It’s 25 degrees celsius (80 F for the xenophobic wankers out there) and Scotland has lost its mind. Life will never be the same. El Sol has finally made his appearance, 15 days into this sabbatical, leaving us — in all honesty, leaving my mother-in-law and I, only — wondering why we’d ever bemoaned his absence.
Everyone in Edinburgh, from the skatewear-clad 20-something telling his visiting mate, “It’s never like this in Scotland, man,” to Rabbie’s tours, who forgot to change the freon in the air conditioning system of today’s luxurious Mercedes bus, was caught unprepared for today’s summer-like summer weather. It’s never like this, man.
But it was, which added some spice — and by “spice” I mean gross sweatiness, especially i
nside the bus and also on Princes Street after they dropped us off after the tour and we went searching for a shaded place to enjoy a gin and tonic — to today’s agenda of St. Andrews and “fishing villages.” No moody Quadrophenia U.K. beaches today, so sir. And did I mention that the air conditioning in the bus didn’t work?
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| Worthless. |
We departed a skeptical crew at 9:30 AM after speed-walking from our apartment to the pickup point. Our driver was the German ex-pat Francesca, who brought a bottomless reservoir of giggles but only a small percentage of the comprehensive Scottish history knowledge of Saturday’s driver, Robbie. Along for the ride were a very cheerful mother/daughter team from San Antonio, a family from Zurich, a young woman who’d come to London to attend the christening of her best friend’s baby and decided to visit Scotland as well and the Vaughns, a multi-generational family from Alabama.
Here’s the thing I don’t like about 16-person tours: they’re too impersonal. Give me an eight-person tour, where by the end of the day everyone’s swapping emails and friending each other. All day, sitting there sweating in my seat, I stared at the Vaughns, with their ponytails and beards, their father with his Bear Bryant hat, wishing I could have some time to go one-on-one with them. What brought them to Scotland? What did they do back in Alabama (and Florida)? When the only non-ponytail guy married into the family, was he intimidated by the two ponytailed brothers? Do they all have Harleys, or is he the only one?
Early on I put them on notice. I told them, “I’m keeping an eye on you Vaughns.” They got a kick out of it, but it was several hours before we interacted again, and then it was only to share our woes over the non-existent A/C. And to tell the younger brother that yes, the homeless situation is as bad in San Francisco as you’ve heard. Worse, actually.
So off we went, Francesca giggling, the Vaughns mysteriously looming, me sweating, my FitBit going crazy. Once again it confused bumps in the road with actual steps. By the time we reached Anstruther, a charming fishing village and our first stop, it was convinced I’d walked seven miles already. “Take it!” I shouted to a disinterested Sandra Bullock. “It’s worthless!” It didn’t matter. The addled device kept adding steps even as it sat in my jacket pocket. And as you may have guessed, I’d shed my jacket hours before. I checked it at our next stop: it had added another three miles. “I didn’t earn these miles,” I said to it, sourly.
The whole point of today’s trip was to see St. Andrews, the legendary golf course. As I am nominally a golfer, I set it up so that this a pilgrimage, like the ones I’d taken to Fenway and Wrigley. I felt I needed to play it up because Sandra Bullock (Jr., Sr. just went with the flow) was having trouble understanding why we were taking this tour. Worse, by the time today arrived, I couldn’t really remember why I’d booked it except that it was in “the other direction” from the one we’d taken Saturday. Not a convincing answer.
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| Mecca, for non-posers. |
Truth be told, I’m not actually that kind of golfer, the kind who dreams of playing at Pebble Beach or St. Andrews, designs entire vacations around it. Maybe it’s because I suck at golf. Maybe it’s because I don’t really follow professional golf. If I watch it, it’s to sear the mechanics of guys’ swings in my head, hoping in vain to replicate them.
“Here it is. Do you want to buy a souvenir?” — Sandra Bullock.
“Eh, not really.” — Me.
“How about a hat?” — S.B.
“That’s kind of a poser move. It’s not like I’m actually playing here. I’m just looking at it, like you’d look at the Washington Monument.” — M.
“Do you want me to take a picture of you in front of the sign?” — S.B.
“I guess so.” — M.
She took the picture. I took some pictures, mainly to send to my golf friends, who received them and weren’t impressed. And I bought a hat. Because, lets face it, I am a poser. And then we found ourselves in St. Andrews with three hours to kill before Francesca, who ran a very tight ship in only this way, demanded that we be there to re-board the sweltering bus.
St. Andrews is a very nice little town, home of a ruined castle and a ruined cathedral that dates back to the 13th century. And it has a beach that I’m told is usually irrelevant but not today; and lots of nice houses and hotels, either for people coming to watch the British Open when it’s played at St. Andrews or for all the parents visiting their kids at St. Andrews College, alma mater of Prince William.
That last part sort of blew my mind. I thought about it as we ate lunch at a pub. When William was here, could he just roam around St. Andrews like we’re doing? Could he stand in that long line and buy ice cream? Could he buy a poser hat at the golf course? Could he walk around the ruins of the castle and the cathedral without anyone bothering him? What a life.
The other problem was this: my allergies, which have been exerting themselves throughout this trip, chose St. Andrews to really make their move. I was left with no choice but to slam a Benadryl, even though I’d had a beer at lunch. The combo was unstoppable. Add that to an overheated bus and Francesca telling us that the “next half hour is a good time to take a nap” and I was out. I awoke just as we were pulling into the town of Falkland, once Johnny Cash’s favorite summer holiday spot, feeling refreshed until Sandra Bullock demonstrated the truly horrific face I’d been making while sleeping, which retroactively wiped out any rest I’d thought I’d gotten.
Instead, I followed, zombie-like, as the Moffats got off the bus and walked into the Falkland Palace, built by King James the second, or fourth, or sixth, during the 16th-century, and used by the controversial Mary, Queen of Scots, because all Scottish history eventually coalesces around Mary, Queen of Scots. In this case, the controversy was that she played tennis in her breeches.
At this point I was no more useful to my group that a helium balloon on a string. I mindlessly walked through the castle, getting weirdly angry when I could figure out which royals lived there and when. Some guy named James? Which one? When they say this is the “keeper’s” bedroom, does that mean James? Or does it mean, like a groundskeeper? Help me connect the dots here. I was a riot. A real value-add.
After that it was a solid 90 minutes back to Edinburgh with our “improved” A/C thanks to the Vaughn brothers, who figured out something with the vents. I couldn’t tell the difference. And I was getting tired of Francesca’s cheekiness. I rate this trip a distant second behind Robbie and Hadrian’s Wall, but I rate both of them well ahead of the service we received later on at the Beehive Inn.
Scotlands “oldest pub” promised so much — vibrant outdoor seating on a rare balmy night, shepherd’s pies, Sandra Bullock’s new favorite Scottish beer, and three new friends who were also hovering outside, waiting for a table. All of that tends to fade quickly when you first wait 25 minutes for a al fresco table and then realize that one member of your party is going to sit for 45 more minutes waiting for their entree. They offered us apologies and water. I ruefully told the rest of my party how lucky we all were that my mother wasn’t around to be part of this.
Also, here’s a tip: don’t order nachos in Scotland, no matter how curious you are and even if you can get them with vegan haggis.
How about some numbers?
7 — Vaughns.
3 — number of Beehive Inn employees required to huddle around the computer and figure out what happened to your wife’s order.
118 — approximate temperature (F) in the back row of the luxurious Mercedes minibus.
102 — approximate temperature (F) of the air coming out of the vents in the luxurious Mercedes minibus.
133 — estimated score I would’ve carded, had I actually played the Old Course today.
6 — minutes I shaved off of my ETA this morning by double-timing and leaving the Sandra Bullocks behind so I’d get to the tour pick-up spot before they closed registration.
3.2 — percentage chance the Prince Williams, while at St. Andrews College, could’ve snuck out for a pint one night at one of the local pubs without raising a fuss. Also coincidentally the alcohol content of the beer I had tonight at the Beehive Inn before things went south.
And there you go. We're 1/3 of the way through this trip.
Sorry for this late post, by the way. Today’s plan was so efficient that it allowed for writing only at the end of the day. Also, that 45-minute wait for S. Bullock’s fish pie knocked us all for a loop.
Tomorrow is our last full day in Edinburgh. After that we lose Sandra Bullock, Sr. and hit the road as a couple. Next up is Inverness, in the Highlands, a place where, Francesca says, the population density is only two people per square mile.
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