Andrew Duke gets his end away (North of the Border)
Hull the way to Scotland
To use the parlance of vile estate agents, and actors that have failed to make it into the porn industry on the grounds of poor genital stature, Scotland is deceptively huge. Imagine how big you reckon that Scotland is (this is an exercise for Non-Scottish people by the way) and then multiply it by 13.78 and you still will not be close.
But crossing the border into the land of kilts, Irn Bru, ginger hair and fried Mars bars is something that can only be celebrated for a short while. John O'Groats, after all, is hardly down the road from the border. Because of this, the initial euphoria of seeing St. Andrew's flags flying proudly at Gretna was dampened by the sudden realisation that I was really only half way to my final destination. Add into the equation the fact that the weather was as welcoming as a hungover Mark E. Smith with a bad case of constipation and you'd understand why I didn't bother to read the local history signs detailing the colourful history of Gretna's significance as Britain's eloping capital.
With a damp backside mirroring my dampened spirits, I knew of only one place that I could find solace. A sacred haven where every visit, no matter where in the UK you are, provides an invaluable benchmark for the dynamics of the locality. Little Chef was calling and I pedalled against powerful crosswinds in search of its comfortably predictable charms. I wanted to hear a Scottish accent. I wanted to bask in the fact that I had earned another stripe in the lyrical landscape map of Britain that I was putting together in my head for this trip. I wanted to hear the epic and outlandish soundtrack of Mel Gibson's "Braveheart" pumping through my head as I ordered a well needed cup of tea to the more Celtic than Celtic waiter or waitress that would undoubtedly serve me. I wanted to have one of those embarassing moments that many English travellers to Scotland have when they can't understand what a local has said to them by the third requested repeat. And, as I approached Dumfries - the reassuring red sign of Little Chef appeared on the horizon. My spirits lifted. I pedalled with greater might and speed towards this shrine to pre-prepared meals. A musical montage of every Scottish band that I know, as sung by "The Proclaimers", bounced about in my frontal lobe. Sean Connery's lisp propelled me closer and closer to the hallowed entryway of what was bound to be my true initiation into Scotland. I'd been to Scotland on many occasions before but not via my own steam. I locked my bicycle up with the speed of a 15 year old removing his trousers at the first prospect of oral amour. I found a perfect booth in the restaurant overlooking a perfect view of a Scottish A-Road and I was ready to "get regional". A solidly built, middle-aged lady with greying blonde hair was walking towards me. "Bring on the brogue!", I thought to myself in a loud BBC2 "Save it for Mondays" style voice. Her name was Emma. She was very sweet. And she was as English as person from Hull can be. My desire for tea suddenly transformed into the need for lager. And, no, McEwan's was not on the lager list. This was Little Chef after all. Not that I am partial to Mcewan's but it's at least Scottish. Unlike Emma - the waitress from Hull.
With a nondescript meal down my gullet and an exchange with a Scottish cash till operator behind me, it was time to mount bum onto saddle once again. Although the terrain of Western Scotland is reasonably flat, the Solway Firth is exposed to the elements in a remarkable way and I had to contend with some of the worst crosswinds of the trip thus far. The gradient gently became more and more challenging the further I pedalled away from Dumfries and, without any sign of the weather letting up and daylight beginning to fade into night - I desperately needed to find a place to rest my weary head. After making my way to the upper Nithe Valley, the town Sanquhar seemed as nice a place as any to do just that. Along the main road I found a Georgian double-fronted B&B proudly displaying vacancies. Despite looking and, no doubt, smelling like a greasy testicle - I was greeted by the owner of the B&B and shown both a nice spacious room and a safe place in the back garden to store my bicycle. "So are ye doin' Land's End tah John O'Groats then? I can nae understand why anae one would wannae do somethin' like that. Is it fer charity then?". I quietly told him that yours truly was the charity case. He laughed and wished me a good night. "I'll do ye a big breakfast tomorrow, nae need ta worry about that". I had every intention of going to the downstairs bar to sample local whiskey while chatting to locals about life in the lowlands. And I thought that a brief little nap would enable me to have the stamina to deal with a WIthnail worthy lock-in. The intention of taking a 9 minute cat nap, however, turned into a 9 hour sleep-fest.
There is more to come. Find out how I became a "Highlander" tomorrow (9 July 2004). There can be only one, after all.