It's Guid Tae Be Back
Phyllis Davison
Eleven fifteen in the morning and here we are on the A8 Motorway en route from Glasgow to Edinburgh, driving a rented Peugeot Estate into which we've managed to fit ourselves, the packaged mountain bike, guitar and two gigantic suitcases. It has been a long day accentuated by a few hours of hanging around the terminal at Toronto's Pearson airport after checking in. By the time we got to our short stop over at Manchester airport we felt trochled, looking ragged and groggy in sharp contrast to the airport hostesses who were immaculately garbed in smart grey matching outfits, tottering high heels, gloves and forward tilting panama hats under which they smilingly welcomed, assisted and advised.
At Glasgow Immigration there was no problem and we were told that we did not have to report to the police - that was quite a relief since we hadn't anticipated such an action. Customs was a breeze and we sailed through to car rentals and within minutes we were off on the right side of the road, that being the left, and into our mirror imaged transatlantic existence.
By 11:30 we realized that there was some kind of delay ahead. We stopped and started, edging along inch by inch and as we approached a curve we saw that this was "nae wee problem" for as far as the eye could see there was a stream of cars. We crept along in two lanes, the other one seeming to be going faster then it was our turn to move ahead until there was that same little Volkswagen Bug with its two youthful occupants. During this car by car encounter we realized that the cars were all standard shifts. That was one point to me, earned from one of the bets we had regarding that differences and changes we would find in Scotland. However the sighting of slick businessmen on their cellular phones quickly evened the betting score.
The journey moved us east towards the hills of Edinburgh and from a distance they seemed to be standing guard over the capital city, nemo me impune lacessit, checking us out before allowing us this deliberately slow ceremonial-like access.
Perhaps there was an equivalent procession moving towards the city from the Edinburgh airport requiring a merging of traffic. Continuing with our speculations...was it the start of the Edinburgh International Festival drawing crowds of tourists?...maybe some accident caused by a novice standard shift driver? There were no flashing lights, fire engine or ambulance sirens but what was causing the congestion? Now we could see the culprit - a defiant roundabout acting as a circular impediment and manned by a wee policeman directing the cars one by one into their lanes. This was the real customs examination! All in one long transatlantic day we had come this far. I smiled and the policeman smiled back as he motioned us through. Having cleared this checkpoint we proceeded at a quicker pace and the hills opened their arms to reveal the Edinburgh skyline with the rock set turreted Castle and the lonely sentinel of Calton hill. The roughness of the Salisbury Craggs stood obstinately edged by the Radical road. Queen's Drive inched its way between the Lion's head and Samson's Ribs. Skirting south of the city I caught my breath at the sight of Pentland's craggy cone, then the hub formed by the hills of Craiglackhart, Glenlockhart, Braids, and Blackford.
Now I am home. Aye it's guid tae be back!
