R D Kernohan on Arran
David Torrance on Iona
Catherine Czerkawska at Loch Ken
Chris Holligan in Elie
Rose Galt in Girvan
Alex Wood on Arran
Andrew Hook in Glasgow
Alasdair McKillop in St Andrews
Sheila Hetherington on Arran
Anthony Seaton on Ben Nevis
Paul Cockburn at Loch Ness
Jackie Kemp in a taxi
Angus Skinner on Skye
The Scottish Review is on its annual summer break and will resume publication on Tuesday 24 July
I nearly kent
my faither
A poignant memoir by Jim Fiddes
Celebrate
Places Seldom Mentioned
A love poem for the summer by
Gerard Rochford
Holiday memories
are made
of this…
A celebration in photographs by
Islay McLeod
The most memorable
holiday in Scotland
that I never had
The glories of the
hydro hotels by
Kenneth Roy
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A Scottish holiday
Drawing by SR’s resident cartoonist, the one
and only
Bob Smith
Postcards from Scotland 8
Alastair, Sheila and Mary in Arran, 1982
Most memorable Scottish holiday? Impossible question, really – memories blend into one – childhood holidays, when we went for a month every year to destinations such as Morar, Struan, Glenfeshie. The years when my children were young, when we spent whole summers at an isolated cottage on the shoulder of Schiehallion, looking down over Loch Tummel. We loved Tombreck for six years, furnished it from odd items bought at Love’s saleroom in Perth. We had our own standing stone on the hillside, our own burn running into the swift-flowing Allt Kynachan. Jane, Lindy and Angus played in the barn, guddled in the burn, went fishing. We shopped in distant Kinloch Rannoch or Aberfeldy.
Years later, widowed, married to Alastair and having acquired four step-children (Tom, Alex, Lucy and Mary), of similar ages to my own, wonderful summers were spent at the cottage in Arran. Alastair insisted that a house diary should be kept, with all residents and visitors adding a daily record. Yesterday I looked at pages from a summer of 30 years ago.
Sheila, 3 March
Alastair and Sheila woke early, to the sound of rain hurling itself against the window. Alastair said it had been correctly forecast – and to that extent it gave him satisfaction (Alastair loves weather forecasts). Slept again. Alastair got up about 8am. Sheila stayed in bed to think about something. (Is Alastair right in his contention that man should not ask imponderable questions, since he can never arrive at satisfactory answers? Is it not necessary to quest, even if the answers are shadowy, inconclusive or non-existent?) Finding no answer, she slept again. Phone rang, and woke Tom, Carey, James and Sheila, who drifted into the kitchen for breakfast. Alastair went to fetch a newspaper. The sky, landscape and sea had merged into a dismal sheet of water, but the horizon to the east held a faint promise of hope.
Alastair, 22 July
Heavy rain all day. Much reading and some writing. Chapter V now complete.
Alex, 19 August
Sheila, dad, Angus, Mark, Mary, Antonia and Alex (me) all arrived by various means on a wet Tuesday. Wind was blowing miles and miles per hour, but we got the tent up in the garden so that Angus and Mark could sleep in it. (Note: They didn’t, but came to seek shelter indoors at midnight).
Alastair, 22 August
Alex said in a matter of fact way last night that we were going up A’chir today. We did. Excellent day, after our first abseil, at the big cleft south of A’chir summit.
So much more, so many entries, so many memories. Lest readers think that the weather was always dreich in Arran, let me assure them that there were wonderful days of sunshine, with the sound of swallows, larks, cuckoos. In the autumn, red deer came roaring round the cottage during the night. Idyllic, really.
Sheila Hetherington
July 1956, Liverpool. Billy Liddell was my hero, Scotland my football team, ‘Kidnapped’ my favourite book, and Glasgow my grandfather’s birthplace, yet I’d never been to Scotland. My friend and I took rucksacks, a change of clothes, a tent and bicycles, and went by train to Lockerbie. The rain was falling. Cycled over Beattock, across to Glasgow, rattled over the cobbles up Sauchiehall Street and took refuge from the downpour in Loch Lomond youth hostel. Dried out by the log fire and had a country dancing lesson from an agile, large lady. On to Gareloch, mothballed warships in the mist, then to Oban, where I left my rugby socks in the hostel. Glad of them back if you found them. Over Rannoch Moor, freewheeling down Glencoe, driving rain in our faces and mountains hidden in the clouds. Thought of the McDonalds, too wet to visit the site. Took ferry at Ballachulish over to Fort William, where again we dried out.
Couldn’t see Ben Nevis; followed the signs and walked up. Pushed bikes with us (mountain bikes hadn’t been invented so ours were originals). Think we got to the top, though couldn’t see it through the clouds. Down again, another drying session in the hostel. Next day we debated over the washing and cleaning whether to carry on or abort. We had been in Scotland exactly a week. The positives were the drama of the Highlands, the human warmth we encountered, and well, the rain had kept the midges down. The negative was fighting for a place near the fire each night. The cold and rain won. ‘We must come back when the weather’s better,’ I said. I was lucky. Over my 35 years here the weather has, on average, been better than it was that week.
Anthony Seaton
Paul Cockburn
Jackie Kemp
Angus Skinner
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