We drove along stunning Princess
Royal Drive, but not being sure if we were going the right way, I pulled into a
car park alongside an old 4-wheel
drive and saw the driver sitting there reading a newspaper. As
soon as I spoke, I kind of realised that I’d made a mistake. “Is this the right
way for Whale World?” I asked him.
He leapt out of his car and looked
at my map then glanced at me. “Where are
you from?” he asked.
“Glasgow”
“I’m from Prestwick. I’ve been here since 1972. I’m destitute.” He was a corpulent man with a fat, Scottish
face, ruddy cheeks and curly blonde hair.
Aged around 60 to 65, I immediately started planning my retreat.
He regaled with a tale about his
“faithful car” which had now broken down and he explained the intricacies of
his chain leaving the sprockets and the $1000 needed to fix it. I drove him back to the subject of
directions. Pointing out the way, he stressed the fact that Whale World was expensive and that it
would take good four-hours to go round it.
I didn’t mention the fact that I wasn’t really interested in the killing
of whales but was only interested in the location. Backing into the car I thanked him. He then stuck his head in the passenger’s
side window and asked, “Have you ever been to Arran?”
I assured him I had and he told me
it was just like the place. Aye, without
the rain. All his speech was delivered
in a broad Scottish West coast accent, as if he were relieved to be able to
speak the vernacular with someone who understood.
We drove on to the Whale World and had a meal. I thought
back to our meeting with the Scotsman and was reminded of a Somerset Maugham
short story, A Man from Glasgow, I
think it was called. He meets a crazy
Scot on some South Sea Island and to paraphrase the beginning, “Everywhere you
go in the world there is a Scotsman.”
