Last week, I took part in an expedition to Ayrshire in Scotland. My companions and I were last gathered together, circa 1959, in the wilds of Wigan when we trod the boards in an amateur production of Blythe Spirit. Our jaunt was undertaken primarily by the Ayrshire & Arran Tourist Board. It included classical, folk and pop concerts, exhibitions and displays in tribute to Robert Burns.
Having survived the initial journey north, I have nothing but praise for Stephen Byers, he who is in so much trouble at the present moment; our first-class train travel to Carlisle cost £30 return, inclusive of a luncheon of curry and spring rolls, plus liberal supplies of whisky and newspapers. As someone sagely remarked, rather than stay at home it would be much cheaper to raise a family on railways.
After disembarking at Carlisle, we journeyed by hired car via Dunoon or Dunfermline, or possibly some place else beginning with D, to the town of Ayr. The entire trip punctuated by oohs and aahs of appreciation at the beauties of a landscape illuminated by sunshine.
What a noble land is Scotland; what skies; what lochs; what sturdy houses built of grey stone, which mock the hideous and mercifully infrequent concrete estates. Instead of worrying about the National Health Service, the government should be concentrating on modern architecture, perhaps a more potent cause of heart failure than poverty.
On the way, two of our party had a learned discussion on some scientific effect to do with the sun in these particular parts, namely that the road appeared to go upwards, when really we were driving downhill. Maybe it was the other way around.
Our first evening was spent in a canvas erection of amazing splendour, more like a theatrical set for The Student Prince than a tent, in which we were entertained by the folk singer Eddi Reader. There wasn't a dry eye among us when Auld Lang Syne was sung, which was apparently written, music as well as words, by Robbie Burns. I never knew that.
James Boswell, genius biographer of Dr Samuel Johnson, was born at Auchinleck in a magnificent house only recently restored. It was quite near Ayr, though not signposted and somewhat elusive to reach. At times, we could see it in the distance, but the roads never led to it. In the end, we climbed over a stile and clambered up a small field and there it was. Two lady caretakers kindly gave us tea and cake before letting us loose on the premises. The house isn't open to the public but can be hired for a holiday. It has been mended and furnished with enormous good taste; nothing jars, nothing made us feel we had to walk on tiptoe. It's a home, and yet it stores history, for Johnson stayed here on his trip with Boswell to the Western Isles; in the library, he lost his temper with Boswell's dad.
Saturday evening we drove to Culzean Castle, where we were escorted to the ramparts and given blankets to keep us warm while we listened to a concert performed by the Royal Scottish National Orchestra in the grounds below. As the music started, the sun slowly sank behind the Isle of Arran; a glittering pathway of gold spread from shore to horizon, wavered and dimmed as the day left the sky.
At the finish of the concert, just as the last triumphant note of the 1812 Overture sounded, a tremendous display of fireworks erupted above our heads. Later, we went into the castle and had a plate of haggis, swedes and mashed potatoes washed down by the drams of that leading light of the best festivals, The Macallans whisky. All in all, a night to remember.
I thought Cutty Sark was simply the quaint name of a sailing ship, a Tam O'Shanter merely a form of headgear, and Brigadoon just a musical. In Scotland, I learnt different. Burns wrote only one tale in verse about a man called Tam O'Shanter, who wore a hat with a pom-pom and who was pursued by wicked witches. These naughty women chased him wearing nothing more than torn vests - very short ones, too - which were called sarks, and cutty ones at that. As for Brigadoon, it's a bridge.
Unlike James Boswell, Robbie Burns was born in a cottage - "auld clay biggin" - built by his father in the village of Alloway. It has a sitting-room, a kitchen which also served as a bedroom, and a storeroom for grain leading into a byre and stable. It seemed perfectly adequate for a large family, and we were impressed by the taped noises of various rural animals - sounds considerably more soothing than the disturbing blast of the modern television box. A man was up a ladder, re-thatching the roof.
At the gift shop, I bought a Burns ashtray, a tartan pen and a postcard of a painting by the great Alexander Goudie of Tam O'Shanter on horseback, being chased by those scantily clad girls.
On the drive back to Carlisle, we passed a signpost to Gretna Green but decided it would be foolish to change partners and dance. Dr Johnson thought second marriages unwise, merely the triumph of Hope over Experience.
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