Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story.
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
An' Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!"
Rabbie Burns needs to lighten up a bit don't you think ?
As I sit, naked in a cold bath typing this mnissive, I contemplate the corridor of wasteland which starts at Carlisle and is bordered to the East by the M6 motorway and the West by the Solway Firth. Fought over by the Reivers (pre-M6), this area is now a desolate no-mans land through which people only pass and sheep graze sparse grass waiting for an event.
At the northern edge of this forgotten land lies the border between Scotland and England (shouldn't that be England and Scotland), the River Sark. Just beyond is Gretna Green, famous for shotgun wedding ceremonies over the Smithies anvil. This is the self styled first and last town in Scotland.
Gretna is a bizzare place: it lacks a town centre and the locals allayed my fears by not scowling at me as a sassenack. I did however feel the caledonian eyes were on me - it was like being at work! For now I am safely holed up in a fortress where they have assured me that any Alec Salmon and his local SNP hardmen will be repelled if they come a calling.
Tomorrow mild scottish weather is predicted - rain. I'm going to try to dodge the raindrops and make it to the ferry for the Isle of Aran. It will be a long day - the longest yet - but if the wind is behind me then, in the words of Thomas the Tank Engine "I think I can".
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