.  

          No herds of normal sized horses, either!   I only saw shaggy ponies.  They were working ponies, often pulling carts. 

                 Andy Blackwood's Dunoon Argyll FB site photo of a road into Dunoon

                             We finally arrived in Dunoon. 

            This quaint town was a shining pearl on the Firth of Clyde, nestled in the gentle hills around the Holy Loch.   The Loch itself was deep and very blue.   Like a hand with fingers spread wide, the long Firth of Clyde extended itself far inland from the Atlantic Ocean.   Each “finger” of that hand was a loch or cove surrounded by mountains.  The Clyde had many “fingers."  

            The wrist of this watery “hand” crooked itself toward Glasgow.  Around a bend in the Firth of Clyde was the Holy Loch “finger,” and my Dunoon.  It reached out and welcomed me, beckoned me toward it.

           The roads near town were lined with the common low rock walls I'd seen before.  They lined the Loch side of the road, I guessed, to stop the water in a storm.   Dunoon was a small, bustling town.  I saw lots of sailors in uniform along the streets.  Many taxis, too.  (In fact Dunoon had more taxis at one time than any city in Europe!)  

          The quaint old buildings were tall and very narrow, as were the streets.   We passed by two beautiful churches, very old and stately, the fingers of their spires pointing heaven ward.

                                    This old castle is now a museum with gardens.

           A majestic, giant castle sat on a hill above the town, which was nestled below.  One cobbled street in the town snaked sharply up and around a low hill.  I wondered how our car would drive up that.  Surely this town was built long before cars existed.  When only people on foot or carts traveled them, I imagined.

           Downtown there were some curved-walled shops.  One I noticed with the name “Bell” above the door.  (It is still there today!)  Almost none of the shops were made of wood, only stone or brick.  Many streets had worn cobble stones, with narrow sidewalks, added as almost an afterthought.        

                                             How curious. 

                   Bell's, with its curved front, was a favorite store of mine in Dunoon!
Jane Thomas's photo.  http://jane-firthofclyde.blogspot.com/

 Thanks to HuntersQuay.net for this gorgeous photo of a church in Dunoon.

            I fell instantly in love with Dunoon.  I couldn't have dreamed up a more charming and beautiful place!

 "Highland Mary", or Mary Campbell, Rabbie Burn's sweetheart has a statue overlooking the Loch. Thanks to HuntersQuay.net for this photo.

This old Argyll Hotel is still there today.  I remember it fondly.

           The tall, majestic hewn-rock Argyll Hotel presided over a cut stone promenade with benches, shrubs and flower beds.  We stopped and walked around a few minutes,  tired, still unnerved from my perilous ride, I asked to go on "home."  Where was "home?"  It had been Charleston, South Carolina, thousands of miles away....

 

          We drove past the Dunoon Pier, with its orange-roofed white buildings, perched serenely on the shore of the loch.  We went by some really old buildings, with delicately carved details.   The town looked as it must have for over a hundred years.  Maybe two hundred!  

          The heart-tug of Dunoon was timeless.  I imagine it still is today.  And I still wish I were there now.

                    The 100-year old Dunoon Pier and the statue of Mary Campbell.

 One of the hilly downtown roads in Dunoon.

The locals that time of the year, were bundled in sweaters and hats, or scarves, boots and jackets over skirts or heavy pants.  Although the temperature here was about 45 degrees, they dressed as if it were the Arctic.  I was starting to feel the chill myself.

            Not a single sweater was in my luggage.  Uh, oh.  From hot, humid Charleston, South Carolina, in the States, I'd come totally unprepared to endure the brisk fresh air of Dunoon.

           There were few cars or trucks, but plenty of taxis in the town.  The air was fresh, clean and sweet here.  I knew I would LOVE Scotland if it were all like this. Despite my upsetting ride from the airport, I was liking it here.

          Tom drove us on to our new “home.”   He drove way past the town, to the outskirts.   Then he pulled the car into an area on a wide, deep beach, right on the Firth of Clyde itself.  You could see ships passing by on their way up the Firth to Glasgow or out toward the Atlantic.  There were dozens of mobile homes, (or Caravans) dotting the beach, just inside a rock wall. 

                              What?  A mobile home park on a BEACH!?

                        Another great photo of Dunoon from Hunter's Quay.net

           We found our way to a tiny blue trailer sitting close among a row of others.  It didn’t look very nice, and neither did any of the other ones.  Was this a “ghetto” of caravans, a Scottish equivalent of a dumpy US trailer park?  Yep, it sure was.  But it was "home."  For now. 

                                      I sighed heavily. 

                    Tom frowned at me, at the look on my face.  It was not a happy face.

            Inside our trailer, I gazed around. There was a hard-looking bed that folded down out of one wall in the living room!  It was supported, when down flat, by the two benches along the wall, (where you sat to eat at another fold-down apparatus, a tiny dining table).  The tiny compact kitchen was in a narrow hall, by the only door into the trailer. (caravan)

            This sat across from the even smaller bathroom or “loo”.  In there was only a toilet, a microscopic-sized sink and a very tiny bathtub.  No shower.   (NO SHOWER!??)  The tub was so narrow and short, I wondered if my lardy big butt would even fit inside it.   

          Well, at least I had my favorite thing - my fluffy American toilet paper...  Some things feel like "home."

          In the back of the trailer (caravan) was a "proper" bedroom.  However,  it was filled with Tom’s Triumph motorcycle, his tools, cardboard boxes and a number of his things.  NO bed, NO mattress.  My heart sunk.  His "man cave", in other words!    I was not thrilled.  There was a small closet, if you could call it that, for hanging clothes.   

           Knowing Tom, I was afraid to even open it.  This was all very disappointing.  My face mirrored it.

          Then I discovered there was NO refrigerator in the kitchen!  (How did they keep their food cold?)  A propane oven and two burners completed my meager cooking facilities.  This was like going camping, not living full time.  Two small under-counter cabinets held mismatched dishes and chipped tea cups. 

           One drawer below the tiny kitchen counter held eating and cooking tools, and knives.  Dented, used pots were in a drawer under the small oven.

           That was it.  My new “home” in Scotland?   Pretty sparsely furnished and very cramped.  Not at all what I expected.   At least Scotland was nice, this, not so much....

          This was going to be a BIG adjustment from our huge colonial style apartment in Charleston, South Carolina.  Still, as a newlywed, I was happy to be with Tom after four months apart.  I had stayed behind in Charleston to continue working to save money for my flight over.  

         

           Tom, as an enlisted man.  So, he didn’t rank having his family moved to Scotland.  We were on our own here, on his poor wages and my meager savings.  We had no family, and little money in a strange land, THOUSANDS of miles from my mountain home and the beaches of the Carolinas.

                             Blackwood's photo of a nice beach on the Clyde.

            I washed up a bit, changed my travel-worn clothes.  We walked out to the beach beyond the caravan park, together, holding hands.  The Clyde sparkled and rippled blue-green in the sunlight.   The flat, shell-strewn beach smelled salty, like the ocean.  Tiny waves lapped peacefully at our feet. Cool air fanned my face and hair, coming in off the Clyde.  It was silent, serene, and gorgeous. 

            I should have been the happiest new bride in the world.  

                       Instead I just wanted to CRY.

            Homesickness suddenly slammed into me, bringing a wave of sweet pain.  Excited to be here, but missing my parents and friends in North Carolina, I stood gazing outward.  All around me was the charm and strangeness of being in a foreign country.  What had I gotten myself into, I wondered?  

           Tom squeezed my hand sympathetically, looking over at me intently.  Tears welled up in my eyes.  I choked them back.   I was HERE now.   I planned to make the BEST of it, no matter what.

           My Scotland adventure had just begun, not so happily at "my very first exposure."

                                                     *****

           This continues on in my post “Bonnie Scotland.”  I wrote it before I wrote this one.  Memories take twisting paths.  Sometimes the telling of them has to follow on unwilling heels. 

           Many thanks to Andy Blackwood's Facebook “Dunoon Argyll Scotland” page for photos used here: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000616113125

          Also, appreciation to Hunters Quay for their photos of the town.

http://huntersquay.net/hunters_quay

        Many more thanks to my new friend Jane Thomas of Neath, Wales, a Greenock born Scot, for her photos of Dunoon and around:   http://jane-firthofclyde.blogspot.com/.