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Published: September 30th 2005
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Lockerbie memorial chapel
Chapel erected in memory of victims of late 1980s terrorist bombing of Pan Am airliner With the arrival in the UK of “Crazy A”, Sal’s mum Ann, the new trio of “the A”, Sal and Mick decided that it was an apt time to visit and explore Scotland, where Sal’s dad Ian was born and raised. We woke on the morning of July the 7th to some horrible news: London had been the target of four coordinated terrorist bombings. As the day unfolded, the full extent of the horror that had taken place became apparent to us. However, being the intrepid travellers that we are, we decided that not even terrorists nor anarchists/anti-globalists/people who don’t wash very often (the Gleneagles summit was on in Scotland at the same moment) would prevent us from experiencing the world.
We headed up the M1 and crossed the border at the famous Gretna Green, synonymous for the blacksmith, by law, being able to marry people over the anvil, or something like that anyway. Given that we all were already married and that the “Bridal Suites” didn’t seem to come with a spare bed (haven’t these people heard of a mother-in-law?), we retreated back into England for the quaint hospitality of Carlisle.
We eventually found a bed and breakfast
Tennant's Brewery, Glasgow
The Tennant's Brewery in Glasgow, where Ian worked as a Brewer in the 1970s to stay in and became acquainted to it’s landlord, a “unique” man who introduced himself, rather mysteriously, as Mister McKay. We quickly became aware that there was more to Mr. M than met the eye, after taking in the art work which took pride of place outside our room: two oil paintings, both clearly depicting McKay himself, one with the subject dressed in a circa 1940s London Bobby’s uniform, and the other with the Big M dressed as an elderly woman. Mmm.
Over breakfast, we were treated to the kind of monologue that Ann herself is renowned for: a rambling, stream of conscious soliloquy which voraciously devoured one dreadfully uninteresting subject after another (sorry Ann). As Mr McKay had a thick Edinburgh accent, we started to become a little apprehensive about our trek north …
Upon entering Scotland, and in light of the tragedy we had seen unfolding on BBC 24 the previous day, it seemed appropriate to stop into the beautiful little village of Lockerbie, the scene of an horrific terrorist act in the late 1980s. We eventually located the memorial for the tragedy, an understated chapel annexed to a centuries-old church a few miles out of
Old house in Glasgow
Ann and Sal in backyard of Ian and Ann's old house in Glasgow. Note: Alan and pram fell off 10 foot drop behind about 35 years ago town. It was a moment which deeply affected all of us, reading about the hundreds of innocent victims, surrounded only by the sound of bleeting sheep and the visions of the vapour trails of commercial airlines criss-crossing the skies over head.
From there, we travelled to Glasgow, or “the Go” as it is known to the locals, a city of about half a million residents which was recently awarded the dubious honour of being the murder capital of Europe. The skyline is characterised by dreadful high-rise ghettos, but thankfully considerable money is being pumped into rejuvenating the city centre, now resplendent with al fresco coffee shops and eateries.
Here we visited the Tennant’s Brewery, where Ian had plied his trade as a Brewer back in the 1970s. Whilst brewery tours were apparently something Tennant’s did not offer, the receptionist at the front desk (Eileen, Noleen, she definitely had a “leen” in her name) was extremely generous, giving Ann an aerial photograph of the brewery, including the house in which they used to live (which incidently, appears now to be some sort of crack house). We also scored bar mats, t-shirts and more beer coasters than you could poke
Edinburgh castle
Sal and Ann stand in the "Grassmarket", with the imposing Edinburgh castle in the background a stick at.
We then visited another of Ann and Ian’s old residences, in a plush suburb away from the hum-drum of central Glasgow. Ann was able to reminisce with old neighbours who were still living there, as well as giving a graphic demonstration of how she allowed Alan’s (Sal’s older brother) pram to roll down the back-yard and over a 10-foot drop.
After leaving Glasgow, we travelled north and found ourselves in a highland Scotch Whiskey distillery. So impressed by the set up, we purchased a bottle of their finest which, upon our arrival in Inverness, we promptly dispatched. Here we stayed with a lovely family who had two dogs, Judy (a golden retriever who doubled as the blind-dog for the man of the house) and Trixi, who had the kind of breath which had us looking at each other and mouthing, “Did you let one go?”
The following morning, the three of us, and particularly Mick, had the kind of hangovers that failed to get a mention in the previous day’s distillery tour (such was the state of his unease, Mick noted that it may have been that Trixi snuck into his room overnight and
Kenilworth Hotel
Ann and Sal pose with a photo of Ian inside the Kenilworth Hotel, Ian's favourite watering hole in Edinburgh performed mouth to mouth upon him). It became apparent that there was only one cure for such a peculiarly Scottish affliction: a bit of synchronised swimming with old Nessy herself. After rappelling a 100 foot cliff face (this may be slightly exaggerated) whilst wearing some good old Aussie double plugger thongs, Mick and Sal stripped to their birthday suits and dived in. Apparently screams usually made by school girls and shouts of “Oooo, Nessy!” could be heard echoing off the mountains for miles around.
We later discovered that Loch Ness is pretty cold all year around, never exceeding 6 degrees Celsius.
From Loch Ness, we drove for ten hours before arriving at Edinburgh (author’s note: it would take only 6 hours to drive from the top of Scotland to the bottom of England - as a result, Ann received a two-day ban from partaking in all driving duties). Edinburgh is a magnificent city, with incredible stone architecture, typified by the imposing castle rising up from it’s midst.
Here we visited the house Ian grew up in and spent a boozy evening on Rose Street, where as a young man Ian was want to wet his whistle. This
Trixi
Trixi, the dog with the worst breath in Scotland was a really emotional and important time for all of us, experiencing the city that Ian had spent his early years being educated, both inside the pub and out.
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