April 23, 2005 – Scotland 2003: Gretna Greene and Beyond

April 23, 2005 – Scotland 2003: Gretna Greene and Beyond

Refreshed after a full night's sleep we awoke on Saturday morning to a bright sunny day that had every promise of being as hot if not hotter than the Friday that preceded it. At 9:00 AM it was pleasantly comfortable and I was ravenously hungry, a combination of anxiety, stress, and exhaustion draining all my fuel reserves. The lake was magnificent in the morning sun; a shimmering glass surface beckoning blanched bodies to enter its cooling waters to escape the scorching sun. I had slept with a sheet covering me from the cool that the lake had produced during the night. The ever present blanket found on every British bed had lane cast aside—so completely unnecessary in the Summer heat Britain had been experiencing for several weeks.

We packed our suitcases after our morning toilet—I do dislike using the two faucet sinks—and proceeded across the hotel from north to south to the restaurant for our free breakfast. It was a sparsely filled dining room that greeted us this Saturday morning, though from the full parking lot clearly visible out the picture windows of the dining room the hotel seemed to be at capacity. Perhaps the holiday seekers were enjoying a sleep in before the heat of the day would make all such luxury impossible. We were seated at a table directly in front of the picture window gazing out onto the lake. The room was very long from northern entrance to southern wall and about a fifth again as wide—thus lots of tables with an unobstructed lake view. Our table was third from the last as we walked north to south.

The windows were interrupted by sections of wall where serving stations were set up with breakfast items: a selection of orange, grapefruit, and tomato juice. Another in an island in center of the room held a selection of brown and white breads and pastries— croissants. A serving station along the long wall opposite the wall of windows—which seemed to hide the restaurant's kitchen as the wall abruptly turned left a third of the way into the room from the south thus widening the width of the restaurant by a good three-quarters. This serving station held the hot food: eggs cooked done—the yolks were nearly firm—in oil sunny side up. Scrambled eggs, bread fried in oil or grease, bacon—a dish most Americans would call ham—sausages, and blood pudding—something IM has a particular fondness for.

We assembled our breakfast lingering at each station—we had the luxury since there were not a large number of guest all striving to make a selection lest you take what they wanted—in fact, I took the last of the eggs much to IM's disappointment but she was rewarded with a fresh batch no sooner than she'd put her miffed face on. We ate in silence listening to the sounds of American accents at a couple of tables around us. The Brits in the room tended to concentrate on their meal and look lovingly out at the lake. I took in the lake as well but also watched departing drivers squeeze out from parking spots that were almost completely blocked by other cars parked in the center of the lot—having found no spots on the perimeter.

After breakfast, we returned to the room, gathered our belongings and trudged down the stairs to the car where we packed our suitcases into the back seat to keep them from being baked in the trunk—the day was already beginning to heat up. I then paid the bill, which turned, into another instance of British and American failing to communicate. I had provided my credit card upon checking into the hotel. In the U.S. the desk clerk would have taken an impression on the card and when you checked out, they would provid you with a printed bill and ask you if you wanted to keep it on your credit card. I say yes and if they need to take another impression, they request the card again. In the UK the clerk took an impression of the card, but upon checking out asked if the charges were correct but rather than ask for the credit card again, simply waited for a long pause before asking, "How would you like to settle the account." I reply with my credit card whereupon they asked if they could take another impression. Why do these subtle little differences in the way people behave to one another get to me? Perhaps because in the end, I felt like the dope who didn't have a clue.

Having gotten my receipt, I returned to the car where I struggled to extract it from the parking lot. In the process, I missed the car next to me by inches as my clutch foot slipped and the car lurched forward as I shifted from reverse into first, while trying to keep the car from rolling downhill backwards and easing the clutch out to engage the gear and move forward. IM gasped but the driving angel was with me and I made it out without the thud of metal on metal we both expected to hear. Up the hill leading out of the parking lot and left onto the two-lane A592 and we were off heading north toward the town of Windermere.

Reaching the town we came upon the first traffic jam of the day. Cars were everywhere as holidaymakers in cars were trying to get to their respective destinations. All around us pedestrian who had arrived by car to their destination—Windermere town centre—were busy trying to get from one side of the street to the next. We promptly got lost following the moving traffic rather than trying to follow the A592 where everyone was stopped. Sidetracked onto the A591 going east out of Windermere, we again came upon the A592 turned right and began heading north again this time our destination was Penrith and the M6. We were low on fuel and by the time we reached Patterdale a few miles south of Lake Ullswater we were looking for a petrol station, preferably one on the left hand side of the road so as to avoid crossing a line of traffic twice. And the traffic was heavy in clusters especially as we entered villages and small towns.

As we traversed through Patterdale, we came upon a small two-pump station on the left that would have felt right at home in 1940s England, just as it felt completely at ease in 21st-century England. My gas tank cap was located on the right hand side of the Vauxhall and two cars were occupying the pump lanes on the left side of the pumps where I should have pulled into to fill the tank. I was forced to pull into the lane on the right side of the pump. Being a Californian I jumped out of the car and opened the gas cap and went to retrieve the pump nozzle. At this point I was confronted by a lady filling-station attendant who promptly explained to me that she was the only one authorized to pump the gas. I relinquished the task to her. She then asked how much petrol she should dispense. Seeing no "AMEX, VISA, or Master Card Accepted Here" signs, I surmised that this was a cash only establishment. I fished out 20 pounds from my wallet and begged another 20 pounds from IM and told the attendant to dispense 40 pounds of petrol please. She did so and we were once again pulling into the stream of holiday traffic on the A592.

Shortly after leaving the petrol station we were treated to the beautiful site of the southern end of Lake Ullswatter ringed by an abundance of green trees, bushes and tall grasses, the lake was absolutely splendid in the noonday sun. All along the edge of the lake where civilization had cut back the natural growth to allow access, throngs of sparsely clothed sun roasted reddened Brits busied themselves enjoying a warm day beside the lake. The A592 twisted and turned its way lazily along the Lake's edge as the awestruck motorists played hide and seek happily with the lake that appeared and disappeared behind sudden growths of flora. The A592 headed almost due north for about a quarter of the length of Lake Ullswater, then made a 45 degree right turn to keep track with the sharp turn in the lake. A few miles after the turn we passed the Aira Force waterfall but did not take time to sightsee. We were within 15 miles of Penrith and the M6 Motorway with its high-speed unfettered right of way was beginning to beckon.

We arrive at Penrith around noon and slipped onto the motorway along with a long line of other holiday travelers heading north. The motorway was a welcome break from the twisting and turning A592. IM and I were both getting a bit cramped inside the car and needed a break. We chose to stop at Gretna Greene, just under 10 miles from Carlisle. We had to exit the motorway and wind our way into the center of town. The center was awash in people disgorged from tour buses and private cars, all filling the parking lot behind the village center. Gretna Greene is just over the boarder between England and Scotland. No, as my wife and any Scotsman or Scotswoman will tell you, Scotland is not part of England. It's part of Great Britain, which encompasses, England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. And the border between England and Scotland is an imaginary line; the two cultures are noticeably different as are the laws and customs.

Gretna Greene is the prime example of that difference. Young English women upon reaching their 16th birthday would come with their husbands-to-be to Gretna Greene where they could be legally married under Scottish law. Furthermore the ceremony in earlier times was carried out by the blacksmith with the couple standing before the smithy's anvil. Needless to say the custom of being married in Gretna Greene has become a major source of tourist revenue for the village. We parked and made out way into the open area center surrounded by shops with the blacksmith shop now in the business of forging marriage vows and not iron, The center was an imperfect circle with one large shop with everything from a complete line of Scottish clothing—lots of kilts—to curios and packaged foods. Today was not a good day for shopping. It was 90 degrees outside and the shop was stifling hot with a handful of fans attempting to cool the store baking from the heat outside and being heated by the swarm of shoppers inside. By the way, in true British fashion, these shoppers were not deterred by the heat; they went about shopping as if it were a cool 70 degrees. Besides the large store there was a collection of smaller shops counterclockwise around the circle. Next came the converted blacksmith’s shop now offering Scottish dry goods items for sale, many of the same items as the other store, but whisky as well as knives and battle regalia. No air conditioning in this store either. Further counterclockwise from the Smithy's place was the wedding rehearsal hall—physically part of the Smithy's place. A steady parade of couples would come into the hall for photos and then come out for the marriage ceremony.

The ritual occurred every 20 minutes or so. Outside attired in full Scottish formal wear—kilts for the men, long gowns for the women, and the bride in traditional white wedding dress with veil and train. The service was presided over by a minister or registrar depending on the couple's preference. Gone are the days of the village smith doing the honors. The two ceremonies we witnessed during our leisurely stroll about the small circle were accompanied by a piper. A professional photographer captured every moment for bride and groom to relieve for the rest of their lives. The star of the second marriage ceremony was neither of the two main characters in the ceremony but rather an impish little boy—at the most five years old, dressed up in a kilt, who, despite the heat, was having the time of his live, laughing and cavorting with the adults of the party.

With the heat finally getting the best of both IM and I we sought the comfort of a cool drink before escaping to the air-conditioned atmosphere of the Vauxhall Vectra. Here again we were thwarted in our efforts. Each concession stand offering bottled water had none that was cooler than lukewarm. It occurred to me that an enterprising Brit with a refrigerated truck could hand out ice-cold water and soft drinks and make a killing, even charging a 20 percent premium for the extra cooling refreshness of his offerings. Alas the venture would be short-lived as the novelty would no longer be in demand once the temperature fell to its norm. Perhaps that's why the Brits have never taken to the extravagance of chilled anything. The climate simply is not hot for long enough to make the investment in "chilled" products to be worthwhile.

Once again inside the rapidly cooling Vectra, we back out of the cramped parking space and ease our way out of the lot and back onto the road, our lukewarm bottled water tucked into the convenient cup holders inside the Vectra. The drive back to the M6 is straight forward, a right turn from the small access road leading out of the parking area and making a T junction at the main road puts us back on our way. Once back onto the M6, it quickly gives way to the A74 and shortly thereafter the A74 open up and becomes the M74, We are now on the only motorway leading in and out of Scotland. A look at the map of Great Britain showing the blue lines of motorways supplying commerce to the country like the arteries of a body supplies life giving blood will clearly, identify London the heart of the country. Snaking out of the city, the extensive network of motorway arteries move outward in every direction, the M1, M11, and M40 rushing north; the M4, M3 and M23 dashing east, southeast and south, respectively; the M2 and M20 making fast for Dover and the Continent. The arterial network of motorways thins considerably north of the Scottish border with England all spreading out from the M74. The M90, an the Eastern side of Scotland extends no further than Perth—the northern-most reach of any motorway. The M9 stretches to Dunblane in the middle of Scotland. And the M8 which forks west out of the M74 outside Glasgow proceeds on to just northwest of Paisley on the west coast of the country. Beyond that the road system becomes sparse and as we would learn, heavily traveled.