Jill Stephenson at Loch Duich
Quintin Jardine in Elie
Iain Macmillan in Gleneagles
Douglas Marr on Skye
Andrew McFadyen in Kilmarnock
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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The Cafe
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Today’s banner
A Scottish holiday
Drawing by SR’s resident cartoonist, the one
and only
Bob Smith
Postcards from Scotland 6
R D with his future wife
R D Kernohan
John Smith’s grave. Photograph by Islay McLeod
When the Scottish Review asked me for memories, lighthearted or otherwise, of a memorable holiday in Scotland I agreed, naturally assuming I’d actually been on one. On reflection, however, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a ‘staycation’ in the mother country. Not, I hasten to add, because I don’t like the idea, but there are too many other countries to explore first. My own backyard can wait for retirement.
I have to reach quite far back to identify something that even comes close. There were holiday camps in Ayr and wet weekends in East Kilbride when I was a kid, but otherwise there was a week in Iona when I’d just finished my first year at Aberdeen University. It was youth week (I’m not religious, and wasn’t then) and my brother knew people who were going (as was he), so I tagged along.
The accommodation was basic – bunk beds in a dorm – and the food similarly so, but my student self thought nothing of such privations at the time. There were a range of ‘spiritual’ activities on offer, but I opted out of much of the God stuff and did my own thing. I remember seeing John Smith’s grave (he had only died two years before my visit), exploring the gorgeous abbey and going for long walks across the island.
I also remember the weather being (mostly) gorgeous. The only exception was the boat crossing to Staffa, a small island inhabited mainly by puffins and tourists keen to see Fingal’s Cave, the ‘other side’ (so to speak) of Northern Ireland’s Giant’s Causeway and the inspiration for Mendelssohn’s splendid ‘Hebridean Overture’. The experience instilled a fascination with islands; Islay and Jura are on my to-do list, but more than 100 countries have priority.
David Torrance
When our son was young, we used to have an annual village camping trip to Loch Ken in Galloway. We took tents, boats, canoes, barbecues, fishing rods, lots of food, lots of drink and hot water bottles. Mostly we went in June, before the schools finished for the summer. The event snowballed until one year there were about 50 of us: adults, children and dogs as well.
Although the sun often shone, it could be cold, wet and even scary – like the year of the great thunderstorm when we piled all the kids into our transit van for safety and then stood in the biggest tent, while lightning flashed from pole to pole and thunder bellowed.
The kids had a ball. (So did the midges.) Loch Ken is shallow, long, narrow and very beautiful. Powerboats are sensibly restricted to one area, so the water near our campsite was safe for rowing, canoeing and sailing in small boats. We made up names for certain places – the Octopus lagoon was particularly magical. Some of the parents, my husband included, were experienced sailors. One was a canoe instructor, so lifejackets were worn and safety rules observed. The kids – of all ages – played and squabbled and made friends again. The big ones looked out for the small ones. The dogs looked out for all of them. They sailed and rowed and swam. They ate quantities of barbecue food and fell into their sleeping bags at last, grubby and exhausted. Then the adults sat around wrapped in quilts, inhaling the toxic fumes from citronella candles, drinking wine late into the night and watching those amazing Galloway dark skies. Nobody ever did a risk assessment.
Many years later, our son remarked, ‘I thought everybody had adventures like that when they were kids. Turns out hardly anybody else did’.
Catherine Czerkawska
Chris (middle) in Elie
Chris Holligan
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