Mon 14 Jan 1991.
Up at 7:30. Vanessa is the only one up, apparently to farewell me, but she ignores me completely. I pin a folded sheet of paper to the message board. It’s addressed to Vanessa, and contains 7 deep and meaningful poems, stuff I could never say to her face. Better poems too, my happy love poems were very twee and cliched, but these sad ones, they’re dark and tormented, stained torn and ruined prose. And every line rhymed.
Had a quick breakfast, my regular hot bacon roll and OJ, then fetched my pack and headed off. Reception was minus both Vanessa and my poems. Somehow this was to plan, and it was now safe to pin up my note for Heather. Very ambiguous, just maybe warning her of my romantic intentions, should she still be here when I return. Written as a poem. And signed with my special pseudonym Xixi Christ. A bit brash, but that’s my privilege, I’ll probably never see her again.
Erica the Bitch is on reception. I check out, nothing complicated, then she rushes around the desk and gives me a giant hug goodbye with moist eyes and a beaming smile. I can’t put my arms all the way around her large breasts and leather jacket, but it sure feels good. Yet another fantasy to add to my list, another reason not to be gone too long. And I don’t think that me and V actually hugged, not once even.
Caught a bus, then hitched from the Forth road bridge. Very cold once again. I’m wearing an East German army trenchcoat, thick black gloves, Levis, Docs and a balaclava, pulled down to act as a scarf.. After 2 hours I’m ready to quit, maybe try again tomorrow if the weather picks up. I’ve been pacing back and forth trying to stay warm. No-one even slows. In 5 minutes the bus will arrive, and I’ll return to base. And as I mentally give-up, a big truck laden with tubes of steel stops for me.
“So what are you carrying?”, I enquire.
“Tubular steel.” He leans over and turns up the radio, from not audible to fractionally audible. We don’t talk much more, and I can’t make out the radio tunes. But he was going precisely my way, thru 3 turnoffs, and has me in Stonehaven by 3 o’clock. A most excellent beginning..
By 4:30 I had settled into a B+B. It was my first time at such an establishment, and I was surprised to find myself in a regular messy screaming kids and new baby household. I got my own room, a nice smelling bed with actual gen-u-ine privacy, a lockable door and a wee tv. My hostess offered to provide dinner. Her teenage boys had just cycled in and were crowding the kitchen. I decided not to inconvenience her, she seemed overworked as it was. But of course she probably needed the extra cash, and being on holiday that thought never occurred to me.
My reason for coming here, just south of Aberdeen, was the famous Dunnottar Castle, where Mel Gibson’s “Hamlet” was recently filmed. The sexy mother (yeah, very, but she’s got kids and I can generate a thousand excuses from that alone) gave me instructions on how to get there, the cliff path being the most scenic. And I trotted off, adventurous, fresh sea air and roaring waves. I found that cliff path and commenced up and along it. I guess that there aren’t many tourists around this time of year. I couldn’t see any. I began to doubt her directions, but how many cliffside paths could there be? Only one, of course. I had forgotten that because it’s mid-winter, and I’ve travelled further north, it gets dark very early. Just after 5 and there is no daylight left. It is difficult to follow the path, which has dwindled from a proper paved strip, to a thin icy turning rut. A sheep trail. It leaves the paddocks, over the wire-netting and barbed wire fence, and merges into the cliff face. It suddenly gets very very dangerous. I keep slipping and grasping for the fence, or shrubs, the cliff is for real, maybe a 50 foot drop to the North Sea, certain death. Angry at the housewife, I climb back over the fence and stumble in the dark for 15 minutes, tripping and slipping, until I reach the castle and its silhouette. It’s everything that it should be. Crashing waves, jagged cliffs, broken turrets. Masonry strewn everywhere, soft grass between. And it is still very dark, no moon, no shadows. All alone with the ghostly historical vibes. I wish I had my pack with me, I could’ve daringly slept on the haunted ground, and frozen to my death in my sleeping bag.
I wish that Vanessa, Heather, Caren and Erica were here to keep me warm. Then a chill reached thru me and I headed back, my warm bed. I could see the road, a hundred meters inland, and found a path to it. Thru a couple of squeaky gates (which I sense would normally be locked at night), past the carpark, and the caretakers cottage. His porch light came on. I froze behind a strainer post, while he shone a big torch around his property. Then tiptoed out to the road. That scared me, not the castle, but the man who might be grumpy and might have a gun, and I might have been trespassing.
Made it back into town without getting run over. Bought a bag of hot chips for 50p, and ate them by some fishing boats. Then I walked past all the pubs, all filled with old men and fat women. Got a little lost, then found my B+B. Mrs Hostess was still up (actually only 7pm), and her cleavage was showing, her jeans were tight, she leant over the kitchen sink and asked questions about NZ. I kept uncomfortably answering until I was convinced she would notice my boner.
“Excuse me, but I think I’ll watch the war on telly”
“Right you are dear, breakfast is at 8”
The war doesn’t actually start until tomorrow, but tv was really getting off on it. When they started to repeat themselves I turned off the light, locked the door, stripped naked, climbed into the sheets, and had my first full-on, deep fantasy, gasping, sweating horizontal wank since leaving home. And slept long and comfortably alongside my new improved fantasy Mrs Hostess.