My world tour of exotic places has continued with visits to two more jewels: Dunfermline and Peebles.
Dunfermline cropped up because the Burd said she'd never been before. As you would expect from someone as adventurous as me, I had. Indeed, years ago, I considered buying a house there. I'd always been impressed that the football stadium was set nea
r a pleasant suburb, and this had coloured my view of the town.
It's not all green suburb, of course, but the impression remained and was coupled with a perception that, amid the bigoted hell that is Scottish football fandom, Dunfermline Athletic supporters seemed almost civilised. However, I was temporarily put off the town by a bus driver. The road from the central car park is – or was; I think it has changed now – difficult to follow and, on this occasion, I found myself taking a wrong turning into the bus station. I turned back to exeunt, and a bus driver put on a furious show, his rage making veins stand out on his neck in the traditional Scottish manner. I am Scottish too, unfortunately, and was tempted to get out of my car and poke him in the eyelobe. It's a male thing. You wouldn't understand. I'm now taking Buddhist pills for the condition.
Anyway, it was enough to put me off the place. I didn't want to live somewhere that contained vicious bus drivers. The other day, funnily enough, I was musing that you can't really live anywhere without other people spoiling things. It was the existentialist philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre, who wisely observed: "Hell is other people." But, then again, maybe Heaven is too. And, as for Dunfermline, it is neither Heaven nor Hell. You say: "Is it Purgatory then, like?" But that's the sort of cheek I have come to expect from readers in the cheap seats.
As it happened, everyone we met in Dunfermline was pleasant, even the assistant in a cheap shop where, for eight of your Earth pounds, I bought a table that was a perfect fit for my new creative space in the Cubby Hole (see previous week's adventures).
We visited the medieval Abbot's House, which now has a guide who gives you the history of the place, recalling the central role Dunfermline once played in Scotia. Robert the Bruce's bones lie in the nearby abbey which, alas, had closed at 4:30pm when we tried to visit. But I'd been many times before and, as you might imagine, I've intimate connections with the Bruce, particularly his heart and sword.
As a reporter, I covered the examination of a casket thought to have contained his heart. The exciting probe was carried out by scientists in a lab on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The story made the splash (lead on the front-page). Another time, an underworld source of mine insisted Bruce's massive sword had been stolen from his descendant, the Earl of Elgin, who lives near Dunfermline. I visited the Earl and – naturally, to my disappointment – he produced the sword. I handled it like a wimp, which makes the memory even more distressing, particularly since the elderly earl had wielded it well. He was a lovely fellow, too (he showed me his Marbles), and I hope I furnished him with some reasonable excuse for my impertinent visit.
Our visit to Dunfermline could not take in the lovely Pittencrieff Park, with its peacocks, because it had started bucketing doon in the traditional Scottish manner. But I promised to take the Burd back soon.
Both of us are familiar with Peebles. Once, we stayed for a week in Pumpkin Cottage, a nook-style residence a few miles from town. We also saw a one-man play in the Eastgate Theatre about Kenneth Williams. What amazed us on this Sunday visit was the amount of tootling. It was a fine day and, on the high street and down by the river, folk by the dozen were oot plootering.
It is clearly the thing to do in Peebles on a fine weekend. Many citizens were stravaiging hither and yon, with nary a care, among these lovely environs. How the riverside walks soothe the troubled soul. Peebles strays dangerously into rural territory and, occasionally, you see someone on a horse, which is never a good thing. But, by and large, the people are civilised and, as there are few foreign visitors here, it's rare to see anyone with a slovenly walking style.
Alas, soon, it started bucketing doon in the traditional Scottish manner, so we took off for a drive round the countryside, visiting a friend who was being thrown out of her idyllic cottage by property developers. Yes, Hell comes to Heaven. The majority of citizens have one foot in each domain. But some of us still try hopping.
The full article contains 818 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
