Holiday

by Susan Conolly
(London, UK)

For a change, let’s holiday at home, He said. So we did.

And set off caravan laden car puffing and chugging towards Fort Augustus. Which was last heard of in Scotland.

We crossed the border without customary bother of passports. Language became a problem. Directions were foreign, In Gaelic or Doric Or it might have other alien Communication.

We continued travelling. Roads shrank. More explicitly, there were few cars or people. The only moving obstacles making a peep were sheep. And mosquitoes, quaintly named midges.

Or duel purpose shops selling bannocks and oatcakes. Diesel or dumpling. Even haggis. From the Borders to Skye not just to feed livestock, the vegetable that rocks appears to be turnip.

Eventually we made it. And found the campsite. Full Of Italians. So we parked in a field with no shower or water. But an abundance of cow shit.

And midges of course. Who were the only things having fun with my body. After days sucking blood they packed up and left, With the Italians… Some foreign food?

Which left us a space. To park our van. By then our holiday Had become so grim the memory of city London crowds Seemed perfection.

So we missed the ceilidhs. And hammer tossing caber throwing pipers. On lonely loch sides the hunt for nessie. Discovering tartan, Finding our clan.

We drove home without stopping once. Comfort breaks out the window, my better half said, with his foot to the floor. Scant regard for speed limits.

For once in our lives, We agreed.

Susan Conolly ( an exile in London)