From amazon.co.uk / © Smith, Smith & Swan
Back in 2006, I returned to my family’s home in the town of Peebles, in southeastern Scotland, for a fortnight’s vacation from a job I was doing in a particularly authoritarian, under-developed and hard-to-live-in country. As that country offered little in the way of social life, I had plenty of free time on my hands when I wasn’t at my workplace. And to fill in that free time, I’d spent the past year working on a project initiated by my brother Gareth and his mate Douglas Swan. Basically, Gareth and Douglas wanted to publish a book about the history of a local football team, Peebles Rovers. They conducted the research for it and sent the notes, newspaper cuttings, interview transcripts and so on to me. I’d always fancied myself as a writer, so I took on the job of turning their research into prose.
The research had all been written up and the book was soon to be published when I arrived home that August. As a thank-you for the work I’d put into it, Gareth and Dougie bought me a present: a ticket for the Rolling Stones concert on Friday, August 25th, at Hampden Stadium in Glasgow, which coincided with my return to Scotland.
This was a little sudden and unexpected. Also, my parents’ house, where I was staying, was offline and I didn’t have a phone – so dictatorial was the country I was working in that private citizens weren’t allowed to carry one. Thus, I was somewhat unprepared that Friday morning when I set off, via bus from Peebles to Edinburgh, and then train from Edinburgh to Glasgow. I hadn’t, for example, been able to search for accommodation that night in Glasgow, after the concert. “Och,” I thought to myself in my haphazard way, “I’m sure something will turn up.”
However, before I left the house in Peebles, my Dad told me: “If you can’t find a place to stay, and have problems getting home, call me from a pay-phone. I’ll come and collect you.”
“Sure,” I said. But as I prided myself on being an independent, ‘low-maintenance’ sort of person, I had no intention of phoning him late at night, and probably getting him out of bed, to lament that I needed help getting home.
Anyway… I got to Glasgow and first of all visited the Tourist Information Centre in George Square to ask if the city had any hotel rooms free that evening. “Not really,” the lady at the desk replied. “There’s a big concert here today, you see…” Well, I knew that, having come to attend it. From what she said, it sounded like the nearest hotel that did have vacancies was halfway between Glasgow and John O’Groats. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just have to head back to Edinburgh afterwards and see if I can get to Peebles from there. Because the Edinburgh Festival was in full swing at the time, all accommodation in the Scottish capital was already booked too. It’d been snapped up months ago.
From mixcloud.com
I enjoyed the Rolling Stones and the Charlatans, their support band, at Hampden that evening. Following the show, I hopped on a late train to Edinburgh. Unfortunately, I arrived in Edinburgh sometime after the final bus of the day had left the city for Peebles. What to do? Well, from previous experience of the Edinburgh Festival, I knew it was virtually impossible to find a taxi at night-time. But there was a very late bus, leaving at around three o’clock in the morning, for the town of Penicuik, which was halfway between Edinburgh and Peebles. From Penicuik, home was another ten miles away. First, you had to traverse the wilds of Leadburn Moor, then you had to make your way along the more sheltered and scenic Eddleston Valley.
Ten miles, I thought to myself in a gung-ho manner, having downed quite a few pints that day and being full of Dutch courage. I could walk that in two-and-a-half hours. And, just in case there are any cars using the road at that late hour – I can always try hitchhiking. Maybe I’ll strike it lucky and get a lift, and get back to Peebles sooner.
Because it was Festival time, many of the pubs in Edinburgh were open very late. And because I felt I could do with just a wee bit more Dutch courage, I spent the run-up to three o’clock sinking more pints in the Scotsman Lounge on Cockburn Street. Finally, it was time to go. I got on the three o’clock bus and a half-hour later got off in the centre of Penicuik, which was utterly still and silent.
From there, I walked down a street towards the southern edge of the town. I didn’t see another soul on the pavements. Neither did a single vehicle pass on the road. The outskirts of town neared and, beyond, the darkness of Leadburn Moor beckoned. I steeled myself. Okay, I thought. This is going to be a hell of a walk. But I can do it…
As I got to the town’s edge, and the beginning of the darkness, a pair of headlights went blazing past on the other side of the road – northwards, into Penicuik, the opposite direction from where I was going. A pity, I thought. But there’s at least one person on the road at this hour. Maybe there’ll be others, heading my way…
And sure enough, a minute later, I heard a car engine approaching behind me – driving southwards, towards Peebles! I turned just before the headlights reached me and stuck out my hitchhiking thumb. The car passed, and slowed, and stopped a few yards ahead. Fortune was smiling on me for sure. I ran to the car, grabbed the passenger’s door, yanked it open, stuck my head in and blurted: “Are you going towards Peebles – ?”
My voice died. For sitting in the driver’s seat was… my Dad.
I spluttered, “What are you doing here?”
“Och,” he said, “I woke up a while ago and thought to myself, that fellah hasn’t come home yet. So I wondered what you would do. I figured you’d be daft enough to get the bus from Penicuik and try walking home from there. So I thought I’d get in the car and take a wee scoot up the road and have a look for you. I spotted you on the pavement there a minute ago, found a place to turn and came back.”
I didn’t know whether I should feel annoyed, insulted, pleased, amused or relieved. I probably ended up feeling a mixture of all five, but the biggest feeling was one of relief.
That wasn’t the only occasion that my auld man, kind and shrewd, came to my rescue. But it was perhaps the most memorable one.
My Dad passed away at the end of last month, aged 88. So I thought I would share this Dad story with you.
Four years after the event described above, I met up with my Dad for a week’s holiday in Malta. Yes, we did end up one day in the pub in Valetta where thirsty movie star Oliver Reed breathed his last whilst filming Ridley Scott’s Gladiator there in 1999.