Hame's Best
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: Not every fellow-Scot wants to play the game.
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Rural Lincolnshire is rather like a very pleasant open prison: you can escape if you want but most people decide they don't want to leave. Some do, of course, seek a wider stage not always with universal approval: Baroness Thatcher is a Lincolnshire girl. 'Yellow Bellies', they are called although, so far as I know, not to her face!
Our Olympians are mostly Lincolnshire born and bred; many of them have known each other since school. The rest of us – incomers – average about twenty years' residency; that qualifies us as 'friendly aliens'.
Please do not get the idea that I am criticising the natives. They are fully engaged in modern life and have travelled extensively; it is simply that, having weighed all the evidence, they have opted to remain close to their roots.
“East west, hame's best” we say in Scotland, and we mean it fervently! Somehow, though, we slip away across the border and settle here, there and everywhere. You cannot visit any part of the world without meeting a fellow Scot.
One time we landed at Kennedy Airport and set off in a hire car for our hotel in Connecticut. We got a bit lost so we went into a diner for a coffee and directions. The waiter understood 'coffee' and 'doughnuts' but he was totally flummoxed by a full sentence in English.
“Che?” he said, smiling engagingly.
Before we even had time to think what to do next, a man stood up from the adjacent booth.
“A'm from Blaw'rthill”, he announced. “Where wiz it you wanted to get to?”
His accent might have been ninety percent American, but his sentiments were still thore forged in the urban village he proudly acknowledged as his birth place: casual friendliness with no thought of repayment except for a momentary insight into other peoples' lives.
When I first returned to Scotland from exile in Bedfordshire, I played postal chess to keep my mind active. One of my opponents was a Fifer; once we became acquainted we started sending notes with our moves and it turned out that he had been the minister in the parish next to the one where I grew up. His son and I had been friends at school.
“You have to remember,” he once told me, “that Scotland is a small country. If you meet a fellow Scot you can usually find something in common – a place or a person you both know.”
Shortly after that I moved to a job that involved a lot of lonely one-night stays in rather out-of-the-way places. With nothing much else to do I would gravitate to the hotel bar in the evening. If I heard a Scottish accent – and I usually did – I would challenge him. After my spiel about places and people, the other drinkers would listen sceptically while we two Scots compared life stories.
It was a harmless diversion that amused everyone and had the desired effect of providing me with companionship for the evening. The old minister was right: we always did find common ground.
Except!
There was one evening in an inn near Luton. When I heard a Scottish voice in a group that had just entered, I moved in on them, smiling, to explain the game and suggest we play. His mates were really keen, but as soon as he understood the challenge he made rapid strides out the door without saying a word, leaving his friends looking baffled.
I have always wondered what he had to hide!
Swearwords: None.
Description: Not every fellow-Scot wants to play the game.
_____________________________________________________________________
Rural Lincolnshire is rather like a very pleasant open prison: you can escape if you want but most people decide they don't want to leave. Some do, of course, seek a wider stage not always with universal approval: Baroness Thatcher is a Lincolnshire girl. 'Yellow Bellies', they are called although, so far as I know, not to her face!
Our Olympians are mostly Lincolnshire born and bred; many of them have known each other since school. The rest of us – incomers – average about twenty years' residency; that qualifies us as 'friendly aliens'.
Please do not get the idea that I am criticising the natives. They are fully engaged in modern life and have travelled extensively; it is simply that, having weighed all the evidence, they have opted to remain close to their roots.
“East west, hame's best” we say in Scotland, and we mean it fervently! Somehow, though, we slip away across the border and settle here, there and everywhere. You cannot visit any part of the world without meeting a fellow Scot.
One time we landed at Kennedy Airport and set off in a hire car for our hotel in Connecticut. We got a bit lost so we went into a diner for a coffee and directions. The waiter understood 'coffee' and 'doughnuts' but he was totally flummoxed by a full sentence in English.
“Che?” he said, smiling engagingly.
Before we even had time to think what to do next, a man stood up from the adjacent booth.
“A'm from Blaw'rthill”, he announced. “Where wiz it you wanted to get to?”
His accent might have been ninety percent American, but his sentiments were still thore forged in the urban village he proudly acknowledged as his birth place: casual friendliness with no thought of repayment except for a momentary insight into other peoples' lives.
When I first returned to Scotland from exile in Bedfordshire, I played postal chess to keep my mind active. One of my opponents was a Fifer; once we became acquainted we started sending notes with our moves and it turned out that he had been the minister in the parish next to the one where I grew up. His son and I had been friends at school.
“You have to remember,” he once told me, “that Scotland is a small country. If you meet a fellow Scot you can usually find something in common – a place or a person you both know.”
Shortly after that I moved to a job that involved a lot of lonely one-night stays in rather out-of-the-way places. With nothing much else to do I would gravitate to the hotel bar in the evening. If I heard a Scottish accent – and I usually did – I would challenge him. After my spiel about places and people, the other drinkers would listen sceptically while we two Scots compared life stories.
It was a harmless diversion that amused everyone and had the desired effect of providing me with companionship for the evening. The old minister was right: we always did find common ground.
Except!
There was one evening in an inn near Luton. When I heard a Scottish voice in a group that had just entered, I moved in on them, smiling, to explain the game and suggest we play. His mates were really keen, but as soon as he understood the challenge he made rapid strides out the door without saying a word, leaving his friends looking baffled.
I have always wondered what he had to hide!
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.