Most of my regular readers know that, almost two and a half years ago, I left the United States to travel in Europe and the UK. That wish to travel was made possible, in large part, to my good friend, Danielle, who helped me get a part time remote job that I can do anywhere there’s WiFi or a decent cell phone signal. Also, I found the TrustedHousesitters website, a place that connected me with people who needed someone to stay with their animals whilst the family were away on vacation or whatever. Thus, I’ve lived out of a couple of backpacks for this entire time. And, in the course of my travels and experiences in meeting people and their pets and seeing a good deal of the UK and France, some special memories have been made. This story is an example of that.
I was headed to the Scottish hinterlands, a village outside of Perth called Dunning. Supposedly, some saint killed a dragon there once upon a time. Anyhoo, I planned to come in an afternoon early and get a chance to meet the owners and the pets before the family left on their annual vacation. The owners were happy to invite me to supper that evening so that we could all get acquainted. Two lovely old pointers awaited me, by the way, but this story isn’t about them. I made plans to stay in a local pub on that Wednesday evening and booked a room there.
Arriving by train into Perth, I took a taxi the 12 or so miles out to Dunning. The brogue on the taxi driver was so strong that I barely understood him as he chatted away. I must have nodded at the right places in his monologue because he was grinning the entire way, He dropped me and my bags off in front of the pub and made his way back to Perth. I went up to the door of pub and saw a sign in the corner of the window that said CLOSED. But next to the sign was a little hand lettered note that read, “If we’re closed, go around the corner to the tee room (Note: tee as in golf, not the drink) and ask there.” So, I did so. The manager of the tee room made a call and said something unintelligible to me and put the phone down. “Go back and wait out front,” he advised, “and someone will be along shortly.”
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, an older lady wearing an apron in front of her jeans came jogging up the street. As she approached, she said, loudly, “You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow!” She came up on me, and I said, almost in defense, “But it’s Wednesday.” She laughed. “Is it? I have my days mixed. No matter. Welcome!” She held out a large ring of keys and rapidly gave me the instructions. “Front door. Bathroom down the hall is this one. Your bedroom is upstairs, second on the right. If you go out, lock the door behind you. The bar will open sometime around 7pm. Enjoy your stay!” With that she jogged back to what ever task she’d left. I turned towards the pub and surveyed it with pride as if I were the publican and not only an overnight guest.
The room was small but fine, ditto the bed. The bath was one of those old ones with the claw-footed tub and rope-pull commode, green tiled and tired but classic. Dinner was to be at 8, but I left early, before the bar opened, to walk around the village a bit before meeting the family and pets. The dinner was wonderful, and we got all the details of the dogs’ routine settled. It was shortly before 11pm when I made my way back to the pub. The yellow glow from the windows greeted me as I went up the path. And then, I heard the music.
Coming into the low-beamed ceilinged room, the fire took the chill off the evening, even though it was May. Behind the bar was a woman I later learned was the daughter of the woman who’d entrusted me with the keys earlier. She nodded greeting to me as she dried a pint glass with a bar towel. A young-ish couple chatted with their heads together at one table. In a corner booth, a man sat with a small dog of indeterminate breed on his lap. He had a half-finished pint of some ale in front of him. He was petting the dog and had tears streaming down his face. At another, larger table, sat four musicians. One of them, a woman, played the squeezebox. A man had several flute-type recorders in front of him, and he would change instruments as the foursome played different tunes. The other two musicians, one older and obviously the dad of the younger, were strumming small guitars. And the singing–the singing was wonderful, as you’d expect in a rural Scottish pub.
Well, there was no way I was going to retire to my bed with this scene before me. I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Scottish cider (Forgive me, I’m merely an amateur drinker). I took my pint and sat at the table nearest the quartet. They ran through several wonderful old Scottish tunes seamlessly, a group who’d obviously played together often and knew who was to do what and when. And the harmonies, ah! Having grown up in a church tradition of acapella music, and having learned to listen for harmonies in Simon and Garfunkel, the Beatles, and Elton John, I though I knew a thing or two about singing. But this wasn’t Pepsi; this was the Real Thing.
After a few songs, the older guitar player turned to me and asked me what brought me to Dunning and to the pub. I told him the basic outlines of what was going on. “Oh, aye?” he said with a grin, and with no prompting, he added “D’ya sing at all?”
Well, I CAN sing, I said. We then began trying to find a song that we would all know. Squeezebox woman said that, having been a vicar, I must know Amazing Grace. Sure. I know it. And the group began to play. At the appropriate cue, I began to sing. All the verses. Several choruses. And repeated the first verse. Maybe it was the cider. Maybe it was the magic of the cold night in a Scottish pub surrounded by a scene that you can’t get anywhere else. For whatever reason, it worked. When I finished, the seven people in the room clapped, even Dave (they told me his name later) in the corner dried his tears a moment and showed his appreciation.
That’s when the barkeep brought over a shot of whiskey and a small pitcher of water. “We pay the talent with drinks of our finest,” she said. Now, I’ve spoken to large audiences, led singing in chapel at college as well, received some accolades from various groups across my various careers. But I don’t think I’ve been prouder of any acknowledgement as I was with that.
Along about midnight, the barkeep told us that she was going to start closing down. The couple headed for the door. The man with the dog finished his pint in one large gulp, stood up with the beloved dog in his arms like a baby, and headed out as well. “Dave lost his wife a few months ago,” the younger guitarist explained. “He comes here to cheer himself up.” The group stayed for a few more songs, played for each other of course, but it seemed that they were playing for me. Finally, they left, and I locked the door to my pub behind them and headed up to a good night’s rest.
And when people from both the US and Europe ask me why I’m doing what I’m doing, I tell them this story, and they begin to understand.
And now you know the rest of the story…
The Rest of the Story 