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.
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.
posted by Musings from Idle Acres | 1:45 p.m.
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