More Driving Lessons

More Driving Lessons

Last we left off, we had reached Inveraray, having driven through Edinburgh, not without incident. I believe we encountered a flat tire, having rudely been accosted by a curb while I was minding my own business, and narrowly saved by the rescue men who regularly change tires for the Americans and Canadians who seemed to love to have contact with the curbs of their great city. A quick stop at the Kwik-Fit tire place, and all was well.
We were told to avoid Glasgow, but again the best laid plans…well, you know the saying. We rolled into Inveraray exhausted at 8pm. I didn’t want to drive again, and neither did Robyn.
A good night’s sleep, and we are off again, with me driving. This time it was beautiful, slow, and we made it to the ferry that would take us to Craignure without incident. The ferry ride was smooth, and when we drove off the ferry, we were in high spirits. That is until we drove ten minutes down the road.
The Isle of Mull has what are called one track carriageways. This means that cars going in either direction share one lane. How does that work, you ask? Well, I’ve been driving on it for two days, and I still couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is, I’m sure I now have a bleeding ulcer. My knuckles will be white for the rest of my life, and the moment of true understanding came today when we rounded a curve that on the left side had a sign pointing in the direction that we were going that said, CEMETARY. I know now that they chose to put a cemetery seemingly in the middle of nowhere for the head-on collisions that happen at that point. Saves time, you see. They can just drag the bodies out of the car and up the hill and bury them. No muss, no fuss. In a country that has seen so many civil wars, what’s a few more drops of blood on the soil?
I was surprised by the speed by which cars traveled. Where I was going 30, they would easily be going 50. I also decided that the trick to surviving on these single track roads was to follow someone who knew what they were doing. That way, if a collision happened, I could watch from behind, thus allowing me to escape. Unfortunately, this didn’t work very well because every time I found someone to follow, they would pull over and let me pass, unlike Americans who would do anything to prevent someone from passing them. At one point I frantically waved the person to go on ahead. He did, but eventually pulled over again to let me pass. Truly, I don’t think I looked that confident.
So, we managed to make it to Tobermory with nary an incident. We made it to Iona this morning with only a small incident, whereby the other driver cheerfully said, “Great Driving! You avoided an accident! Well done!” while I threw up in the bushes.
I became grateful to see cows, sheep and goats. That meant I had to slow down, so that when they leapt unexpectedly into the road I didn’t slam into them, throwing their furry bodies into the ditch.
It took two hours to make it to Fionnphort (pronounced, I am told, Fen-a-fert), or, for perspective, a distance of 48.6 miles. But we were alive, and as Robin pointed out, undamaged in any way, shape or form.
We toured Iona Abby in the misty, driving rain, and returned to the ferry, and the Isle of Mull, where we got back into the car, and proceeded to drive back to Craignure on the other side of the island, or 34.8 miles. We must have done better (we did have more people to follow) because we managed that in one hour and 15 minutes. I refused to drive to the gas station after we parked, telling Robyn if she wanted to fill up that bad, she could drive. On the way out, the proprietor of the Pennygate Lodge where we were staying informed us that if we needed diesel fuel, we wouldn't get any because somebody had backed up into the only diesel pump in town, and knocked it over. We stared at her.
“Are you kidding me?” we asked.
“No, I’m not.” She said grinning.
“What happened?” We asked.
“Ooch, twas an American, backing up and not looking where he was going!”
At least I left the curb in working order.