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Last House in Scotland Early in the morning a crashing thunderstorm dropped buckets of water. I heard it smack the roadway, pounding down as hard as nails, beating the leaves above our heads. Definitely not a soft rain. The big drops stopped as suddenly as they had started. We thought it would be wise if we waited a bit for it to dry up. Still, when we left, the soaked undercover and long blades of swamp grass glistened with giant globules of water. The road was dry with only the odd damp section in the shade, although one humungous puddle had collected on a corner and laid like a miniature loch to the centre line. We headed for the town of Amman, a little over twenty kilometers away. Most of the way was flat, through farmland scattered with Holstein cows. Tiny black bugs stuck to my face. Their wriggling movement was annoying as they tried to extricate themselves from my beard. I constantly wiped my face. Sharon exhibited hundreds of the critters on the arms of her pink shirt. Luckily, my shirt was purple and I couldn't see them. We intersected with the road to Annan; Lockerbie was in the other direction. Annan was a well-kept town with hundreds of cultivated red flowers. Set on a small incline, the large flower beds made an admirable spectacle as we approached town. The bakery and co-op were glad to see me. I returned carrying three bags of baked goods. We went to the park, a long strip of green next to the river. There were benches and picnic tables along the paved walking path. It was hot and humid so we chose a table in the shade. To my delight and Sharon's chagrin, three girls came to sunbathe and chose a spot to the side of our picnic table. A few kids kicked balls on the soccer field or waded in the knee-high river. Others came on bikes, by foot, pushing strollers, and exercising dogs. A herd of cows in the cool shade of the bridge arches meditated, thoughtfully chewing their cud. A young mom came by with an infant in a baby stroller. The baby wasn't in a strolling mood. The two-year-old arched its back, threw its pampered butt out of the seat and, while hanging onto the stroller's edge, drug its feet or ran backwards. I could already tell that kid was going to be a problem. At the leisure center I basked in a long, hot pulsating shower. I shaved off my beard. No more rough whiskery prickles when Sharon attempted to kiss me. When Sharon walked out of the women's shower room she almost didn't recognize me. She felt a faint feeling of deja-vu, like seeing someone she once knew long ago. The travel office gave us pamphlets on the ferries. I noticed there was a price reduction in August. So instead of going in a reclining seat for £83 on Monday, July 31, we reserved a cabinette costing £63 for Wednesday, August 2. The travel agents never mentioned deductions when we phoned. We booked to sail on Colorline ferries for Bergen, Norway at seven pm Wednesday. We chose Bergen over Stavanger because Bergen was farther and it was the same price. A policeman sauntered over and talked to me. A parking maid, sans hat, came up to him. "I see you're going around topless today," he joked. "If it stays this hot, tomorrow I may go bottomless as well," she cheerfully taunted. "That would improve my eyesight," he said with a grin. We decided to have supper before leaving town. Back to the park we went, where new groups of dog walkers paraded by. I saw my first Scottish wolf hound. The owner proudly informed me it was the next breed down from the Irish wolf hound. His wolf hound grew gray hair rather than the usual red of the Irish wolf hound. We left Annan at six-thirty towards England's Lake District. At the border a sign read: Last House in Scotland. It was an old blacksmith's shop. In the old days, blacksmiths used to perform marriages as a service to runaways. |
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