Kindness

We leave Greenock to catch the ferry to Dunoon. Mercifully, the crossing is short and the waves not too choppy, since, not only am I frequently car-sick, I am also prone to boat-sickness as well. This time around the sun is doing its best to peek around the skitty cotton-wool clouds. In this fair weather (by Scottish standards) we can make the journey above-deck, so that I can get some fresh air and watch the seagulls bob and dip in the wake of the car ferry. We rarely stop for long in Dunoon, but today there is a parade with a kilted pipe band marching down the high street. This splendid tartan-clad troop is being followed by a rabble of enthusiastic locals, led by a middle-aged woman happily bashing a toy drum with a pair of washing-up mops that replicate the sheep wool drum sticks of the bass drummers. Unrestrained, unabashed bashing. The onlookers are all cheering for her, the drum major completely unaware that he has a drumming interloper following him as he swings and throws his mace. I watch with my mouth open, amazed that adults can be so uninhibited; my mum enjoys the spectacle and laughs along with the rest of the crowd, but dad huffs and tuts and says he finds it annoying. From Dunoon, we drive across the peninsular to the west coast and the Kyles of Bute.

Once out of the little town, the road is mainly single track, through hills and valleys, sheep and heather. The dog snoozes on mum’s lap, only to be interrupted from her reveries whenever we drive over a cattle grid. Each time her head pops up like a periscope, but seeing nothing of interest, she returns to her snoozing. Along the side of the road there are black-and-white striped wooden posts. I ask Dad what these are for, and he says that they are for marking out the road when there is snow. I try to imagine this place covered in snow, but come up short: all I can see is heather with the occasional stunted tree that has managed doggedly to survive in this bleak and windswept landscape. Some of the fields are bounded by fences of barbed wire and strung with tufts of sheep wool, like furry Christmas lights. I’m trying to distract myself by looking for sheep or cattle or something to count, but it is not working. The ripples of nausea are growing stronger, like loathsome swash in my belly; I know that soon I will have to ask to stop the car. Mum has already given me a plastic bag and several Fox’s Glacier Mints to suck on, convinced of their efficaciousness. I fear that the sweets will soon be making a reappearance. I’m not sure what to do: this is a difficult road for Dad to stop on, and Mum, for whatever reason, is not in a good mood. Clearly the mop-waving drummer-woman has not improved her humour. I wonder if I can hang on until we get to the cottage at Kames. The familiar feeling of slow dread is grasping my chest with bile-slimy fingers, and I inevitably start to retch, miserably, into the Mother’s Pride bread bag. Dad stops the car at the next passing point. Mum is already scolding me for not being able to keep my breakfast down, Dad is telling me off for not asking sooner, my sister is silent: a mixture of embarrassment and fear since she has been in my shoes and is sorry for me, but not strong enough to protect me from our parents. 

And then a miracle happens. An honest-to-goodness, genuine article miracle. As I’m retching and still being rebuked by Mum for waiting to the last moment, a car stops next to ours. The occupant cannot understand why my mum is yelling at me as I’m clearly in distress. They want to know what is happening. They tell my mum to go easy on me as I’m only a child. And then they drive off. I think Mum is too taken aback to answer; she shrugs it off and offers me more tissues. I am so grateful to these strangers who have come to my rescue, who have taken my case and defended me against my parents. This is a strange new understanding for me: other people might think my parents are being unfair and unreasonable as well. I like this feeling. We arrive at the cottage with no further incident, and unpack our belongings. My sister and I take a walk down to the beach to get some air. Nothing is said about the incident on the lay-by, but we are both thinking about what it might mean.

The village chemist is double fronted with floor to ceiling windows, and a door with a bell that jangles as you walk in. The paintwork is faded and peeling in places, and the windows are dotted with faded-to-blue posters advertising various products: Johnson’s baby powder and Colgate toothpaste. The shop smells of Dettol and floor polish, a strange scent that pervades the bleached wooden counters and cracked lino. We come here for various items: washing-up liquid and cough medicine, suntan lotion and plasters. The post-office is next door; it, too, has a jingly bell that alerts the postmistress to the arrival of customers. Here we choose our postcards from the range of somewhat elderly, sun-curved selection to send back home for Auntie G––, Grandma  and Aunt J––. Here we also buy our copy of the Sunday Post: of course,  our favourite sections are the cartoon strips: “Oor Wullie” and “The Broons.” The local hotel stands opposite the parade of shops. It is a solid, hearty building that has withstood many a winter and has many a tale to tell, should the fuzzy flock-papered walls care to regale their stories of travellers who have spent an evening or two in the saloon bar. The substantial granite fireplace in the lounge has a shield and crest above it: on one side is a colourful golfing umbrella, and on the other a grinning midge wearing hob-nail boots. Below the shield the motto reads: “Raineo et Midgeo”, which sums up this part of Scotland in a nutshell. We come here for coca-cola as a treat whilst Mum and Dad chat with the locals in the bar. The coca-cola is only a brief distraction, once we have sucked to the dregs through paper straws, we have little to do except squabble between ourselves about whose turn it is to fill out today’s travel diary. There’s not a lot to cover this week, since our time has mostly been spent pottering around on the beach or paddling in the sea, or going for walks along the road from Kames to Tighnabrauich. The view down the loch is magical: every day brings a different combination of grey and mauve and blue: the benevolent mountains and water match the kindness of the people who live here. Dad has been to the local golf course for a round or two using Uncle L––’s ancient golf clubs that are housed in an even more ancient golf bag. The course is up on some crags nearby, exposed to rasping squalls that pick up the sand from the beach and deposit it in gritty showers. The roughs are grazed by local sheep, and the fairways given a cursory clip now and again. There are a few scattered trees bent double by the constant winds, digging their roots in like witchy nails, determined to hang on. I wonder if the sheep are ever struck by golf balls, but they seem oblivious to the peril they may be in. I also wonder how the golfers can see the next hole, given that Scot’s mists often drift along the coastline; I think they must hazard a guess at most of their shots. I also think that many golf balls lie on the sea bed, poked at by curious sea life, and frowned on by their barnacle neighbours. 

The days run into each other: walks and wanderings in quiet innocence through this place of homely welcome and old-fashioned civility. We pack the up the car, wave good-bye to the cottage and make our way back to Dunoon. On the way, we stop for some photos on the hills overlooking the loch. We sit awkwardly with Mum, trying our best to look wise and thoughtful in our matching navy jumpers, whilst being scratched and poked by the unyielding heather. My older sister has her chin clenched as she squints towards the sunlight, her face showing resignation rather than the serenity she is hoping for. I sit at my mum's feet staring straight ahead; my harshly cropped curls have no need for hair grips. I'm thinking less about the lovely view and more about the rest of the car journey, grateful for the break and breath of fresh air, hopeful that the rest of the trip back will pass without incident. Dad is not satisfied with our pose, and tries another arrangement, this time with us holding bunches of heather. The result is equally strained and self-conscious, but will still be included in the slide show when we return home.