The Worse the Disaster, the Better the Story

When we started planning our trip to Scotland, that relatively small country suddenly seemed enormous. There was so much to see! Where to start? Where to stay? What to see?

Scrape and I finally settled on a ruined castle tour. As I mentioned in my earlier post on Western ghost towns, I love abandoned homes and towns--so what could be better than abandoned castles?

We spent our first evening at a workingman's bar in Stirling. I'd heard that just about everyone in Scotland knew a little Burns, so much to Scrape's embarrassment, I approached a group of khaki-kilted men and asked them if they could recite any poetry for me. What ensued was the ultimate introduction to Scotland. Every single guy there could rattle off verse after verse in a stunningly sexy (if at times incomprehensible) Scottish brogue. One older man recited the entire eight verses of "To a Mouse."

It was awesome.

But all good things must come to an end--even impromptu poetry recitations. About midnight, a phalanx of wives arrived to drag their poetry-spouting husbands home.

There were plenty of ruined castles for us to visit, since the Scots seem to have spent most of their history destroying, rebuilding, and re-destroying their homes. Tour guides at each stop would recite long litanies of destruction and resurrection: "The castle was built in 1306, and destroyed in 1328. In 1330, it was rebuilt, only to be burned to the ground in 1332. After being restored in 1335, the castle was again reduced to rubble..." and so on. Oh, to be a Highland contractor in the golden age of castle destruction! You'd never lack for work.

After cruising the countryside and visiting Kilchurn Castle, Castle Stalker, and several others, we loaded our rental car onto the ferry and headed for the Isle of Skye. Ten minutes after disembarking, we stopped at a church rummage sale, where I scored a paperback book of Scottish ghost stories. Pleased with our purchase, we piled back into the car and prepared to explore the rest of the island.

But the car wouldn't start.

We tried everything we could think of, but the poor thing made hideous grinding noises every time we cranked the engine. We couldn't figure out what was wrong until we opened the little door that covers the fuel tank and read the tiny sticker hidden on the backside of the door:

Diesel Fuel Only.

We'd just filled up the tank with petrol. Regular, ordinary, gasoline-tye petrol.

We'd poisoned our car.

We called the rental car company. Nobody answered. We explained our plight to the church ladies, who told us it was a bank holiday weekend.

Scotland is a wonderful country. When they have a holiday, it's a holiday for everyone. Nothing was open. No garages. No rental car companies. Nothing.

The church ladies comforted us by saying we could surely get a new car on Tuesday.

It was Saturday.

We finally got in touch with a garage that agreed to send a tow truck to rescue us--but it would take four or five hours for the driver to reach the island.
It started raining, then pouring. We crouched in our poor dead car in the church parking lot, staring out at the water streaming down the windshield and the blurry landscape beyond. At least we had ghost stories to read.

After a while, there was a faint rapping on the driver's side window. A ghost? No, it was one of the church ladies. When we rolled down the window, she handed in two small trays, each bearing a cup of tea in a delicate porcelain teacup and a miniature Kit Kat Bar. It was tea-time, and the church ladies had decided to adopt us.

Finally, the tow truck arrived. The driver had arranged to take us to the car rental garage in Inverness, over eighty miles away, where we would trade our crippled Peugot for a new car.

Thus began the tow-truck tour of Scotland. The truck was huge, with an enormous windshield that stretched from the top of the cab to somewhere around our dangling ankles. The view was terrific, and Steven, our driver, was charming and chatty. He showed us Loch Duich, then took us through Dundreggan Forest and followed the coast of Loch Ness to Inverness, stopping so we could see the lights of Urquehart Castle.

It rained the whole time. By the time we reached our destination it was two in the morning. But it was definitely a memorable trip--in a surprisingly good way.

The rest of the trip went smoothly. We returned to Skye and saw the Fairy Flag and Bonnie Prince Charlie's waistcoat at Dunvegan, then proceeded to Eilean Donan, where Scrape out-romanced every romance novel I've ever read by surprising me with a diamond ring on the rocks by the castle. Then we returned to Loch Ness, where I tried out my Nessie call. She didn't answer, but I found a fossilized Nessie egg that still sits on my dresser. (Scrape says it's just a round rock, but I know better.)

Since that trip, I have a new philosophy of travel: The worse things go, the better the story. If we hadn't broken down, we wouldn't have been adopted by the wonderful church ladies. We wouldn't have experienced the unique Tow Truck Tour, or met Steven, or seen Loch Ness at night.

Sometimes what feels like disaster is really a gift.