Another blog from earlier in the summer which has been lurking unloved and unfinished in my drafts. This is, however, the last one and after this I shall have largely caught up with myself just in time to fall behind again during our imminent late summer holiday.
In the last week of July Mum was installed to mind Lyra (i.e. fill her with treats until bursting and undo all our training) and Keith and I took ourselves over to Arran to meet up with our friend Anne and enjoy the excellent hospitality of Arran’s feistiest 100 year old (Anne’s Aunt Margaret).
The whole trip very much had the feel of stepping back in time into an Enid Blyton novel. There’s a quiet, between the wars charm about the place. Lamlash, the nearest town to Margaret’s house in Cordon, curves around a small bay with the air of a 1920’s railway travel poster. There’s a beautiful crescent of white washed estate houses on the bay road that could be almshouses lifted from a novel by Trollope. The town also boasts a proper “sells everything” shop, with a linoleum floor, a big counter and jars of sweeties on the wall behind the till, which quite took me back to Mrs Stott’s emporium of my youth. (There was nothing for it on our last afternoon but to go there and load up with Arran Ice cream (mmm the tablet flavour..) and sit on a bench watching the world sail past).
Anne took her hosting/tour guide responsibilities extremely seriously and we were dutifully shepherded around the coast to admire Holy Isle and Ailsa Craig, who were, for the most part, hunkering down under thick grey downies of cloud. We then spent a while trying to chase down the local seals, who had, sadly, decided not to bask that day, though we did find some friendly sheep. The sun came out by the time we reached Kings Cross (where the Robert the Bruce, mistaking the farmers on the mainland burning their stubble for beacons announcing the successful mustering of his troops, started the war to reclaim his crown somewhat prematurely…. ). Clambering up the hill over an old Iron Age fort (known locally as the Viking Fort as it is also the site of a longship burial, the vikings having perhaps taken over the existing defensive structure), we took a moment to check for invaders. Reassured by the absence of longships, we headed on to Machrie Moor to see the standing stones. The mist fell again at this point, which added to the atmosphere no end. It is a large complex of six stone circles, some with huge standing stones, others lower and one with a low jagged double ring, like teeth. The complex also includes five other (non circle) single stone monuments. These are Bronze Age structures, the various rings constructed at different times over a long period, and the surveys suggest that the stones were erected on the site of previous wooden circles.
Our next foray out took us to Brodick castle where we had a good nose around inside. The vibe was very much of faded grandeur and I found myself most interested in the sepia photographs of the last of the Hamiltons, the family who developed the current castle as a holiday home (their main residence being Hamilton Palace). The fall of the Hamiltons is a rip roaring tale of hubris and decadence over two centuries. The ladies of the family, including those who were wooed in to refill the coffers from time to time, seem generally to have been a sensible bunch but the men were either mad collectors or hopeless gamblers. Aunt Margaret could remember the last generation to live there, and added a little colour over a stiff drink in the garden sitinerie (a pleasing glass structure with copious armchairs) when we got back. The castle gardens were quite glorious, very cleverly planted to maintain a long season of colour, and (for a place of that size) very well kept. I think we might have to go back to get a look at the spring show as there were some promising rhododendrons and azaleas.
In keeping with the title, I should say we dined on Aunt Margaret’s Tomato Soup with lashings of ginger beer, but actually we went to the pub and snarfed langoustines and a rather nice albariño. Also, I paused my wittering just now for dinner and asked Keith if there were any high points I had missed. Well, mea culpa, the mobile coffee hut at Machrie Moor did indeed brew a magnificent coffee. Notwithstanding its location on a moor in the middle of nowhere, so good was the coffee it seemed to have a permanent queue of regulars (most of whom were, inexplicably, German). Keith extracted the details of the blend from the barista (Dear Green) and we bought some after coming home. It is lovely, but I do think reaches its peak with the soft west coast water (how foodie is that to notice…). Anyway, if anyone is thinking about a jolly I’d give Arran a strong vote. Keith is, as I type, trying to work out if the Ardrossan ferry ramp would take the Morgan and I am thinking that if we took the big car Lyra could come. So a pleasing argument awaits….
The famous three I see not five! 🤔
I have enjoyed the trip virtually with you…thank you. 😘