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montycrusto
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I see what you did there
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A Lowland Adventure - Mr. Maxwells' Vacation
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
- Start date
Heh ... Yeah, I flew a few year’s back from Prestwick to Heathrow. Very similar, middle-sized terminals. Glorified bus stations in some ways.
M
montycrusto
Guest
You have a time machine?
Reminds me of that old joke: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Dublin, please extinguish your cigarettes, fasten your seatbelts and set your watches back thirty years”. (I did say it was an OLD joke
)
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 3]
Tuesday, July 2nd
Waking up among the Doonhamers*
The next morning, Alex rose, dressed, and sought out the hotel restaurant's morning meal. He found a smallish but charming dining room with only a few souls taking their morning repast.
Seating himself, he studied the Breakfast Menu, puzzling over several unfamiliar dishes, and looked around for the waiting staff. After several minutes, a comely young woman (Alex reminded himself he should say "lassie" here in Scotland) in a waitress's costume, with a mixture of pink, blue, and jet-black hair, appeared and approached his table, enquiring "Whit'll ye be havin?"
Somewhat taken aback by curt greeting, Alex stammered, "What's your biggest seller?" by which he meant the most popular.
Looking at the American with a look of pity at his strange accent and stranger question, the girl replied, offhandedly, "Fu Scottish Breakfast is popular wi'oor guests."
"Fine. That's what I'll have, please."
"Tey or coffee?"
He decided there was no point in inquiring whether there might be any choice of coffees in origin or preparation.
"Coffee, please."
The girl said, "Nae problem," and turned on her heel. Displaying a nicely rounded ass, tightly encased in the sung uniform skirt, she walked out past the closed-off drinks bar, presumably to the kitchen. Alex checked his watch, 7:26. He had been warned that service in England was much slower than in America, probably due to the meanness of tipping, and he didn't expect Scotland to be land of fast food. He had found service in London a trifle slow, but not bad. It was the prices that, even in pounds before the exchange, were shocking!
At 7:39, the coffee had yet to make an appearance. Then the young waitress reemerged from the kitchen, carrying a monstrously large tray, laden with a multitude of dishes, which she set down on a folding metal tray stand that seemed to groan under the weight. Alex looked around at the few other guests, wondering who was getting all that food.
The girl took up a large stoneware bowl and several small bowls and brought them to Alex. She placed the large covered pot in front of him and said something that sounded like "Yer porrigge." She spread the little bowls around, which proved to contain raisins, brown sugar, powdered cinnamon, a solid chunk of honey, and some blackberries.
Alex thanked her politely and uncovered the bowl to reveal some very aromatic oatmeal. He was busy topping it with some honey when the girl returned, bearing several more plates. Alex identified a massive platter of fried eggs and some delicious looking bacon. Additional plates followed containing some alarming amounts of sliced and deep-fried items of whose identity he hadn't a clue (these proved to be haggis, black pudding, and clootie dumplings.) A Full Scottish Breakfast, indeed!
Before Maxwell had managed to process the enormity of the meal set before him, the girl had returned to the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to dig into the gargantuan feast. Just then, she returned with a cup of coffee. Not a fine brew by American standards, but hot and potable. Alex took a sip to clear the cobwebs as he watched her fair Scottish ass return to the kitchen.
Forty minutes later, Alex was rather proud that he had consumed well over half of the food heaped on his table. He might have had more but for a reluctance to try some of the nastier looking fried things and the impatient stares he was getting from the waitress, leaning against the bar. It seemed that she was consumed with a desire to be anyplace else (maybe the hair salon to try out new and strange hair colors?). He waved to her to clear the detritus of the battle while he sipped his coffee.
Returning to his room, Alex gathered his things and went down to the desk to check out. The cheerful young desk clerk (another pretty girl) greeted him as if he were the only guest in the entire establishment. The total charge for room and breakfast was remarkably reasonable (at least on a pounds for pounds of food calculation).
Maxwell used the house phone to call Endeavor and request a pickup at the hotel. For some reason, the clerk on the line found this impossible. The reservation called for pickup at the station. Alex tried to reason that the two were adjacent and involved no difference in a drive. But the agent, evidently at some remote call-center and unacquainted with the geography, was adamant. If "Sir" required pickup at the hotel, it would not be complimentary and "Sir" would incur additional charges. Alex, in the end, conceded to mindless bureaucracy and carried his bags the hundred feet to the station to await the car.
A car pulled up soon and took him across a small bridge to the opposite platform's car rental office. Hauling his bags out of the car, Alex noted he was at the other end of a footbridge over the tracks, a mere forty feet from where he'd been picked up! So much for the complimentary shuttle service, Alex thought. He was surprised to find the office more like a newspaper booth than a car rental office. The agent tried to hire him a Ford Kuga. When Alex saw the photo, he realized it was just a tiny Focus.
Further discussion with the agent resulted in his hiring a Range Rover Sport, automatic, the largest vehicle that was available. Alex had no intention of going off-road, and it was just for him with limited luggage, but he wanted the size for safety. £1,750 per week seemed fair. However, he couldn't shake the suspicion that he'd been ripped off over the car insurance because he was American, therefore thick and rich.
The agent pressed maps on Alex to help him get to his B&B in Kenmuir**. He politely accepted, with no intention of using. He had the latest iPhone with all the mapping he needed. He asked how long a drive to Kenmuir, and the agent estimated 40 minutes.
With plenty of time to get to his lodging, Alex decided to explore Dumfries a bit. The agent gave him a city map and pointed out the best attractions, as well as a good place for a tourist to grab lunch.
Despite all he'd heard about the wet weather in Scotland (he'd read they call it "dreich" weather, he thought that must be a garbled version of "ditch," probably because it fills them), the day was sunny and mild. The lightest fresh breeze came up from the South and carried a quite pleasant scent. Leaving the station, he strolled along a road named Lovers' Walk. Through the window of his hotel room last night, he'd heard sounds of merriment and occasional girlish squeals. Still, it didn't sound very romantic, and in daylight, it had a rather austere dignity, not much different from the Victorian part of London he'd seen, but a little more stern and grey.
Continuing down the main road into the town of Dumfries, which the tourist info in the hotel bedroom told him is the 'Queen of the South,' Alex wondered to himself whether that title was borrowed from Matthew 12:42.
He soon arrived at a statue of Robert Burns, the man he'd read was 'Scotland's National Bard.' Alex pondered whether that was 'Scotland's National Bird' sitting on the head of the Bard? He knew Burns wrote the New Year's Eve song, but he wasn't much for poetry otherwise. Like many men, Maxwell preferred non-fiction. If he was going to spend the time reading, he might as well learn something.
Alex was surprised to find only one main shopping street, lined with identical shops that he suspected could be found on any High Street in Britain. The only building he paused to look at was marked on the map as The Midsteeple; indeed, it stood half-way down and in the middle of the broad, pedestrian-only street. He took it to be a town hall or market hall, but it seemed to only house rather shabby shops. The whole road had a somewhat depressed, run-down feel.
Turning down a narrow side-street with the curious name of Friars Vennel, he noted a few, rather basic, cafes just opening for the day, then reached the bank of the River Nith, marked on the map as Whitesands, but in reality a parking lot.
Nevertheless, the view raised his spirits. It was picturesque, with the river flowing over a weir just downstream from an ancient-looking red stone bridge that must have been there for hundreds of years – Devorgilla's Bridge, the map said. Alex figured he must have been the builder.
An occasional amateur geologist, Alex noted the rocks on the banks seems to be Permian Sedimentary. He was slightly surprised since he'd read that most of Gallovidia's sedimentary rocks were Lower Carboniferous.
Crossing over, he made his way up a steep road to a building with a tower that turned out to house a small museum. A knowledgeable young lady (no, a 'comely lassie') demonstrated a strange gadget called a 'camera obscura.' It wasn't a camera at all but a contraption of mirrors that gave an excellent aerial view of Dumfries. Artists used it two hundred years ago to paint landscapes – he felt the town looked a lot better that way.
Following this educational experience, Alex took a different way down to the river, passing an old mill building renamed after this Burns guy. The mill was now some arts venue.
Crossing a footbridge, he stopped in the middle. It was then that he became aware that he hadn't thought of Dorothy since arriving in Dumfries the previous afternoon. Despite his best efforts to put his failed marriage and the woman he'd lost behind, she had been in his thoughts almost always since leaving Madison. After sharing your day-to-day life with another person for close to two decades, every new experience is one that you naturally think of in terms of how the other would react. As he had toured the famous sights in London, the constant thought was, what would Dorothy think of this?
But, now, in the land of his ancestors, the presence of his ex seemed to melt away. Instead, Alex Maxwell saw this new, old country only through his own eyes. It felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
He made his way back to the Midsteeple.
He found the place he'd been recommended for lunch, though it was misleadingly called a 'tea-room.' He'd had thoughts of a burger and fries, but noting what passed for such fare in Dumfries, Alex agreed he'd been well advised to come here, where there was at least a great choice of soups. Various ingredients were stuffed into variously shaped breads. A pretty and cheerful waitress with hair its natural color and a generous bosom approached and inquired about his order. (Dumfries was well-stocked with bonnie lassies, he noted. Maxwell had not come to Scotland to hit on the women. But there was no harm in appreciating the 'local color' he thought.) Daringly, he asked what he'd find in 'Cullen skink' and learned it is a sort of smoked fish chowder, which turned out to be very tasty, as was the fresh-baked chunk of bread served with it. Having despaired of getting good coffee, he risked Scottish tea and found it a more agreeable drink that he'd feared it might be. The bill, too, was a whole digit shorter than any comparable meal in London. Feeling a little more confident now that his decision to come to his ancestral territory wasn't a complete mistake, he made his way back to Lovers Walk and his waiting hire-car.
*Doonhamers - Scottish name for people from Dumfries. From their expression on leaving Glasgow to return to Dumfries - "doon-hame." (down-home)
**Kenmuir - Author's Note: Alex's trip up to his arrival in Dumfries is described with actual place names that you could easily find on a map. However, as he leaves Dumfries, he is entering that enchanted, semi-mystical land of Gallovidia, and the place names and people will be from another time and place, not found on any map. It is up to the reader to try to follow, navigating by the North Star or Dead Reckoning. Good Luck.
Tuesday, July 2nd
Waking up among the Doonhamers*
The next morning, Alex rose, dressed, and sought out the hotel restaurant's morning meal. He found a smallish but charming dining room with only a few souls taking their morning repast.
Seating himself, he studied the Breakfast Menu, puzzling over several unfamiliar dishes, and looked around for the waiting staff. After several minutes, a comely young woman (Alex reminded himself he should say "lassie" here in Scotland) in a waitress's costume, with a mixture of pink, blue, and jet-black hair, appeared and approached his table, enquiring "Whit'll ye be havin?"
Somewhat taken aback by curt greeting, Alex stammered, "What's your biggest seller?" by which he meant the most popular.
Looking at the American with a look of pity at his strange accent and stranger question, the girl replied, offhandedly, "Fu Scottish Breakfast is popular wi'oor guests."
"Fine. That's what I'll have, please."
"Tey or coffee?"
He decided there was no point in inquiring whether there might be any choice of coffees in origin or preparation.
"Coffee, please."
The girl said, "Nae problem," and turned on her heel. Displaying a nicely rounded ass, tightly encased in the sung uniform skirt, she walked out past the closed-off drinks bar, presumably to the kitchen. Alex checked his watch, 7:26. He had been warned that service in England was much slower than in America, probably due to the meanness of tipping, and he didn't expect Scotland to be land of fast food. He had found service in London a trifle slow, but not bad. It was the prices that, even in pounds before the exchange, were shocking!
At 7:39, the coffee had yet to make an appearance. Then the young waitress reemerged from the kitchen, carrying a monstrously large tray, laden with a multitude of dishes, which she set down on a folding metal tray stand that seemed to groan under the weight. Alex looked around at the few other guests, wondering who was getting all that food.
The girl took up a large stoneware bowl and several small bowls and brought them to Alex. She placed the large covered pot in front of him and said something that sounded like "Yer porrigge." She spread the little bowls around, which proved to contain raisins, brown sugar, powdered cinnamon, a solid chunk of honey, and some blackberries.
Alex thanked her politely and uncovered the bowl to reveal some very aromatic oatmeal. He was busy topping it with some honey when the girl returned, bearing several more plates. Alex identified a massive platter of fried eggs and some delicious looking bacon. Additional plates followed containing some alarming amounts of sliced and deep-fried items of whose identity he hadn't a clue (these proved to be haggis, black pudding, and clootie dumplings.) A Full Scottish Breakfast, indeed!
Before Maxwell had managed to process the enormity of the meal set before him, the girl had returned to the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to dig into the gargantuan feast. Just then, she returned with a cup of coffee. Not a fine brew by American standards, but hot and potable. Alex took a sip to clear the cobwebs as he watched her fair Scottish ass return to the kitchen.
Forty minutes later, Alex was rather proud that he had consumed well over half of the food heaped on his table. He might have had more but for a reluctance to try some of the nastier looking fried things and the impatient stares he was getting from the waitress, leaning against the bar. It seemed that she was consumed with a desire to be anyplace else (maybe the hair salon to try out new and strange hair colors?). He waved to her to clear the detritus of the battle while he sipped his coffee.
Returning to his room, Alex gathered his things and went down to the desk to check out. The cheerful young desk clerk (another pretty girl) greeted him as if he were the only guest in the entire establishment. The total charge for room and breakfast was remarkably reasonable (at least on a pounds for pounds of food calculation).
Maxwell used the house phone to call Endeavor and request a pickup at the hotel. For some reason, the clerk on the line found this impossible. The reservation called for pickup at the station. Alex tried to reason that the two were adjacent and involved no difference in a drive. But the agent, evidently at some remote call-center and unacquainted with the geography, was adamant. If "Sir" required pickup at the hotel, it would not be complimentary and "Sir" would incur additional charges. Alex, in the end, conceded to mindless bureaucracy and carried his bags the hundred feet to the station to await the car.
A car pulled up soon and took him across a small bridge to the opposite platform's car rental office. Hauling his bags out of the car, Alex noted he was at the other end of a footbridge over the tracks, a mere forty feet from where he'd been picked up! So much for the complimentary shuttle service, Alex thought. He was surprised to find the office more like a newspaper booth than a car rental office. The agent tried to hire him a Ford Kuga. When Alex saw the photo, he realized it was just a tiny Focus.
Further discussion with the agent resulted in his hiring a Range Rover Sport, automatic, the largest vehicle that was available. Alex had no intention of going off-road, and it was just for him with limited luggage, but he wanted the size for safety. £1,750 per week seemed fair. However, he couldn't shake the suspicion that he'd been ripped off over the car insurance because he was American, therefore thick and rich.
The agent pressed maps on Alex to help him get to his B&B in Kenmuir**. He politely accepted, with no intention of using. He had the latest iPhone with all the mapping he needed. He asked how long a drive to Kenmuir, and the agent estimated 40 minutes.
With plenty of time to get to his lodging, Alex decided to explore Dumfries a bit. The agent gave him a city map and pointed out the best attractions, as well as a good place for a tourist to grab lunch.
Despite all he'd heard about the wet weather in Scotland (he'd read they call it "dreich" weather, he thought that must be a garbled version of "ditch," probably because it fills them), the day was sunny and mild. The lightest fresh breeze came up from the South and carried a quite pleasant scent. Leaving the station, he strolled along a road named Lovers' Walk. Through the window of his hotel room last night, he'd heard sounds of merriment and occasional girlish squeals. Still, it didn't sound very romantic, and in daylight, it had a rather austere dignity, not much different from the Victorian part of London he'd seen, but a little more stern and grey.
Continuing down the main road into the town of Dumfries, which the tourist info in the hotel bedroom told him is the 'Queen of the South,' Alex wondered to himself whether that title was borrowed from Matthew 12:42.
He soon arrived at a statue of Robert Burns, the man he'd read was 'Scotland's National Bard.' Alex pondered whether that was 'Scotland's National Bird' sitting on the head of the Bard? He knew Burns wrote the New Year's Eve song, but he wasn't much for poetry otherwise. Like many men, Maxwell preferred non-fiction. If he was going to spend the time reading, he might as well learn something.
Alex was surprised to find only one main shopping street, lined with identical shops that he suspected could be found on any High Street in Britain. The only building he paused to look at was marked on the map as The Midsteeple; indeed, it stood half-way down and in the middle of the broad, pedestrian-only street. He took it to be a town hall or market hall, but it seemed to only house rather shabby shops. The whole road had a somewhat depressed, run-down feel.
Turning down a narrow side-street with the curious name of Friars Vennel, he noted a few, rather basic, cafes just opening for the day, then reached the bank of the River Nith, marked on the map as Whitesands, but in reality a parking lot.
Nevertheless, the view raised his spirits. It was picturesque, with the river flowing over a weir just downstream from an ancient-looking red stone bridge that must have been there for hundreds of years – Devorgilla's Bridge, the map said. Alex figured he must have been the builder.
An occasional amateur geologist, Alex noted the rocks on the banks seems to be Permian Sedimentary. He was slightly surprised since he'd read that most of Gallovidia's sedimentary rocks were Lower Carboniferous.
Crossing over, he made his way up a steep road to a building with a tower that turned out to house a small museum. A knowledgeable young lady (no, a 'comely lassie') demonstrated a strange gadget called a 'camera obscura.' It wasn't a camera at all but a contraption of mirrors that gave an excellent aerial view of Dumfries. Artists used it two hundred years ago to paint landscapes – he felt the town looked a lot better that way.
Following this educational experience, Alex took a different way down to the river, passing an old mill building renamed after this Burns guy. The mill was now some arts venue.
Crossing a footbridge, he stopped in the middle. It was then that he became aware that he hadn't thought of Dorothy since arriving in Dumfries the previous afternoon. Despite his best efforts to put his failed marriage and the woman he'd lost behind, she had been in his thoughts almost always since leaving Madison. After sharing your day-to-day life with another person for close to two decades, every new experience is one that you naturally think of in terms of how the other would react. As he had toured the famous sights in London, the constant thought was, what would Dorothy think of this?
But, now, in the land of his ancestors, the presence of his ex seemed to melt away. Instead, Alex Maxwell saw this new, old country only through his own eyes. It felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
He made his way back to the Midsteeple.
He found the place he'd been recommended for lunch, though it was misleadingly called a 'tea-room.' He'd had thoughts of a burger and fries, but noting what passed for such fare in Dumfries, Alex agreed he'd been well advised to come here, where there was at least a great choice of soups. Various ingredients were stuffed into variously shaped breads. A pretty and cheerful waitress with hair its natural color and a generous bosom approached and inquired about his order. (Dumfries was well-stocked with bonnie lassies, he noted. Maxwell had not come to Scotland to hit on the women. But there was no harm in appreciating the 'local color' he thought.) Daringly, he asked what he'd find in 'Cullen skink' and learned it is a sort of smoked fish chowder, which turned out to be very tasty, as was the fresh-baked chunk of bread served with it. Having despaired of getting good coffee, he risked Scottish tea and found it a more agreeable drink that he'd feared it might be. The bill, too, was a whole digit shorter than any comparable meal in London. Feeling a little more confident now that his decision to come to his ancestral territory wasn't a complete mistake, he made his way back to Lovers Walk and his waiting hire-car.
*Doonhamers - Scottish name for people from Dumfries. From their expression on leaving Glasgow to return to Dumfries - "doon-hame." (down-home)
**Kenmuir - Author's Note: Alex's trip up to his arrival in Dumfries is described with actual place names that you could easily find on a map. However, as he leaves Dumfries, he is entering that enchanted, semi-mystical land of Gallovidia, and the place names and people will be from another time and place, not found on any map. It is up to the reader to try to follow, navigating by the North Star or Dead Reckoning. Good Luck.
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What was that famous line by PT Barnum?
You were had if you paid that for a car hire!
Nonetheless, a most enjoyable read. Loved it
NewUser
Magistrate
In this mysterious place, all the girls are young and beautiful, free of sexual prejudice, and will never sue you for harassment? Show me the way, I'm on my way.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Och! Ye are gitting a bit aheed of yerself. (apologies, Eul!)
No one has said these bonnie lassies are easy. Or that they don't pack a powerful wallop if you offend. It is a mythical place, but not a free fantasy!
twonines
LIMERICUS
Its only claim to fame is that Elvis made a stopover there on the military flight taking him to Germany.Heh ... Yeah, I flew a few year’s back from Prestwick to Heathrow. Very similar, middle-sized terminals. Glorified bus stations in some ways.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Hell of a price for a hire car! I had never thought of Americans as either 'thick or rich' until reading that! And you certainly don't have to be from the good ol' US of A to be ripped off by hire car insurance!
An excellent ramble around some of D and G PrPr. This level of ambience building, I suspect, will make the crimes to follow seem even more heinous and shocking!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
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Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 4]
On the Road*
At 3 PM on a beautiful Lowland afternoon, with all the time in the world, Alex Maxwell got in his Range Rover and headed for the A75 out of town. The friendly girl (lassie!) who’d settled his account at the hotel reception had asked where he was 'gaun,' and when he told her Kenmuir, she’d advised him to go out by “the top of the station car park 'jis a left an a reet, an folla the signs for th'A75 tae Crocketford.” He'd silently wondered whether that was the home of Davy.
Maxwell thought he'd done just as directed, though the exit from the parking lot was a bit fiddly, and when across the railway bridge, he came to a roundabout, sure enough, the main road ahead was numbered 'A789 (A75)', but heading towards Carlisle. Don't wanna go back there, he told himself, and did two circuits around the roundabout, and finally headed back into Dumfries, where his phone told him to exit on A756, whose number seemed closer to the route he needed. The path skirted the downtown. However, unknown to Alex, he had entered a maze of one-way roads which seemed to have eluded a warning from the GPS. What signs there were weren't very visible or very clear when he did see them. He got several hoorn honks as he swerved from lane to lane, muttering about the unfriendliness of the left-driving Brits.
The car crawled through a series of traffic lights crossing the river where he could see the Camera Obscura building and the footbridge not far away. The next light was at a junction signed Maxwelltown one way, which gave him a shot of ancestral pride, and Troqueer the other, which he thought sounded commendably inclusive in this day and age. He spotted that the road he was on was called Paradise Street, for reasons that escaped him. When that dead-ended into New Abbey Road, which triggered vague memories of the Beatles, he was told by his navigating nanny to turn north, and almost immediately west, onto Park Road. This name was encouraging since it sounded like it was close to the Forest Park. However, this back way was just a narrow semi-suburban road passing farmland on one side, houses on the other.
Glancing at his watch, Alex realized that he'd been driving for thirty minutes and didn't seem near Kenmuir. However, the phone kept urging him onward. At last, he emerged from a straggly mixture of housing, small commercial buildings, and truck farms, and out onto a more open road. This climbed a winding way into some lovely scenery, big, rounded hills, much swathed in conifer plantations, but with fine unobstructed views of grassland grazed by innumerable sheep. Alex smiled. This was the Scottish countryside he had envisioned while working in his windowless office in downtown Madison.
Rounding a bend, he had to brake pretty hard to avoid plowing into a slow tractor hauling a open trailer of something pungent. After several minutes of crawling along with the smell of a stable assaulting his senses, his usual Mid-Western patience wore thin. He tapped his horn lightly at first, but the tractor lumbered on, seemingly oblivious to Maxwell's desire to pass. He pulled as far right as he could, uncertain how to pass on the strangely left-driving roads. The road seemed to have been made fiendishly narrow to prevent any passing, let alone finding a way around a broad farm vehicle. Much of the side of the road was bounded by stone walls so narrowing that you could strike your match on them.
With nothing to do but crawl along and smell the manure, Alex glanced to his side and was confronted, face to face, with some strange beasts. It would help if you remembered that Alex had lived for many years in Wisconsin, known in America as the Dairy State. As part of the general knowledge needed as an investigator, he had learned the most frequent Dairy breeds, Guernsey, Ayrshire, Holstein, Red & White Holstein, Brown Swiss, Jersey, and Milking Shorthorn, as well as many beef breeds such as American Aberdeen, Angus, Tigerstripe and even Wagyu. But Alex had never seen anything like these potential members of the cattle race - short legs, long, plump, woolly bodies, apparently spray-painted black at either end and white around the middle. The shape of their heads did seem to be distantly related to cattle, but with an aggressive expression unlike any cows or steers he'd ever seen. He reassured himself by recalling a quote from his favorite mystery writer, "Oh yes, my lord. My old mother always used to say that facts are like cows. If you stare them in the face hard enough, and they generally run away."**
At long last, the ponderous and unhurried tractor turned left down a farm track just outside a village with the mysterious name of Beeswing. Alex was relieved to see the town name, as he recalled it from the map of this area. It was at the head of Loch Arthur, which the Scots claimed as the true locale of the Arthurian Lady of the Lake. Alex wondered whether they also claimed the Holy Grail was in these parts.
A few miles further on through increasingly rugged scenery was the bizarrely named Kirkingzean. Alex had noted in his reading that Kirk meant church in Scotland. But a church named Ingzean was difficult to fathom. Alex wondered why the Scots never called towns regularly, like, Newtown, Jefferson, or even Burns?
Then, Maxwell came down a steep hill into the small town of Balbuittle. The signs at the next junction offered the temptations of Castle Wraith or Scroggs of Urr, which sounded like a choice between the Lord of the Rings and a visit to Abrams' home in the Chaldees. Alex made the executive decision to keep heading west, for the place called Castle Wraith which boasted more prominent signage. At 4:35, he began entering a more built-up area and soon was in that slightly bigger town. At another large roundabout, he took a turn that seemed to head into the main street and spotted a parking lot. He decided to turn into it to check his maps. He noticed a quaint Scottish kiosk with an "Information Office" sign, which he carefully avoided, parking at the far end. He was not ready to admit that he was lost and the iPhone useless. He brought out the maps from the rental office that he'd ignored previously. After all, it was a more private and less embarrassing alternative than asking a local for directions.
As he tried to identify where he was on the map, there came a gentle rap in his window. Alex would have jumped a foot, but his seatbelt held him firm. Looking over, he saw a woman standing by the car.
He took several awkward moments to find the power window switch, roll it down, and confront the unexpected personage. It was an older woman, slight, under five feet, grey-blue hair and a pleasant smile. She wore a green cap, a deep green woolen sweater and close-fitting tartan trousers.
"Yes, Ma'am. What is it?"
The lady spoke in a high, sweet voice, "I'm Moira fra the Information Office ower there," pointing to a name badge on her sweater and then to the kiosk. "I thought you mebbe a stranger here ...." As with all little old ladies manning information desks everywhere, she'd been well trained to sniff out strangers and hone in on the lost and confused. It was a talent that was complimented by the natural curiosity of a born gossip. Alex displayed all the signs she looked for.
"Oh. Well, thank you. I'm not lost, you see. I was just checking the maps to be sure, you know. I really don't need any help. Thank you so much for offering."
"Of course, Sir. I'm only here ta help. May I ask whaur ye're fram?"
"I'm from the U.S.A."
"Och weel, a cud tell yon," she replied with a grin, "But whaur in the States?"
Alex was beginning to wonder whether he was accidentally crossing an international border, and this was a customs post.
"Wisconsin."
"Och Wusconseen – then ye'll ken ma cousins, the McCullochs!"
"Er .. I don't think so, it's quite a big state."
"Och, I'm surprised ye dinna ken the McCullochs, being ye’re both fram Wusconseen. An whaur ye headin' the noo?"
Feeling it rude to simply refuse this harmless information, Alex submitted to his interrogator.
"I'm gonna stay in Kenmuir ..."
"Och very nice, an whaur ye steyin in Kenmuir?"
"Er... yes I've a booking at ... Tonderjee House, I think it's called."
"Tonder-guy – 'erse ta the wind,' that whit it is in the Gaelic -"
Alex was somewhat disconcerted at this revelation, but the lady continued encouragingly,
"Yon's a fine bonnie wee place, Mrs. McTavish, and she'll mak ye very comfy."
"I'm sure she will – now, please, could you just confirm the best route from here to Kenmuir?"
The information lady smiled. They all came around. Male tourists were the worst. All terrified to admit to being astray; too proud to ask directions!
"Weel, that's nae problem, jus oot the car-park whaur ye cam in, turn left doon Earl Street past the shops, till ye come tae the Tolbooth – ye cannae miss it – turn left there, an head alang Ardnamrie Street oot the toon. Then ye jus folla yon gait till ye come ta the Brig o Kane Hotel, ye turn reet there ower the bridge an ye're in Kenmuir."
"Down the main street, left at the Toolbooth, then follow the same road all the way?"
"Ye're reet. An whan ye're in Kenmuir, gae up the Market Street. Ye turn left at the clock-tower, up the wee hill, an ye'll see Tonderghie on the reet."
"Well, thank you, ma'am."
Alex was about to slip the shifter out of park, but the lady was still close to his window,
"An may I enquire your name, Sir? We like ta keep a record o oor visitors."
Alex instinctively wondered if he'd be asked for his passport next, but responded,
"I'm Alex...Alexander Maxwell ..."
"Och, a Maxwell! Alexander! Ah weel, ye're in ye're hame country, we've lots of information if ye're seekin oot yer ancesties ..."
Alex's heart was sinking. He worried that he might need to spend a night in Castle Wraith.
"Well, I've not really come for that reason ... I'd best be off, Mrs. McTavish will be getting anxious ..."
"Och, Mrs. McTavish wilna be fashed, I'll gie her a wee ring an tell her ye're on yer way, but do call in while ye're in Gallowa, we can tell ye many guid tales o the Maxwells!"
Alex thanked the lady heartily, shifted into reverse, and pressed on the gas. Fortunately, the good lady stood back wishing him an enjoyable stay, as he thanked her for her help he had to brake hard, spotting in the mirror that he was about to back into a van parked at the side of the parking lot where a cheerful-looking fellow was selling some very tempting fresh grouse.
The roads were just as he was told. He was soon out of Castle Wraith and onto a reasonably fast way by Gallovidian standards. He passed through a couple of villages, one he noticed proudly displayed a sign saying it was the home of James Clerk Maxwell. He knew that great physicist was one of the most celebrated sons of Clan Maxwell. Alex was surprised his modest home village wasn't better known.
After that village, a fine large lake (loch, Alex reminded himself, loch!) stretched along the left of the way, presenting a most pleasant sight. Sure enough, at 5:10 PM, he came on the A712 and turned over an ancient stone bridge into Kenmuir.
He'd read in the tourist information online that it was the smallest Burgh in Scotland. Indeed, it seemed no more than a village, a single narrow high street lined with pleasant terraced houses, some whitewashed, others the natural grey stone of the region, all had long stones around their windows painted in bright colors. A little past the town center, he saw the clock in its tower on a building, which was the modest town hall.
Turning left, he found himself in a narrow road climbing steeply towards the forest; after a little way, he spotted the small sign, "Tonderghie House." He turned into the drive to see a long, two-story farmhouse accompanied by low farm buildings, looking as if they came from a 1930s Hollywood movie of Scotland.
* Jack Kerouac, 1957 Novel
** Clouds of Witness, Dorothy Sayers.
On the Road*
At 3 PM on a beautiful Lowland afternoon, with all the time in the world, Alex Maxwell got in his Range Rover and headed for the A75 out of town. The friendly girl (lassie!) who’d settled his account at the hotel reception had asked where he was 'gaun,' and when he told her Kenmuir, she’d advised him to go out by “the top of the station car park 'jis a left an a reet, an folla the signs for th'A75 tae Crocketford.” He'd silently wondered whether that was the home of Davy.
Maxwell thought he'd done just as directed, though the exit from the parking lot was a bit fiddly, and when across the railway bridge, he came to a roundabout, sure enough, the main road ahead was numbered 'A789 (A75)', but heading towards Carlisle. Don't wanna go back there, he told himself, and did two circuits around the roundabout, and finally headed back into Dumfries, where his phone told him to exit on A756, whose number seemed closer to the route he needed. The path skirted the downtown. However, unknown to Alex, he had entered a maze of one-way roads which seemed to have eluded a warning from the GPS. What signs there were weren't very visible or very clear when he did see them. He got several hoorn honks as he swerved from lane to lane, muttering about the unfriendliness of the left-driving Brits.
The car crawled through a series of traffic lights crossing the river where he could see the Camera Obscura building and the footbridge not far away. The next light was at a junction signed Maxwelltown one way, which gave him a shot of ancestral pride, and Troqueer the other, which he thought sounded commendably inclusive in this day and age. He spotted that the road he was on was called Paradise Street, for reasons that escaped him. When that dead-ended into New Abbey Road, which triggered vague memories of the Beatles, he was told by his navigating nanny to turn north, and almost immediately west, onto Park Road. This name was encouraging since it sounded like it was close to the Forest Park. However, this back way was just a narrow semi-suburban road passing farmland on one side, houses on the other.
Glancing at his watch, Alex realized that he'd been driving for thirty minutes and didn't seem near Kenmuir. However, the phone kept urging him onward. At last, he emerged from a straggly mixture of housing, small commercial buildings, and truck farms, and out onto a more open road. This climbed a winding way into some lovely scenery, big, rounded hills, much swathed in conifer plantations, but with fine unobstructed views of grassland grazed by innumerable sheep. Alex smiled. This was the Scottish countryside he had envisioned while working in his windowless office in downtown Madison.
Rounding a bend, he had to brake pretty hard to avoid plowing into a slow tractor hauling a open trailer of something pungent. After several minutes of crawling along with the smell of a stable assaulting his senses, his usual Mid-Western patience wore thin. He tapped his horn lightly at first, but the tractor lumbered on, seemingly oblivious to Maxwell's desire to pass. He pulled as far right as he could, uncertain how to pass on the strangely left-driving roads. The road seemed to have been made fiendishly narrow to prevent any passing, let alone finding a way around a broad farm vehicle. Much of the side of the road was bounded by stone walls so narrowing that you could strike your match on them.
With nothing to do but crawl along and smell the manure, Alex glanced to his side and was confronted, face to face, with some strange beasts. It would help if you remembered that Alex had lived for many years in Wisconsin, known in America as the Dairy State. As part of the general knowledge needed as an investigator, he had learned the most frequent Dairy breeds, Guernsey, Ayrshire, Holstein, Red & White Holstein, Brown Swiss, Jersey, and Milking Shorthorn, as well as many beef breeds such as American Aberdeen, Angus, Tigerstripe and even Wagyu. But Alex had never seen anything like these potential members of the cattle race - short legs, long, plump, woolly bodies, apparently spray-painted black at either end and white around the middle. The shape of their heads did seem to be distantly related to cattle, but with an aggressive expression unlike any cows or steers he'd ever seen. He reassured himself by recalling a quote from his favorite mystery writer, "Oh yes, my lord. My old mother always used to say that facts are like cows. If you stare them in the face hard enough, and they generally run away."**
At long last, the ponderous and unhurried tractor turned left down a farm track just outside a village with the mysterious name of Beeswing. Alex was relieved to see the town name, as he recalled it from the map of this area. It was at the head of Loch Arthur, which the Scots claimed as the true locale of the Arthurian Lady of the Lake. Alex wondered whether they also claimed the Holy Grail was in these parts.
A few miles further on through increasingly rugged scenery was the bizarrely named Kirkingzean. Alex had noted in his reading that Kirk meant church in Scotland. But a church named Ingzean was difficult to fathom. Alex wondered why the Scots never called towns regularly, like, Newtown, Jefferson, or even Burns?
Then, Maxwell came down a steep hill into the small town of Balbuittle. The signs at the next junction offered the temptations of Castle Wraith or Scroggs of Urr, which sounded like a choice between the Lord of the Rings and a visit to Abrams' home in the Chaldees. Alex made the executive decision to keep heading west, for the place called Castle Wraith which boasted more prominent signage. At 4:35, he began entering a more built-up area and soon was in that slightly bigger town. At another large roundabout, he took a turn that seemed to head into the main street and spotted a parking lot. He decided to turn into it to check his maps. He noticed a quaint Scottish kiosk with an "Information Office" sign, which he carefully avoided, parking at the far end. He was not ready to admit that he was lost and the iPhone useless. He brought out the maps from the rental office that he'd ignored previously. After all, it was a more private and less embarrassing alternative than asking a local for directions.
As he tried to identify where he was on the map, there came a gentle rap in his window. Alex would have jumped a foot, but his seatbelt held him firm. Looking over, he saw a woman standing by the car.
He took several awkward moments to find the power window switch, roll it down, and confront the unexpected personage. It was an older woman, slight, under five feet, grey-blue hair and a pleasant smile. She wore a green cap, a deep green woolen sweater and close-fitting tartan trousers.
"Yes, Ma'am. What is it?"
The lady spoke in a high, sweet voice, "I'm Moira fra the Information Office ower there," pointing to a name badge on her sweater and then to the kiosk. "I thought you mebbe a stranger here ...." As with all little old ladies manning information desks everywhere, she'd been well trained to sniff out strangers and hone in on the lost and confused. It was a talent that was complimented by the natural curiosity of a born gossip. Alex displayed all the signs she looked for.
"Oh. Well, thank you. I'm not lost, you see. I was just checking the maps to be sure, you know. I really don't need any help. Thank you so much for offering."
"Of course, Sir. I'm only here ta help. May I ask whaur ye're fram?"
"I'm from the U.S.A."
"Och weel, a cud tell yon," she replied with a grin, "But whaur in the States?"
Alex was beginning to wonder whether he was accidentally crossing an international border, and this was a customs post.
"Wisconsin."
"Och Wusconseen – then ye'll ken ma cousins, the McCullochs!"
"Er .. I don't think so, it's quite a big state."
"Och, I'm surprised ye dinna ken the McCullochs, being ye’re both fram Wusconseen. An whaur ye headin' the noo?"
Feeling it rude to simply refuse this harmless information, Alex submitted to his interrogator.
"I'm gonna stay in Kenmuir ..."
"Och very nice, an whaur ye steyin in Kenmuir?"
"Er... yes I've a booking at ... Tonderjee House, I think it's called."
"Tonder-guy – 'erse ta the wind,' that whit it is in the Gaelic -"
Alex was somewhat disconcerted at this revelation, but the lady continued encouragingly,
"Yon's a fine bonnie wee place, Mrs. McTavish, and she'll mak ye very comfy."
"I'm sure she will – now, please, could you just confirm the best route from here to Kenmuir?"
The information lady smiled. They all came around. Male tourists were the worst. All terrified to admit to being astray; too proud to ask directions!
"Weel, that's nae problem, jus oot the car-park whaur ye cam in, turn left doon Earl Street past the shops, till ye come tae the Tolbooth – ye cannae miss it – turn left there, an head alang Ardnamrie Street oot the toon. Then ye jus folla yon gait till ye come ta the Brig o Kane Hotel, ye turn reet there ower the bridge an ye're in Kenmuir."
"Down the main street, left at the Toolbooth, then follow the same road all the way?"
"Ye're reet. An whan ye're in Kenmuir, gae up the Market Street. Ye turn left at the clock-tower, up the wee hill, an ye'll see Tonderghie on the reet."
"Well, thank you, ma'am."
Alex was about to slip the shifter out of park, but the lady was still close to his window,
"An may I enquire your name, Sir? We like ta keep a record o oor visitors."
Alex instinctively wondered if he'd be asked for his passport next, but responded,
"I'm Alex...Alexander Maxwell ..."
"Och, a Maxwell! Alexander! Ah weel, ye're in ye're hame country, we've lots of information if ye're seekin oot yer ancesties ..."
Alex's heart was sinking. He worried that he might need to spend a night in Castle Wraith.
"Well, I've not really come for that reason ... I'd best be off, Mrs. McTavish will be getting anxious ..."
"Och, Mrs. McTavish wilna be fashed, I'll gie her a wee ring an tell her ye're on yer way, but do call in while ye're in Gallowa, we can tell ye many guid tales o the Maxwells!"
Alex thanked the lady heartily, shifted into reverse, and pressed on the gas. Fortunately, the good lady stood back wishing him an enjoyable stay, as he thanked her for her help he had to brake hard, spotting in the mirror that he was about to back into a van parked at the side of the parking lot where a cheerful-looking fellow was selling some very tempting fresh grouse.
The roads were just as he was told. He was soon out of Castle Wraith and onto a reasonably fast way by Gallovidian standards. He passed through a couple of villages, one he noticed proudly displayed a sign saying it was the home of James Clerk Maxwell. He knew that great physicist was one of the most celebrated sons of Clan Maxwell. Alex was surprised his modest home village wasn't better known.
After that village, a fine large lake (loch, Alex reminded himself, loch!) stretched along the left of the way, presenting a most pleasant sight. Sure enough, at 5:10 PM, he came on the A712 and turned over an ancient stone bridge into Kenmuir.
He'd read in the tourist information online that it was the smallest Burgh in Scotland. Indeed, it seemed no more than a village, a single narrow high street lined with pleasant terraced houses, some whitewashed, others the natural grey stone of the region, all had long stones around their windows painted in bright colors. A little past the town center, he saw the clock in its tower on a building, which was the modest town hall.
Turning left, he found himself in a narrow road climbing steeply towards the forest; after a little way, he spotted the small sign, "Tonderghie House." He turned into the drive to see a long, two-story farmhouse accompanied by low farm buildings, looking as if they came from a 1930s Hollywood movie of Scotland.
* Jack Kerouac, 1957 Novel
** Clouds of Witness, Dorothy Sayers.
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Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
“Watch warily for the dragoons as you come to the narrows of the Loch,” she said “and bide not at Kenmuir. For if there be mounted muskets in all the neighbourhood it is at Kenmuir they will be found.” and so said the lowlands novelist, S.R. Crockett, author of such tomes as 'The Stickit Minister', 'Mad Sir Uchtred of the Hills' and 'The Surprising Adventures of Sir Toady Lion' ...
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NewUser
Magistrate
Very informative episode. I delight in historical references like this one about J. C. Maxwell, the author of the equations of classical electrodynamics. This makes the characters very believable.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Crockett was born near Castle Wraith, though in his books he renamed it Cairn Edward.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
This just in. A search of the dark web inspired by the Prelude here uncovered the following advertisement pages:
Dossier # 1045
Name: Marjeta
Age: 19
Height: 176 cm. (5’ 9”)
Weight: 59 kg (130 lbs)
Hair Color: Brunette, red highlights, long and straight
Eye Color: Brown
Nationality: Czech (Bohemian)
Language: Czech, English
Personality: Modest, Devout,
Background: Catholic virgin; considered modeling; worked as au pair with young children. Cheerful, loving, innocent.
Dossier # 1052
Name: Letycja
Age: 20
Height: 158 cm (5’ 2”)
Weight: 46 kg (102 lbs)
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Green
Nationality: Belarusian
Language: Belarusian, Polish, little English
Personality: Feisty, withdrawn
Background: Dysfunctional family; abused (maybe sexually?) Cut all ties to home. A body made for abuse.
Following the link brought me to a very dark web site labeled:
Since I haven't been invited and don't begin to have that kind of money. I was stymied.
Graeme’s Girls
Only the Best for Discriminating Connoisseurs
(Photo’s and additional details available on verified request)
Only the Best for Discriminating Connoisseurs
(Photo’s and additional details available on verified request)
Dossier # 1045
Name: Marjeta
Age: 19
Height: 176 cm. (5’ 9”)
Weight: 59 kg (130 lbs)
Hair Color: Brunette, red highlights, long and straight
Eye Color: Brown
Nationality: Czech (Bohemian)
Language: Czech, English
Personality: Modest, Devout,
Background: Catholic virgin; considered modeling; worked as au pair with young children. Cheerful, loving, innocent.
Graeme’s Girls
Only the Best for Discriminating Connoisseurs
(Photo’s and additional details available on verified request)
Only the Best for Discriminating Connoisseurs
(Photo’s and additional details available on verified request)
Dossier # 1052
Name: Letycja
Age: 20
Height: 158 cm (5’ 2”)
Weight: 46 kg (102 lbs)
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Green
Nationality: Belarusian
Language: Belarusian, Polish, little English
Personality: Feisty, withdrawn
Background: Dysfunctional family; abused (maybe sexually?) Cut all ties to home. A body made for abuse.
Following the link brought me to a very dark web site labeled:
Священне Братство
Which Google translates as Holy Brotherhood. There is also a vague reference to shipments from Шотландія (again Google translates as Scotland). Given that and the name Graeme, I wonder if it relates somehow to this story. However, I ran into a paywall/verification. You must be a member of the brotherhood to proceed and that requires being invited. In addition, you need to have on deposit with the Держатель общака (Dormitory Holder?) a minimum of 25 bitcoins.Since I haven't been invited and don't begin to have that kind of money. I was stymied.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Hmmmm curiouser and curiouser, although I have to say if someone wanted to conceal the trafficking of Eastern European girls onto mainland Britain, then assuming the name of 'Graeme' and basing your presence in the lowlands of Scotland might well create the ideal cover!
Hugin&Munin
Presenter Of Images
But Google translator presented me "Common fund holder" for "Держатель общака". Would that be likely?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I have zero fluency in Ukrainian! Maybe Treasurer or Bookkeeper? Common fund holder might be right since it appears he (or she - mustn't be sexist!) holds deposits on behalf of Brotherhood members.
Wholly irrelevant factoid: although Crockett is a Galloway surname (apparently a shortening of Mac Riocaird = Richardson, though it's found in England and may be from 'croquet', which in Old French meant a curl of hair, not a game with hoops), it seems Davy's ancestors had no connection with that tribe. The generally repeated story is that they were Huguenot refugees who fled from Bordeaux to Dublin, their surname was de Croquetagne, but they changed it to Crockett as that name was already familiar in Dublin. However, that's based on slender evidence, see: https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Space:Davy_Crockett's_fake_French_ancestors