While it was delightful visiting friends living in the picture postcard village of Tobermory, the camping was a spot, shall I say, challenging. As is the custom on a Scottish island the wind came up turning our tent into a wind tunnel and forcing the Husband out in his tighty-whiteys to re-peg the tent at 4am. The next night it rained heavily, it was so loud I felt as though I were standing in a monsoon with a tin-bucket on my head. To round up our weathering experience the final night our tent resembled an icicle after a heavy ground frost. Thankfully on this occasion I was warmed by beer and much merriment after sampling the delights of the Mull Folk Festival.
The Folk Festival was in fact a series of bad cover bands doing Bruce Springsteen and Killer’s songs in the various pubs around Mull. It was a most educational evening during which I learnt that in Scotland you can virtually camp anywhere:
And you are never too old to Rock! While some might be settling in with their Horlicks and knitting this 80-something Glasgow Granny, was cutting some rug to the distorted sounds of ‘William and his Wonders’.
Indeed Mull and the campsite were awash with Glaswegians a.k.a Weegies who like to get up at about 6am and crack open their first can of Tenants at about 6.30am. They enjoy peppering their riveting conversation with expletives. Due to the lack of soundproofing in a tent I was privy to this delightful exchange between 3 Weegies putting up their tent:
Weegie 1: QUA-A-A-A-CK. [Loud expulsion of digestive gasses in manner of a duck call]
Weegie 2: Aye fuck, beuy!
Weegie 3: Ah, roast duck t’night beuy.
I had the pleasure of seeing Weegie 3 again in the pub where he was tucking into a rather large squinty girl who had been eyeing out our single friend, Duke and chatting up my Husband until she gave Weegie 3 the glad eye (well one of her eyes did). Poor Duke needs to find himself a better wingman, my Husband is useless as he simply starts chatting to the prettiest girl and forgets to steer her in Duke’s direction and it would appear that I’m just not man enough for the job. I tried once, accompanying Duke to a pole-dancing club (as a friend and investigative journalist) unfortunately I rather ruined the mood by suggesting that he didn’t lean against the bar as I looked a bit unwashed and you couldn’t be too sure what fluids had been spilt upon on the counter top. I then vocalised my contempt for the lighting, which was not doing ‘Cindy’ any favours as she hung like a bat from the stripper pole in tacky synthetic bra-let (i.e. almost a bra) and g-string. The revolving disco light above Cindy’s upturned form was highlighting her cellulite in a most uncomplimentary manner. Needless to say my rather vocal appraisal of her disco-dimpled bottom didn’t endear us to management.
But I digress, after the failure to find Duke a suitable partner without an overbite or myopic vision we gave up and headed South. After many hours in the car, during which my Husband suffered extreme road rage and we took in Hadrian’s wall (grey, old, windy) I returned to my dear Myvanwy. I was disgusted to discover that my temporary replacement, a hung over Kiwi (the Nationality, not the fruit) had been on a two week fruit only detox. Poor Myvanwy had felt too mean to insist the fruitarian cook and so had fended for herself for a fortnight.
We were both bloody thrilled I was back.
