Al Fresco
by Glenn Muir
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None
Description: A hot Sixties summer day. Time for a picnic and a spot of fishing.
Swearwords: None
Description: A hot Sixties summer day. Time for a picnic and a spot of fishing.
Summers seemed tae be warmer but maybe that wis jist a bit o rose tintit retrospect regarding life in the Sixties. Onie way summer way back then meant picnics, lots and lots o picnics.
Mither aye made a massive batch o sannies, usually half o them wid be on tinned salmon and the ither half wid be on biled egg. Noo maist folk mix in mayonnaise or salad cream wi the egg but Mither aywiss used tomato ketchup insteid. I think she had rin oot o salad cream in the past and decided tae improvise wi the ketchup. The sannies were carefully wrapped in a clean tea cloth and placed in a big canvas shopping bag alang wi twa thermos flasks (yin for tea and yin for coffee). A tin fu o biscuits wis added tae the bag asweel, usually Kitkats or Bandits. The bag was then shoved intae the boot o the car alang wi a couple o tartan blankets for sitting on and the essential fishing gear.
Faither’s current car then wis a bottle green Morris 1300 which he had bocht privately second hand frae a dubious grunter called Noel. We subsequently learned that it had been “rolled” and the roof had been replaced. So it wis whit they call a “cut and shut” but no a classic vertical yin.
This was a recent replacement for the previous faimily car, a lime green Ford Corsair which seemed tae be held thegither wi masking tape. Prior tae that yin there had been a turquoise Ford Prefect that shuddered violently anytime the speedo went above 40 M.P.H.
There would hae been plenty of room if oor wee expeditions jist involved me and the parents but that wis seldom the case. Insteid o getting the back seat tae masel I wis usually squashed between twa fat adults. Alternate picnics wid see us accompanied by Mither’s sister Auntie “Petrie” and her man Uncle Frank or Faither’s brither Uncle Sannie and his wife Auntie Jim.
“Petrie” had married Frank efter her bairn time wis by, he wis a guid twenty year her senior and he wis frae Yorkshire. This meant that he wis English, which at the time I considered tae be a bad thing.
“Petrie” was an excellent baker (like Mither), her aipple pies and shoartbreid were the best bar nane. Frank wis the only person I ken wha could burn a fried egg tae pure carbon. They were ok, I suppose, but they didnae hae much fun aboot them unlike Sannie and Jim.
Sannie wis Faither’s aulder half brither and a man wi a weel developed sense o fun. He wis a veteran o Anzio and still had shrapnel in his leg frae that battle. Auntie Jim wis yin o life’s optimists, everything wis fabulous or beautiful (sometimes baith) according tae her. She wis prone tae the odd bit o exaggeration. Faither used tae say, “Aa Jim’s eggs are double yolkers.” She had a great liking for Polo mints and Senior Service fags.
Unfortunately it was Petrie and Frank’s turn for the picnic this time. Faither picked them up in Fawkert and then we were on oor way. Oor destination on this particular occasion wis the River Clyde near Carnwath in Lanarkshire. This wis a fairly new destination for us, picnics normally meant a wee trip intae the Trossachs via Callender. This gave us a choice o various Lochs tae fish in. Loch Lubnaig mair often than no, but sometimes it wid be Loch Venacher, Loch Voil , Loch Earn and on a rare occasion Loch Tay.
This wid be oor second picnic by the Clyde. The first had been made memorable by us discovering a whittret raiding a yorlin’s nest. Sannie grabbed Jim’s walking stick and chased the whittret awa, lashing at it wildly. I suppose it probably returned when the coast wis clear tae finish the job.
We also discovered that on Sundays a travelling chip van frae Carluke plied it’s trade in Carnwath, so that wis oor tea sortit.
We left Fawkert aboot eleven a.m. and proceeded tae oor chosen destination. We passed through Armadale and Whitburn on the A706, turning left somewhaur between Longridge and Forth. Once we reached Carnwath it wisnae far tae the Clyde. Faither pulled the car in tae a layby and we aa got oot and settled doon tae enjoy oor al fresco feast. I wis getting a bit impatient then, aa their adult blethering wis delaying oor fishing. I could see the river tantalisingly close, jist owre the road. At last Faither arose and the twa o us clambered owre the stile wi oor gear. Frank and the twa women had decided tae go for a wee walk and leave us intrepid anglers tae get on wi it. Frank didnae think much o oor chances. “Tha’ll catch nowt” was his parting shot.
The path tae the water’s edge wis a steep yin, rocky wi the odd whinbush and crusty looking cowpats scattered here and there. The river wis running quite low as there hadnae been much rain lately and the sun beating doon on us didnae bode well for the fishing. Faither set up the rods, fibre-glass affairs wi spinning reels attached and hooks at the business end. So far so good, but whit aboot bait? Usually we managed tae find earthworms under rocks or logs, but the earth wis parched big time. A frenzied search for bait ensued. Faither spotted a large docken which he yanked oot. “Bingo!” Nestled in the roots wis whit looked like a big fat maggot. White bodied wi a chestnut broon heid, faither said that it wis a docken grub, I think it wis the larva o some beetle or ither. It wis placed intae the wee plastic bait pail in case we couldnae come up wi some worms. The search for bait went on, eventually faither turned a sizeable log owre and fund twa enormous worms. He baited oor hooks and we started tae fish.
The warmth o the sun wis starting tae ease off a bit as we decided tae call it a day. The rods were dismantled and the reels and ither gear wis put back in their canvas bag. We wearily climbed the stony path to the stile and crossed the road tae rejoin the ithers wha were sitting on a bench adjacent tae the car.
Frank greeted us wi a sceptical “Any luck, chaps?”
I said, “Aye, ma Faither caught a couple o beauties!”
“Fish?” Frank gasped incredulously.
“Naw, no fish,” I replied earnestly. “Worms!”
Mither aye made a massive batch o sannies, usually half o them wid be on tinned salmon and the ither half wid be on biled egg. Noo maist folk mix in mayonnaise or salad cream wi the egg but Mither aywiss used tomato ketchup insteid. I think she had rin oot o salad cream in the past and decided tae improvise wi the ketchup. The sannies were carefully wrapped in a clean tea cloth and placed in a big canvas shopping bag alang wi twa thermos flasks (yin for tea and yin for coffee). A tin fu o biscuits wis added tae the bag asweel, usually Kitkats or Bandits. The bag was then shoved intae the boot o the car alang wi a couple o tartan blankets for sitting on and the essential fishing gear.
Faither’s current car then wis a bottle green Morris 1300 which he had bocht privately second hand frae a dubious grunter called Noel. We subsequently learned that it had been “rolled” and the roof had been replaced. So it wis whit they call a “cut and shut” but no a classic vertical yin.
This was a recent replacement for the previous faimily car, a lime green Ford Corsair which seemed tae be held thegither wi masking tape. Prior tae that yin there had been a turquoise Ford Prefect that shuddered violently anytime the speedo went above 40 M.P.H.
There would hae been plenty of room if oor wee expeditions jist involved me and the parents but that wis seldom the case. Insteid o getting the back seat tae masel I wis usually squashed between twa fat adults. Alternate picnics wid see us accompanied by Mither’s sister Auntie “Petrie” and her man Uncle Frank or Faither’s brither Uncle Sannie and his wife Auntie Jim.
“Petrie” had married Frank efter her bairn time wis by, he wis a guid twenty year her senior and he wis frae Yorkshire. This meant that he wis English, which at the time I considered tae be a bad thing.
“Petrie” was an excellent baker (like Mither), her aipple pies and shoartbreid were the best bar nane. Frank wis the only person I ken wha could burn a fried egg tae pure carbon. They were ok, I suppose, but they didnae hae much fun aboot them unlike Sannie and Jim.
Sannie wis Faither’s aulder half brither and a man wi a weel developed sense o fun. He wis a veteran o Anzio and still had shrapnel in his leg frae that battle. Auntie Jim wis yin o life’s optimists, everything wis fabulous or beautiful (sometimes baith) according tae her. She wis prone tae the odd bit o exaggeration. Faither used tae say, “Aa Jim’s eggs are double yolkers.” She had a great liking for Polo mints and Senior Service fags.
Unfortunately it was Petrie and Frank’s turn for the picnic this time. Faither picked them up in Fawkert and then we were on oor way. Oor destination on this particular occasion wis the River Clyde near Carnwath in Lanarkshire. This wis a fairly new destination for us, picnics normally meant a wee trip intae the Trossachs via Callender. This gave us a choice o various Lochs tae fish in. Loch Lubnaig mair often than no, but sometimes it wid be Loch Venacher, Loch Voil , Loch Earn and on a rare occasion Loch Tay.
This wid be oor second picnic by the Clyde. The first had been made memorable by us discovering a whittret raiding a yorlin’s nest. Sannie grabbed Jim’s walking stick and chased the whittret awa, lashing at it wildly. I suppose it probably returned when the coast wis clear tae finish the job.
We also discovered that on Sundays a travelling chip van frae Carluke plied it’s trade in Carnwath, so that wis oor tea sortit.
We left Fawkert aboot eleven a.m. and proceeded tae oor chosen destination. We passed through Armadale and Whitburn on the A706, turning left somewhaur between Longridge and Forth. Once we reached Carnwath it wisnae far tae the Clyde. Faither pulled the car in tae a layby and we aa got oot and settled doon tae enjoy oor al fresco feast. I wis getting a bit impatient then, aa their adult blethering wis delaying oor fishing. I could see the river tantalisingly close, jist owre the road. At last Faither arose and the twa o us clambered owre the stile wi oor gear. Frank and the twa women had decided tae go for a wee walk and leave us intrepid anglers tae get on wi it. Frank didnae think much o oor chances. “Tha’ll catch nowt” was his parting shot.
The path tae the water’s edge wis a steep yin, rocky wi the odd whinbush and crusty looking cowpats scattered here and there. The river wis running quite low as there hadnae been much rain lately and the sun beating doon on us didnae bode well for the fishing. Faither set up the rods, fibre-glass affairs wi spinning reels attached and hooks at the business end. So far so good, but whit aboot bait? Usually we managed tae find earthworms under rocks or logs, but the earth wis parched big time. A frenzied search for bait ensued. Faither spotted a large docken which he yanked oot. “Bingo!” Nestled in the roots wis whit looked like a big fat maggot. White bodied wi a chestnut broon heid, faither said that it wis a docken grub, I think it wis the larva o some beetle or ither. It wis placed intae the wee plastic bait pail in case we couldnae come up wi some worms. The search for bait went on, eventually faither turned a sizeable log owre and fund twa enormous worms. He baited oor hooks and we started tae fish.
The warmth o the sun wis starting tae ease off a bit as we decided tae call it a day. The rods were dismantled and the reels and ither gear wis put back in their canvas bag. We wearily climbed the stony path to the stile and crossed the road tae rejoin the ithers wha were sitting on a bench adjacent tae the car.
Frank greeted us wi a sceptical “Any luck, chaps?”
I said, “Aye, ma Faither caught a couple o beauties!”
“Fish?” Frank gasped incredulously.
“Naw, no fish,” I replied earnestly. “Worms!”
About the Author
West Lothian-born Glenn Muir is a fiftysomething postman working in Linlithgow. Previously a member of the West Lothian Song Writers Group, he is now with Quill, a poetry and writing group based in Bathgate.