OK, maybe this attempt at humour wasn’t the best: I’ll plead exhaustion, for today has been an undertaking conducted on about five hours’ sleep; between some work late last night and again this morning, my day was further interrupted by a plumbing problem at the place in Portpatrick I was staying at, and by the time I got out — and after snapping some waterfront pictures I couldn’t take yesterday, as the glare from sunset over the water would have rendered them useless — it was near lunchtime before I got on the road to Ayr, and thence to Glasgow.

Those who’ve been following my journey to date will know my visit to Tintagel in Cornwall last week affected me greatly; if we exclude London and Glasgow (everyone knows I adore these two cities), Portpatrick probably comes in second to Tintagel as the best place I’ve visited thus far. Even so, my beloved Loch Lomond is coming up later in the week…as is a weekend on Islay…with more new places in central and eastern Scotland later in the piece: so these rankings shouldn’t be regarded as conclusive. But they may be reordered depending on my mood!

More seriously, having made the decision to stay in Portpatrick (and again: I can’t recommend adding a night or two there to your itinerary strongly enough, should you decide to explore Scotland by road), the next step was a drive to Glasgow along the so-called “Scottish Great Ocean Road.” I honestly don’t know who it was who told me of this epithet; but setting off from Stanrauer (the town you hit when you reconnect with the A77 after emerging from the B-roads in and out of Portpatrick), the signs weren’t good.

At first, it looked like I would be driving adjacent to what looked for all the world like mud flats: yes, there’s water. No, it’s not attractive. And like any marsh or bog, it stank.

But gradually, this gave way to some stunning oceanic scenery (and — as fate would decree — some of the best scenery was land-side, with rollicking grasslands and rolling hills, that couldn’t be photographed while driving), and at least as far as Ayr, it was a very pretty drive. The passenger and freight ferry terminal (to Belfast, for those interested) halfway between Stanrauer and Ayr is an eyesore, though. Best to just keep driving.

After Ayr, of course, the road becomes very functional: it’s 33 miles from Ayr to Glasgow, and the terrain quickly changes from A-road to freeway to the 70mph M77 motorway. I am very pleased to report that — with no more than a cursory look at Google maps before leaving Portpatrick this morning — I got off the M77 at the correct exit, drove into central Glasgow, wrestled briefly with its infernal one-way streets (I thought Brisbane and Sydney were bad for those, but for God’s sake!), and made it to my hotel with just one stop to ask for a pointer, just one block short. I got that close on the first attempt.

And so…I am in Glasgow: my spiritual home; my ancestral seat; origin of the Gow family (that’s my mother’s half of the gene pool); a multi-faced, diverse, vibrant piece of Scotland that some people admittedly just can’t stand. Yes, it’s rough, gritty and dirty, but I love it.

I’ve shared this clip from Billy Connolly elsewhere in the past; to me it strikes the perfect balance between reminiscence for the better days the old town has undoubtedly seen, the great affection for it among those of its natives and descendants, and the hint that maybe there really is cause for optimism about its future. I hope so. I love coming here. I love its old buildings and its bad weather, its people with attitude and its particular way of doing things. And it is perfectly accurate to concur with Connolly’s sentiment: Glasgow gave me more than it ever took away.

Speaking of bad weather, Glasgow waited just long enough this afternoon for me to get my hire car into the car park, then opened the heavens: it made for a soggy, sloshy trudge around town this afternoon, getting started on a couple of personal errands I’m ticking off over the next couple of days. They’re no particular secret in this instance, of course. But the rain wasn’t conducive to taking photographs, and in any case, I didn’t really go anywhere I wanted pictures from (although I did see something interesting on a very peripheral basis — I’ll show you that shortly).

My first stop was the chic retail store on Brunswick Street selling tweed for men, ladies and children; there’s a lovely tweed cap in my suitcase as we speak, and tomorrow I’m going back to buy a very smart tweed sports coat: something I have wanted for many years, but which is nigh on impossible to buy in Melbourne. I might buy a tweed suit tomorrow too, or at least get the product details and buy it once I’m back in Australia.

Tweed is finally fashionable again (not that it should ever have been otherwise: the misguided stereotype of tweed-clad stuffiness is a pile of bullshit consequent upon cutting off noses to spite the faces of those who propagate it). Anyone who wants to look good in something that’s comfortable, natural, sustainably produced, and very durable should be wearing tweed, and supporting Scottish sheep farmers in the process.

My other little job this afternoon (and remember — I was only able to “hit the town” at about 4pm) was to find a reputable tattoo parlour to enquire about what I have in mind:

The bird that never flew.
The tree that never grew.
The bell that never rang.
The fish that never swam.

The first place I went to (on a recommendation) made no secret of the fact it couldn’t be bothered with me, what I wanted, or the work (and income) that might be associated with it; from there, I visited a second shop — in which someone in London I know got a tattoo some years ago as a lark on a weekend jaunt to Scotland — and got all of the information I wanted, as well as meeting three very nice people who wanted to talk…and talk…and talk…once the “business” of the meeting was done.

Will I get the tattoo? If I’m honest, I have all but decided to do it; the thing holding me back isn’t what people might think (I’ve never cared about that!), it isn’t the thought I’d regret it (I’d have to regret my ties to Glasgow to do that, which is…let’s call it “unlikely”), it isn’t the money, and it isn’t some phobia about the process being painful. It actually boils down to the fact I’m concerned about it getting infected — a concern heightened by the illness episode in London, and the rigmarole of the antibiotic treatment to get rid of it, the effects of which I’m still dealing with — and especially ten days before another long-haul flight back to Melbourne.

So it may be that I end up getting something…but back in Melbourne. Close to available doctors if I need them rather than an all-day wait at an NHS hospital blowing a full day of a holiday I’ve paid a fair chunk of change for. Either way, my readers will know 🙂

AND ANOTHER THING: I said I’d seen something interesting today…I have always known that Scotland is the ONLY country in the world, where Coca-Cola is sold, in which the pre-eminent local soft drink consistently outsells Coke…

I can take Irn Bru or leave it (although God knows I’ve drunk enough of the stuff over the decades), but there’s little doubt where the allegiances of Scots lie: this convenience store off Trongate near my hotel has as much space allocated to Irn Bru products as it does to Coke and Pepsi combined: in retail, shelf space is only forthcoming if it generates profits, so to my commercially-inclined mind, this picture speaks volumes.