My fellow passengers, at least initially, made for interesting
speculation; two groups of young tourists, one German, the other Japanese.
Makes me wonder what Germanic-Jappo relations have been like these past
seventy-odd years. Do they avoid each other’s glances like ex-lovers ashamed of
a past dalliance that didn’t turn out too well?
Whatever, it doesn’t stop the Japanese girls talking and
giggling over-loudly or the German lads conversing clatteringly, like so many
Boris Becker’s vying for attention.
The couple across from me are having a little tiff. She is
Scottish and is accusing him of shoddy preparation; he is English and sounds
like the type who may dress up as Baden-Powell secretly at the weekend for
kicks; definitely not the sort who takes accusations of mal-administration
lightly and as such, he has gone in a huff. As this is the ‘mystery tour’ bus
to Perth we take on plenty more passengers, believe me.
As we go on, I notice the German lads are scoffing at the
driver’s efforts. I can’t fault them for this as his driving lacks finesse to
say the least. He seems intent on running a set of wheels over as many cat’s eyes as he can manage and has
already hurled one old fella half way up the aisle with his jerky brake/accelerator
work. He is practising, damn near to perfection, the driving equivalent of
Norman Collier’s microphone on/off act. He brakes, he accelerates, he brakes, he
accelerates. I am unfortunately prone to bus-sickness and will make sure the
first spew is straight down his neck.
Eventually we reach Perth and we enter it at its arse-end;
the bus station is behind some scabby looking tower blocks. This first
impression is erased the further I walk into the town centre. Perth is a tidy
little town indeed, especially when you reach the riverside. The silvery Tay is
majestic and roiling under me as I walk across Perth Bridge to get a look at the
place from the other side from where Perth looks a prosperous little town. There are enough women with that scrubbed Duchess of Kent look to confirm this initial impression but on
closer inspection you’ll find that this jewel on the Tay is not in the least
pretentious.
I buy an Onion Bridie from Murrays in South Street from the
friendliest auld wifie that God ever put on earth. In fact, all the women
serving in this establishment are chattering and helpful in that singularly
Scottish way that we deliberately cultivate to make the English look bad.
Speaking of the English, there’s a fair few of their posher
variety scattered about, although I do follow a distinctly Cockney couple as I
walk in North Inch Park (the city is cosily encased on each side by massive
parks, the other, predictably is South Inch Park) and wonder how they ended up
in Perth. Mind you, how does anyone end up anywhere? I spoke to a woman a week
ago from Barcelona who finds herself living in Tranent! Are there Catalonians
so sick of the sun and the Med and all the great football that they yearn to
live in East Lothian?
The winning aspect of Perth, though, can be found when
gazing across the Tay from this very park. Straight across from North Inch Park
are the houses where the better-off live and continuing your gaze eastward you
follow these posh houses far up to Kinnoul Hill where they proliferate between
the green, green tree-tops.
Something else about Perth stands out. There are a multitude
of charity shops. Due to my straitened circumstances currently I have imposed a
ban on my usual habit of book-hunting in such outlets, but my self-discipline
was tested to the max in Perth. I found myself running a gauntlet of them but
managed only to purchase the one book and that only after running back from the
bus station at the very last. I shall enjoy reading Ian Banks’ Raw Spirit: In Search of the Perfect Dram
and when I have a perfect dram myself, I shall raise it in memory of my day in
Perth – a friendly wee Scottish city.
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