Campbeltown Loch I wish you were whisky

Submitted by mike on Mon, 2008-09-15 12:09.

Went down to swimming thinking it was Sunday and asked Jim why
Gutbusting was on today and he told me to shift my arse in as it was
Saturday - so got in missing the 5 minute warmup - but at the same
time in the water as some laggards!

So with groin and underarms freshly chlorinated I set off with the intention of getting my specs repaired again this time at another Vision Express - this time in Glasgow. I looked it up it was in Buchanan Galleries which I reckoned was near one of our clients.

Steamed up the road in the TT (I do like driving it and it goes extremely well on the super unleaded petrol I accidentally put in at 123 per litre - the handbook says you can use normal unleaded in emergencies...) and suddenly noticed a fast approaching police car with sirens blaring and
lights flashing - oh fudge I thought what a great start and pulled over
but no it raced past me so I followed him. It was interesting to see
that some people don't pull over at all and he had to undertake them!
Hopefully taking their numbers to deal with them later!

I reached Glasgow in good time and then hit the labyrinth that is
trying to find a parking place. Thinking that Buchanan Galleries would
have one I had a wee difficulty actually finding them and the plane
GPS was still in plane mode so that was a fat lot of good. I ended up after several circuits finding the Waterloo NCP.

On foot I found Buchanan Galleries easier and it had a bit of a festival
atmpsophere with some religious nut with a megaphone and various
buskers and the sun was out and it was all marvellous. Vision Express
fixed my glasses so I was all set with perfect vision.

Except the Erskine Bridge is closed or having work done so there is a
tailback - but you are not heading to the Erskine bridge I hear you
say - yes but the tailback is so bad that it spills onto the road to
Gourock so there is a 30 minute delay! I reach the Dunoon ferry to see
it leaving - parked and asked for a ticket with the guy shaking his
head saying it has just left, yes but the next one, oh that is in an
hour. So waited for an hour in the sun which was fun with a bunch of
muslims in the cars behind with their engines on (for the hour) so
their air conditioning would work... I even asked if there was a
ferry from Campbeltown to Stranraer (planning my return route) but he
could only mysteriously say 'CalMac don't do one'. Scottish tourism hospitality rears its head again.

On saying that I love ferries - they are just brilliant. They arrive
on time, unload with absolutely no problems, load and set off and
collect tickets on board now. The journeys are short enough to enjoy
the outdoors and then you arrive - or for longer ones you have a bar
(for passengers) and cafe (if driving). It also helps that the weather
was stunningly good and the sea was perfectly calm.

So arrived at Dunoon, a pretty Victorian seaside town, with one
thought in my mind - Strone. I don't know why Strone is in my mind all
I know is that I need to see it. It was pretty but I still don't know
where it came from or why I was driven to it! I had a chance to
program the GPS and look at the map and it was all bad news - the Mull
of Kintyre was a fuck of a long drive. It was like up to Inverary and
back down the loch again. But there was the chance of another ferry
across to Tarbert at the top of Kintyre. Tarbert means isthmus and
when a King of Scotland granted land to the Vikings he said that they
could have islands they could circumnavigate in a long boat - they
went around Kintyre and then carried the boat across the short land
bridge to Tarbert.

I drove like a madman along a single track road through the centre of
the bit of the map that has Dunoon at one end and Tighnabruch at the
other. Tighnabruch is a lovely wee town well worth spending a night
in. But I was a man on a mission - and drove to the ferry terminal.
Not knowing if there was a ferry of course, but luckily I was in time to get the last one and I was hoping that with 8 cars in front of me it wasn't an 8 car
ferry. It wasn't it took us all.

I don't know what it is about CalMac
and male toilets but I noticed this on the ferry back too - that you
are standing there peeing and the door opens leaving everyone outside
a lovely side view of your penis and its urinal fountain. I now look
upon people outside the male toilet on ferries with a different eye.
This one had the joy of when you shut the door and started peeing that
the door was would slowly open wide with the ladies toilet on the
other side.

Gorgeous views of Arran on the way over and the weather is still
stunning and warm. Reach Tarbert which is a lovely harbour and
picturesque buildings and read where to stay. Recommended is the West
Loch Hotel as it has good seafood. So I head down the Campbeltown road
in search of it. Views of Jura are stunning and also Gigha and also
the Dancing Ladies come into view. The combination of the road trips
and flying trips is just magical. My zero planning is all coming
together.

Well it would have but the West Loch Hotel restaurant was full of
grizzly old farts and the foreign girl said there was no room at the
inn. I was obviously not old enough. So I headed the 35 miles south to
Campbeltown arriving after 8pm in search of hotel and food.

First impressions are not good - as you are hit with the bleak impression
of a council estate. I was ready to head back to see if Tarbert was
any better (although it had mouthy drunks on the harbour so it wasn't
too promising either). I parked outside the Salvation Army (always a
bed there) and wandered around - hotels looked awful and time was
running out. One had a splendid white stag outside so I tried the
White Hart Hotel. It also had a sign it was for tired and thirsty
sailors. I was both tired and thirsty and had done a bit of sailing...

Pressed reception button and flustered reception girl with attractive
smile comes rushing through from the bar. She was also the barmaid and
is planning to take her kids to Alton Parks and one of them fell ill
so she had to rush off leaving an inept crew of waitresses for dinner
- but I digress. Do you have a room - yes we have one. Is it a nice
one. She laughs. She has a double bed in a room and it is normally 45
but because it is late she will give me the room for 35. A large sign
welcomes you to the news that EVERYTHING has to be paid for in advance
and NOTHING can be charged to the room. She also discloses that there
is a songwriting festival going on and she hopes I don't need to
sleep. Whilst all this is going on there is a veritable flood of
crying girls in sparkly party dresses with whatever boob they have
either on show or strapped in firmly. Yes I shall take the room I say
quickly.

Dinner is organised beside 40 girls in party dresses mostly wailing -
not because I was there but because Jenny was leaving. I spoke to
Jenny in passing and she is off to Airdrie. I said ah you are
emigrating. She smiled then laughed and then got back to the business
of crying - it is pitiful to see so much mascara running down. Dinner
was lamb which was salty but came with an abundance of vegetables (all
overcooked) but fabby roast tatties. They had a wine list with jam on
it, the glasses were filthy I had to clean it before pouring the wine
(which they didn't know how to open) and yes they had the stress of
crying girls and all their meals but this was like the Highlands
before the English took over the restaurants - no wonder they wanted
the money up front. I didn't get a picture of the bizarre girls party
because my camera was securely locked in the car - since the bedroom
door could be opened by pushing it - it had obviously been kicked in
before by some rufty tufty sailors and was repaired using sellotape.
It was ensuite and I had to battle through the songwriters to get to
the room as they assumed I was a gatecrasher to their Pink Floyd song
collection. Nor a Mull of Kintyre rip off for them.

I decided to go for a walk around town as it was still light. The town
was dismal and reminded me of Hawick, but the people were full of
character. There was some anniversary party on in one of the pubs as
there were pictures of the happy couple on the cashline machine and in
the windows of lots of shops. Eight girls dressed in trippy 60's
dresses passed and posed for a photo - one looked like Joanne and
acted like her too (has she got a sister). I spoke to them in the bar
later and their dresses came from a design they bought on ebay - their
Karaoke was as trippy as their dresses.

I decided for some reason known only to Springbank malt, the local
distillery, to tell people "I am Polish Sailor in Scotland to look for
wife' in my highland/russian accent obviously. I even got into a
complex conversation about negative equity with some woman who may
have been vying for my pad in Poland and was impressed by my English.
I met a diver from South Africa who had severe reservations about
moving to Kintyre (I told him about Scapa Flow). There was an amazing
mix of nationalities and ages and to be honest friendliness with
everyone. It reminded me a bit of the Kendal night - except they weren't all
hairdressers and they didn't move enmasse from pub to pub.

Staggering back to the hotel the entire town appeared to be well drunk,
with police vans shovelling in people by the vanload. So back to the
hotel with the songwriters still wailing away but the wailing girls
gone. The residents lounge had a wee bit effeminate barman and local (non resident) Campbeltown folk who started off telling about the unemployment and
interesting local history like that but ended up hitting each other with pool
cues. The ensuing melee resulted in 7 policeman and a nice policewoman rushing in and
separating the offenders whilst I was dealing with the wife of one who
was in shock. For some reason like the Polish plumber thread I had
told her I was a doctor to calm her down and got her some sugary
drinks so when the police arrived they delivered a blood splattered
guy to me as she had told them I was a doctor. It is amazing I didn't
get touched at all since I was inches away from the initial violence
and fortunately they ran out of pool cues so reverted to chairs in the
next room so the fighting resumed there. The police only had the effeminate
barman as a witness as I had absolutely no intention of returning to
serve as a witness in Campbeltown Court for the pittance of expenses
you get. The injured were not pressing charges anyway as they were
apparently related. The pool cue wielding savage was carted away
especially when he started calling the barman all sort of names mainly to do with homosexuality and the PC's (political correctnesses) decided that this had crossed
the line (the pool cue exchange just being a bit too much to drink
obviously). I think it was Elton John that sung 'Saturday Night is
Alright for Fighting, get a bit of action in'. So here it all was - a
song writers festival, effeminate barman and a fight on a Saturday night.
Life imitates art.

I returned to my room - pushing the door open - such a good hotel no
inconvenience of fumbling for the keys. The songwriters had finished I
fell asleep.

Thus ended Saturday and I was now as far away from home as I could get
on a tank of fuel and a packet of Polo fruits.

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