The Trip to Harburn Golf Club

We had a tee time at 11:30 for Harburn Golf Club in West Lothian southwest of Edinburgh.  The trip from Crieff we figured rightly at an hour and fifteen, so we planned to leave for golf at 9:45 to give us time to check-in and get our kit together.  We were going to Harburn to take them a copy of Hidden Gems II and to play the course a second time.  From Crieff to get to Harburn GC we caught the M9 (motorway) at Greenloaning and headed down through Stirling to where the M9 turns off onto the M9 (it’s a Scottish road thing, see the “Missed Turn” story in our book Ten Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England and Wales).  Then at Exit 4, the Linlithgow exit, the adventure began.  As we came off the M9 we reached the first roundabout (traffic circle) on our way to the hinterlands of West Lothian and the village of West Calder.  From that circle we faced twelve more roundabouts in about nine miles--at Loan, two more between there and Westfield, three more to Windeknowe, a double circle to get under the M8, one at East Whitburn, one at Blackburn, another at Addiewell, and a final one at the village of West Calder.  At the run up to each roundabout Lizzie, our GPS, would say, “In point four miles enter the roundabout and take the third exit to A801...In point four miles enter the roundabout and take the fourth exit to A801...Continue 2.2 miles, then enter roundabout and take the first exit to A801...” and so on.  

After a nice round in the dry (already unusual for this trip) at Harburn we retraced our twelve roundabout trip from Harburn GC to the M9.  Immediately, Lizzie began, “In point four miles enter the roundabout...”  Oh, well, you get the idea.  On the homebound trip we did add a side trip into the Stirling Sainsbury store (large grocery).  That only added eight more mini-roundabouts.  This kind of travel gives new meaning to the phrase, “We played ‘round about Harburn.”  

The Feeling of Autumn in the UK

Sitting in the Red Squirrel Coffee Shop in Crieff doing a little writing (our substitute for a Starbucks fix).  Someone coming in opens the door and a cool chill enters the room with them.  The door closes and the breeze is shut out.  In that instant of coolness, though, the feeling of fall (autumn to the Scots) hits me.  From that point on the sighs of autumn assail the senses.  The B&B is cold at night; it’s jumper (sweater) weather.  On an early morning round at the Crieff Ferntower course we can read the slopes on the greens more easily because of the tracks left by the putts of golfers in front of us.  

The trees, or at least some of them, are turning color so rapidly we can track the change daily.  Woolly Bear caterpillars, brown ones and black ones, march across greens heading to wherever it is Woolly Bears go.  This year with Scotland’s cold and wet summer and the world’s wild weather autumn seems to be in a hurry.  We hope it will slow down enough for us to enjoy it.

Overheard one Scot to another speaking about Hurricane Irene: “I understand they downgraded the storm over New York to a Scottish summer.”

The Moffat Woollen Mill

We’ve stopped a couple of times in the Scottish Borders village of Moffat--once to play golf at their interesting 18-hole course and twice to visit the Moffat Woollen Mill on our way down to England.  We have been totally amazed both times we’ve been to the Mill, a large retail outlet for lambs’ wool, cashmere, outdoor clothing, specialty food, tartans, whisky, and Scottish souvenirs.  They have a coffee shop and, most importantly for travelers, convenient toilets.  What is most amazing though is the amount of business they do on a regular basis.  When we pulled in on our most recent trip down to England the Moffat Woollen Mill parking lot had a couple of dozen passenger cars in the lot and fourteen behemoth 60 to 80 passenger tour buses. 

Inside hundreds of people, many with walkers, were queueing up for the toilets, shouting at each other in the noisy shop, picking through sale bins of jumpers and t-shirts.  Herds of employees were picking up after the throngs of geriatric tourists.  We felt young in comparison to the average age of  the bus occupants.  Bus drivers huddled together smoking in the autumn mist or stationed themselves just inside the door of their bus.  Tour guides were bouncing from one department in the shop to another trying to gather in their charges.  One bus pulled out and two more queued up to get into the lot.  We took our small treasures, a calendar and a couple of postcards, and headed back to the M74 trying not to get squashed by a leaving motorcoach.  What recession?