Scotch & Horses

The River Spey, in central Scotland, provides a pretty panorama for a plethora of distilleries, the most famous being Glenfiddich. One stop on my six week bicycle tour of Scotland was to friends of my mother, and her father. George Grant was the fourth generation owning the oldest family-held single malt distillery in the country – Glenfarclas – located in Carrbridge.

Upon my arrival, George offered me a scotch, which I politely turned down. My grandfather had been the president of the International Curling Federation for fifteen years before his untimely demise, so I wasn’t surprised when the conversation came around to “Do you curl, Will?” “Um, no, I don’t.” “Well, well. Joan (his wife), would you believe we have here Collie Campbell’s grandson who doesn’t drink scotch (my grandfather would toss away the cap of Crown Royal upon opening) and doesn’t curl. Imagine that!” “Well, I do like the occasional gin and I do play the bagpipes!”

All was forgiven. I was one of them. A Highlander. My impression of scotch did change the following morning, though.

After a scrumptious dinner put out by Joan, George took me down to “the local” to meet the boys. After entertaining them with some tall tales, I spied a couple of birds in a corner booth. I enquired of the barkeep what they were drinking and sauntered over with two lime cordials. Initially, they were quite cold, until they asked about my lapel pin. I informed them that I wore the Canadian flag so folks wouldn’t mistake me for an American. At which point they opened up. They were on vacation for a week from London and they were going to go for a guided horse ride the following day and would you like to join us, Will. Of course! I would be honoured to escort two lovely damsels on their first equine experience.

Once George and I were back at his house, he regaled Joan as to my rather quick conquest, er, conquests. We all had a good laugh.

The next morning I joined George’s son, John, who was taking over the management of the business, in his normal rounds. At 8:05 he tested six different samples of their world-famous product, from different batches. He handed me one that was 40 years old. Now that was smooth! Where can I buy a bottle of this? Before I got too engrossed in this activity, I realized I better hop on down to the stables.

The girl who got us rigged up was non-too friendly to me from the get-go. She gave me a huge black beast that must’ve stood 20 hands. As I stroked his
muzzle and muttered sweet words that always endeared me to other horses, he just snorted hot fetid breath into my face. Then, I looked into his eyes. They were red and squinting.

Well, I’ve always had a way with animals so I hopped up (which was a struggle without a six rung ladder) onto the saddle. Satan ( as I had silently bequeathed him) immediately bolted. I tried everything to get him to stop – yelling, beseeching, pulling on his bridle! I felt like Yosemite Sam riding his obstinate creatures – “When I says WHOA, I mean WHOA!”. Our leader finally caught up to us and got Satan to slow to a canter. All the time laughing at me. Yeah, great customer relations, there girl.

Further along the trail as she’s asking us all questions – where are you from, what do you do, what do you think of Scotland – she finally got to me. “I’m from Canada.” She lurched in her saddle as she brought her horse up short and turned around to saunter back to me and the heathen beast beneath me. She had the most apologetic face I have ever seen as she stammered, “I am so sorry! I thought you were an American. That’s why I gave you Jimmy, our most ornery horse. Please forgive me and take my mount back to the stables.”

I just howled. Not the first time I had received those initial incorrect assumptions as to my nationality, but it was definitely the most blatant means of anit-Americanism I had personally experienced. I assured her all was okay and I would risk riding Jimmy back, who proved to be a most comfortable ride on the return trip. Jimmy even gave me a nuzzle good-bye.

My apologies to my American family and friends on this story. I know you would never behave in any way that would embarrass you, or your country.

Rugby & Royalty

You have read about my connection to Wales, via my father, and to his friend’s family there. Herewith, is another anecdote of my very enjoyable time there.

My father’s friend, Ken, also had a daughter named Jane. She married Roger and they both ran a couple of shoe stores. Roger was a very active player in his local rugby club. Plus, he was a black belt judo. At the time of my visit he was nursing a leg injury so he couldn’t play with his rugby club.

Jane took me aside to tell me that she and Roger had “special” guests that evening for dinner – he was a lord, and all. She told me that the last time the lord and lady were for dinner, Roger came home drunk and did a face plant into the soup bowl on the first course. “Willie, I do not want a repeat of that again!” Yes, Jane, you hath made yourself perfectly clear.

Roger had me right at the sidelines of the game. I had spit and blood tossed at me from the players - and this was only a friendly amateur game! He explained to me the idiosyncracies of the plays and the referee’s calls.

After his team won, we got “dragged” back to the club’s pub. To be hospitable, I let them buy this ardent fan a beer. Well, before I could get one finished a lad would hand me another. As I knew Roger and I had a countdown, I approached the team captain with, “I have always been in awe of you Welsh men singing. Any chance of getting the boys to sing a tune?” My mistake. That was all the encouragement they needed.

A multitude of songs later, that sent shivers up my spine as to their natural harmonics, and a plethora of pitchers later I looked at the clock. Oh no! We’re in for it! “Roger, we have to go! Now!” There was still more quaffing before I got him out the door and “Are you okay to drive, Rog?” I’m sure you can expect the answer.

We got home to be greeted by the evil Jane eye. Not only were late but we were holding up dinner for His Lord and Lady. Roger smoothed over everyone and entertained them with witticisms. Until Jane served the first course. Soup. Two seconds later I heard a splash. Yup, face plant into the bowl. Two points, Rog.
I started to giggle until Jane flashed me her scowl. Oh, boy, I’m in deep doodoo now. So, I took over on the witty conversation for the remainder of the evening and managed to gain a modicum of respect from Jane. After she and I had hauled Roger’s comatose body off to bed.

Welsh Pub Crawl

Ken Reynolds was one of my father’s best friends from WWII, as he was his navigator, in helping keep my father alive from their various Pathfinder Squadron sorties. They kept in touch over the decades, as did my mother and Enid, Ken’s wife. Their teenage son, Peter, visited us for Expo 67. I got to visit them in Wales in 1982, but unfortunately Ken had passed away several years prior. I spent a tranquil few days with Enid in making her a splendid rock garden with a fountain and pool, all while experiencing the local beer. Would you believe they had scantily clad ladies on the cans of one particular brand? Remember, now, that it was the U.K. that introduced us to Page 3 girls. And they are topless!

Peter and I got together one evening. For a pub crawl. Peter had taken over the helm of the very successful fish and seafood processing business his father had built up. So everyone knew him, wherever we went in Swansea and Cardiff. At one point he informed me that Swansea had the highest rate of car thefts in Europe. I found this hard to fathom due to my impressions of a very law-abiding, respectfully community.

Our last stop of the night was at his good friend’s pub that was beside a very large parking lot with several businesses surrounding it. Buddy allowed us to stay quite a bit longer after closing time, along with a small group of good chaps. When it was finally time to hit the trail, buddy let us out the back door and we bobbed and weaved our way out to Peter’s car. Which was the only vehicle in this huge, very well lit up parking lot.

We, rather quickly, considering our brain synapse patterns at the time, ascertained that the car was locked with the keys in the ignition. We trounced back the pub to hammer on the back door until buddy came to our rescue with a coat hanger.

As Peter was working the wire in through the window I suddenly felt a presence behind me. I slowly turned to find a bobby smiling at me. Remember the car-theft comment earlier? It was like a scene out of a Keystone Cops, as I’m smiling back at Mr. Bobby I’m tapping Peter’s shoulder, who’s now swearing quite profusely in his inability to hook the door lock. In the next few seconds, a hundred sirens are blaring as the entire city police force surround us.

Until, “Oh, Mr. Reynolds, is it? Wot’s the problem tonight, sir?” Cripes! Next thing I witness is all the coppers helping Peter break into his own car! And with a hearty “Safe home Mr. Reynolds!” they let the drunken bastard drive the two of us home!