Sometimes a trip can be too good to be
interesting . . . at least to anyone else.
Which is what happened on our recent,
11-day excursion to Scotland
with our granddaughter, Lauren,* and her husband, Dan. Describing it later becomes a problem.
Prior trips were easier: On this one we
never saw an old, drunken Brit stumble into the street, spilling all his coins,
while all the kindly souls around him scrambled to pick them up. We never raced across an airport or train
station, barely catching the conveyance before it left. We never re-visited the
old Yorkshire Moors lady who lived in a desolate house near a deserted train
station. In a trembly voice she asked about California. “Have ye got heather?” she
asked, and we said No. “Have you got bracken?” No again. “If ye haven’t got
heather,” she complained, “and ye haven’t got bracken, what do ye have?”
We never sat in a British pub listening
to a World War II pilot, Wilford Wise,
and his brother regale us with
hilarious tales of local drunken drivers—especially the one whose auto careened
off the road and finished with its nose poking into a stream . . . whereupon
the portly driver simply lay there until morning, sleeping it off.
Instead, thanks to the ministrations of
our nurse, Lauren . . . “Everybody needs to travel with a nurse,” she said,
(meaning people our age), and the
strength and helpfulness of our restaurant manager, Dan, we were treated to nearly
luggage-free strolls across airports, train stations, and along tourist-heavy Inverness
and Edinburgh streets.
Between them, the “kids” pushed (and carried up stairs), three double-decker
sets of luggage, leaving Rob and me to navigate with our canes—though
occasionally, as we traversed the miles-long underground catacombs of Heathrow
airport, they plopped us into wheelchairs.
Most evenings we sat in one hotel room
or another and played “99”, a tricky card game.
It all began with the morning we invited
Dan and Lauren to join us for breakfast at Tustin’s Spires Restaurant. Somehow the
subject of Scotland
came up, and before the meal was over, Rob’s surprise that the two had never
been there, turned into something like, “When do you want to go?”
“No, not next year,” he added quickly.
“I don’t measure my life in years anymore, just months.” Which became a trip planned for late October.
As we drove home afterwards, Rob said, “Well that was certainly an expensive breakfast.”
Just because the Scotland trip was smooth, doesn’t
mean it lacked amazing episodes. Thanks to our friendship with “Lou,” who lives
in Tustin and distributes fine liquors, we were
treated to an all-day trip to the Glenfarclas Distillery near Inverness.
To our surprise, the CEO himself met
our train in Elgin--and
in his Range Rover drove us at lusty speeds past numerous distilleries in the
Scottish countryside. Afterwards, his tall, exceedingly handsome associate from
New Zealand
took us through the Glenfarclas Distillery itself. There we saw the clear mountain brook, the giant
copper stills, and the barley grain that eventually becomes fine liquor. The tour ended in a cool, dank warehouse, where
we marveled at wooden barrels, lying on their sides in endless stacks, all full
of expensive Scotch, some dating back to the 1950s.
I asked, “What would it cost to buy a bottle
filled from a 1950s barrel?”
Our guide smiled. “We don’t get many orders. Such a bottle
would cost thousands.”
Our tour ended with dated, printed
menus for a luncheon on the property . . . which began with hors d’oeuvres with
the CEO, the CFO and 2 other staff members, plus small, powerful shots of
expensive Scotch. When my first swallow sent a burning trail down my throat, I
set the glass aside.
The 5-course luncheon menu described appetizers,
soup, salad, lamb cutlets and a chocolaty dessert. You would have thought we
four innocents were either celebrities or major distributors of Scotch
whiskey.
Outstanding as well was the Sunday
afternoon Evensong at the Yorkminster Cathedral in York, England.
With what clarion voices the all-male choir, augmented by an organ, filled the
vast cathedral halls with harmony. The voices ranged from deep, dark masculine
to those of mere children--who yet sounded like sweet sopranos. Occasionally,
to our amazement, one of those very young boys would sing an ethereal,
unaccompanied solo. Rob and I studied
the white-robed choir: one boy was so small his dark hair was barely visible over
the railing.
A highlight for us were the reunions with
two sets of English friends—Amanda Case and her chum, Joyce, in York, with whom
we’ve been close personal friends for 45 years. And in London, Peter Dobbs and wife Michelle. Peter,
then a British army officer, was present when our son, Bobby, won the British
hang gliding championships in 1975—at which time we stayed in the Dobbs’ home.
Back then, Peter’s mother, Marie, gave
me her fascinating novel The Listener,(using the
pseudonym, Anne Telscombe), about the family’s tour in Russia, (with four mischievous sons), when her husband was the English ambassador.
Marie eventually became famous in Britain for having finished a novel
by Jane Austin.
Equally
amazing: Peter’s recent job of rescuing CEOs, kidnapped by foreigners and held
for ransom, was the subject of a movie, Proof
of Life, with Peter’s role depicted by actor Russell Crowe.
Both Peter and Amanda have visited us
in America.
If ever our contemporaries travel to
foreign lands, I suggest they take willing grandchildren, who can turn an
otherwise-grueling trip into a hassle-free, and yes, delightful excursion.
* (Lauren is also the nurse who, on a
cold night last January, organized bystanders and saved the lives of two
potentially hypo-thermic passengers whose car went off a winding mountain road
and landed in a river.)
