Borders

Our two-week holiday to Scotland every August starts in the same way. Everything is sorted and packed well in advance into our somewhat scruffy, somewhat tired suitcases. The fridge is cleared out and the door propped open. The cats are put in the cattery and the houseplants are given a good watering. The picnic basket is brought down from the top cupboard in my bedroom, and the plastic plates, cutlery and mugs are washed thoroughly; the two large thermos flasks (one blue, one orange) are filled with soapy water and left overnight. The day before we leave, cans of Spam and corned beef, tins of peaches and pineapple rings, packets of Wagon Wheels and Milky Way bars are all placed in cardboard boxes and tucked under the back seat of our white Austin 1100.

We start out early, so that we can get to Penrith by late afternoon. We all go to the loo at least three times, Dad double-checks all the doors and windows. Mum leaves a scrawled note for Jack the milkman, rolled up in a milk bottle. Our luggage is tied with springy elastic ropes to the roof-rack. Our assigned places are always the same: Dad driving, Mum, the dog and the freezer bag in the front seat, and my sisters and I in the back. I always get put in the middle, since I’m the smallest. Before we set off, I am handed our holiday exercise book to write in; the first detail is always the same: Dad reads off the mileage from the dashboard, and it is meticulously noted down. I don’t like this job; we take it in turns to write about the previous days’ events when we set out each morning. I’m not good at journaling, and I can’t seem to remember much of what has happened the day before. Plus, I can’t seem to find the right words to describe what I have seen, and I end up scribbling the same thing every time: “We went there and then we did that then we did another thing and we went to the other place and did something else…” My older sister is really good at this task, and can find some splendid words and elegant syntax to describe our travels, but, for me, it is tedious drudgery that I can well do without. Besides, it’s not as if our notebooks are preserved in a safe place for future generations to peruse. They must end up in the dustbin, since I never see them once our holiday is over.

This year, we are stopping off in Chester, on the border of Wales, before heading up to Penrith in Cumbria. Mum loves cathedrals, so every summer holiday involves a detour to some medieval edifice or other. We have a pile of Pitkin guide books at home that Mum collects as souvenirs of our visits. Chester Cathedral is slightly less fancy-dancy than others that we have been to, more friendly and inviting. I feel at home here; the building is made of local red sandstone and the high ceilings are painted wood. My parents like to use the guide to find their way around, but I prefer to wander, following my nose. The patron saint of Chester is both a princess and a nun, and once brought a dead goose back to life. I think that the goose was just playing dead, or perhaps it was a special pet goose that God felt sorry for. Either way, this princess-nun (St. Werburgh) seems to have been quite the animal lover, as there is a tiny dog scratching its ear carved into her shrine. Or so we are told from our trustworthy Pitkin guide. After a good ten minutes going round and round the monument I cannot find it, and wander off to look at the stained glass window of Werburgh. She looks serene and handsome, more nun than princess, less Sleeping Beauty, more Sound of Music. At least I’ll have something to write in tomorrow’s diary. 

Our overnight stop is at the Bull’s Head Farm near Penrith: it’s a working farm, but they have a Bed and Breakfast business on the side. We have two rooms: Mum and Dad in one, us three sisters in the other. The rooms are large, but old-fashioned, with faded flowery wallpaper and crocheted blankets. We sleep well: I’m horribly allergic to feathers, so I bring my own synthetic pillow to ensure a snuffle-free night. The morning brings the inevitable conflict over breakfast. Mum always wants me to have a Full English Breakfast, which comprises of a nasty combination of eggs, sausage, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and fried bread. The thought of this makes my stomach lurch; all I want is a couple of pieces of toast and marmalade, or a bowl of Sugar Puffs. I routinely suffer from car sickness, and will eventually throw up my breakfast somewhere on the side of the road, observed by an audience of startled sheep. Mum insists that toast and/or cereal is not enough and I should eat a hearty breakfast, so that I don’t start whining about being hungry by mid-morning. Besides, she believes that Fox’s Glacier Mints will stave off any car sickness. They don’t. There is usually a compromise in which I have beans on toast or some scrambled eggs, but I sit squirming uncomfortably in my seat; I can’t even feed some of my breakfast to the dog since she is not allowed in the breakfast room.

After the breakfast ordeal is over, I am allowed to go into the farmyard and say “Hello” to the bull. Given the name of this establishment, a bull in the farmyard on hand (on hoof?) to greet visitors seems perfectly appropriate.  He is kept in a stall, and seems to take up the entire space with his vast body: all brawn and acrimony. He has horns that scare me; the thick silver ring through his nose just adds to his menace. I make my salutations from a safe distance, since I am sure he could flatten me with one flex of his neck muscles. This year, however, we are all treated to an astounding spectacle: we are visiting on the day the cows are being impregnated. I’m not sure what is more alarming: the sight of this terrifying beast covering a long line of dutiful cows, or the fact that he is out of his stall, and free to trample me to smithereens if he so choses. Fortunately, he seems happily engaged in his task, but I stay behind the fence - just in case he decides that he’s had enough of procreation for one day.  Show over, we pack our bits and bobs back into the car, and we are on our way North. Soon we cross the border into Scotland, indicated by a sign on the side of the road, emblazoned with a Saltire declaring, “Welcome to Scotland”, in case you thought you had veered into Wales by mistake. Blink and you’ll miss it. This is somewhat disappointing, as there really should be a band of marching pipers at the very least. No matter. We are on our way, and will soon be arriving at the home of Uncle and Auntie P––, a gloriously eccentric couple who live in a gloriously eccentric Victorian house. I can’t wait.