postcard from Scotland
Hello from The Middle of Nowhere (TMON for short), aka the southwestern coast of Scotland. The closest major city is Belfast, not Glasgow. This is my first trip to Scotland.
I’m here for a week-ish because my friends Bonnie and Clyde (not their real names, obv.) needed someone to watch their dogs while they’re on vacation. More on the dogs in a bit.
When my nephew Jacob was dying last year, I canceled a trip to London. After I rescheduled it, Clyde reached out to me: “I am putting together a list of dog sitters for when we are on holiday, and that list is you. Would you like to come hang out in a remote corner of Scotland for a week?” The timing worked out perfectly.
I was in London last week. Going from London to TMON is a bit of a culture shock. TMON is a village of about 30 people. Most of them are retired Boomers. Bonnie and Clyde’s 18-month-old kid is the only child here, unless you count a teenage girl.
TMON’s residents include Clyde’s parents, Clyde’s grandmother, and the artist Nigel Hemming (Facebook). He does incredible pet portraits and his work should really be in museums if it isn’t already. Outside Nigel’s house is a statue. This is Stanley:
What you will find in TMON: Two small streets of houses. A big beach with a small tower that looks like a lighthouse. A mailbox. A bus stop. And one “hall,” where Clyde’s mother teaches Scottish country dancing classes on Monday nights. I may or may not have succumbed to peer pressure and done the Scottish cha-cha. (Mostly I was the DJ, hitting “play” on the boombox when Clyde’s mom gave me the nod.)
What you will not find in TMON: A stoplight, a store, a gas station, a bank, a coffee shop, a restaurant, or any place to spend money. The only bar is in the neighbors’ back yard. They refinished a shack/garage structure into a pub. I suspect it is open only by invitation.
If you need food or toothpaste, the bus comes three times a day to take you to the Big City (population 10,000) that is 35 minutes north. On the bus map, our stop is literally labeled “Village.” The Big City has grocery stores, cafes, charity shops, and — thank jesus/praise allah — a pet supply store.
On the way to the Big City there is nothing to see but water, green fields, cows, horses, wild sheep, and bright white baby lambs. The first couple times I rode the bus was with Gran. She’s in her mid-80s and spry AF. I’m trying to imagine throwing back a couple pints at the pub with her. Luckily Gran also likes going into the charity shops.
Here is something I saw in one of those charity shops:
The main thing to do here in TMON, other than farming, which is a thing I do not do, is walk the dogs.
Let’s meet the dogs.
That’s Kenya on the left. She’s a very good girl.
And that’s Scout on the right. He’s a very good boy.
They are both batshit insane. For different reasons.
Kenya is a 6-year-old rescue German Shepherd mix. Her previous life was not fun. Gypsies kept her in a cage. Her name was already Kenya when Bonnie, who grew up in Ireland and Kenya, rescued her.
Kenya is a hunter. So far she has not killed anything on my watch, but I’ve seen her go after hares and pheasants. I am a city person. I don’t know if we have pheasants in the U.S. They look like the bastard love children of peacocks and wild turkeys.
Kenya is so skinny you can see her ribs. She gets plenty to eat; it just doesn’t “stick.” Probably due to anxiety. If I doubled or tripled her food intake, nothing would change, except I’d need a Hefty bag to pick up her poop. She eats like someone is about to take the bowl away. If you ever saw Paddie (or another golden retriever) eat, I promise that is extremely slow compared to the way Kenya inhales her food.
There was once a too-skinny basketball player named Manute Bol. I remember hearing that he had to drink high-calorie milkshakes or something to gain weight. Kenya could use some of that action.
Kenya is mouthy. She does what I call “love bites.” When she is excited she wants to chomp on you. Treats must be offered in an open hand if you want to keep your fingers.
Scout is a 9-month-old Border Collie with no sheep to herd. He was born to do exactly one job, and he is currently unemployed. He vibrates and levitates with a different kind of anxious energy, so he tries to herd Kenya.
Bonnie and Clyde have some farmland half a mile away. Right now they have a bunch of chickens up there. They really need to get some sheep. For Scout’s sanity.
Scout has a gentle mouth, but is still learning how to be a dog, to play on his own with toys, to accept affection without turning it into a wrestling match.
When Bonnie walks Kenya, she tells her to “stay close.” Kenya obeys. Bonnie is usually able to touch Kenya’s ear.
But I am not Bonnie. With me, both dogs pull on the leash. Hard. They are much stronger than they look. At low tide, you can see a boat grounded in the sand (see photo at the top). I am 99% sure if you attached the dogs’ leashes to that boat, they could pull it up onto the street.
As of a few hours ago, thanks to the pet supply store in the Big City, both dogs now have Gentle Leaders. A Gentle Leader sort of looks like a muzzle, except a dog can still pant, lick its lips, and even carry a tennis ball while wearing it. But if the dog pulls on the leash, the device pulls on the dog’s head in a way that the dog does not like. So the dog becomes an absolute angel on the leash.
Now I can walk the dogs, not the other way around. Whoever invented this thing is a goddamn genius.
Ending this with a few random things I’ve noticed over here.
I’m convinced Scottish people code-switch. When I hear them talking to each other on the bus, I can’t understand a goddamn thing they’re saying. It’s like watching Trainspotting without the English subtitles. But when I go up to a counter and say “hello,” they instantly clock my accent and everything they say to me is as clear as day.
A couple days ago Clyde’s mother asked me “what time do you take your tea?” I thought she was inviting me over for tea. I didn’t realize that meant she was feeding me dinner.
The worst of the worst American fast food chains exist in the UK. Including Krispy Kreme. It’s like the CEOs got together and were like, “What’s the nastiest shit we can export to England and Scotland? Because those people will (also) eat anything.”
I have yet to see a bumper sticker on a UK car.
When you’re using self checkout in the U.S., the machine will yell at you, “Unidentified item in the bagging area!” Here, it says “Surprising item on the baggage scale.” It feels more civilized.
I stumbled across a small antique shop in the Big City today. Mostly jewelry and china sets, and this glorious super heavy coat rack from the 1960s.
Here is Scout being extremely dignified. He says hi.
And here is Kenya smiling because she’s getting scratches. She says hi too.
Links
A thread that claims protests are effective. (Bluesky)
“Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” On the four types of enemies and how to defeat them. (Big Think)
In case you are my age and need another reason to get a shingles shot: It reduces your chances of getting dementia. (Boing Boing)
If you have a friend or spouse who sneezes way too loud and claims they can’t do it any other way because they’ll have an aneurysm or some other BS, you will appreciate this. (WaPo)
If you like quilts, check out the QuiltCon winners. (QuiltCon)
ChatGPT might help us find clothes that fit??? (TikTok)
Republic of Slowjamastan is my new band name. (Boing Boing)
Excerpts from a red-hot right-wing romance novel. (McSweeney’s)
What happens in the women’s restroom at the gym. (TikTok)