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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A Scottish holiday
Drawing by SR’s resident cartoonist, the one
and only
Bob Smith
Postcards from Scotland 5
Jill Stephenson
Elie. Photograph by Islay McLeod
Quintin Jardine
Gleneagles. Photograph by Islay McLeod
When we were young – it must have been 40 years ago, or more – my brother-in-law and I used to spend an occasional weekend at Gleneagles, playing golf. On one of these occasions, having spent the night in the hotel, we had booked a time on the Queen’s course for 10am next morning. When I arrived on the tee I doubted if I would be able to play. I had a stabbing pain on my right side. It turned out to be a trapped nerve. I managed the first three holes despite the pain, but by the fourth I had to lie down in the rough beside the fairway while Bill went back to the hotel to fetch the car.
While I waited two English golfers, smartly clad in plus twos and caps to match, passed by. I explained my predicament. ‘Jolly bad show’ said one of them sympathetically. Then, addressing his companion, he asked – ‘What d’you think George? Six iron?’ – and they moved on.
There was no help for it; we had to cancel. The hotel was very understanding. When we got back they sent lunch up to our room, carried our bags down to the car, and refused to accept any payment for our abortive weekend. It was a wonderful hotel in those days. Still is of course.
Iain Macmillan
British soldiers in the trenches in world war one were firmly of the opinion that the Germans had the power to make it rain, particularly when the allies launched a major offensive. I suspect that similar forces are at work when I plan holidays to the west coast of Scotland and to Skye in particular. I have been informed that there are mountains on Skye. They may even be awash with purple heather and graced by majestic stags for all I know. However, on every occasion I have emulated the Bonnie Prince, visibility has been limited to the outline of the next souvenir shop selling tat to disconsolate foreign nationals.
Some pathetically clutch VisitScotland brochures and make tentative inquiries about the efficacy of the Trade Description Act. Their diary entries are probably similar to Boswell’s journal for September 1783: ‘When I waked, the rain was much heavier than yesterday’. I have even tried, without success, to find out when Neil Oliver visits Skye. He forever seems to be louping around the West Highlands under azure skies unencumbered by half the stock of his local Tiso.
To be fair to Skye, I haven’t had much luck in other parts of the west either. My tracks appear to be dogged by the aforementioned rainmaker. On one memorable occasion in Lochcarron in mid-June, lamp-posts swayed alarmingly in the gale while shop and hotel signs blew tumbleweed-like down the street. It would have required Harry Potter’s powers to make out the features of the Glenfinnan Viaduct on my ‘scenic’ Fort William to Mallaig rail journey.
Anyone thinking of visiting the west coast should get in touch. I will provide the dates of my next Highland odyssey. Probably best to avoid.
Douglas Marr
Kilmarnock. Photograph by Islay McLeod
As a boy, my brother and I were packed off every summer to our gran and grandpa’s in Kilmarnock. The Ayrshire town doesn’t feature in many holiday brochures, but it has a special place in my childhood memories.
Writing this down on the train from London to Glasgow reminds me that when we arrived we would get fish suppers from the Bonnyton Café. I thought it was the best fish and chip shop in Scotland. We spent our days outside, playing football in the grounds of the Grange Academy and went swimming at the Magnum Leisure Centre in Irvine, which had a fantastic pool with flumes that wound around the outside of the building. It seems astonishing now, but in its 80s heyday the Magnum was one of Scotland’s biggest attractions, with visitor numbers that rivalled Edinburgh Castle.
In the evenings, my grandpa would talk about politics and history and football. I learned from him that RAF fighter crews were given bacon and eggs for breakfast because each mission could be their last. And that the 1945 Labour government was the best that the country had ever had.
Of course, we had other holidays as well. The best was going camping in the Western Isles and being blown off a beach in Barra by gale force winds. It meant we got to stay in a hotel. It must have made an impression because years later and newly married I went back with my wife to the same beach and the same hotel.
Andrew McFadyen
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