Dreams

I suppose I'm like too many other people who believe they lead unique lives and have such an interesting story to tell. The point of this blog, at one time, was to tell some of the stories which are inside my head. Trouble is making that journey from my head onto the screen. I have spent more years than I care to think about travelling and, in the course of that you cannot fail to rack up experiences, good and bad, forgettable and unforgettable, memories warm and cringe inducing.

So does anybody want to know? That's not the correct question, is it? The question is; have I got the talent to communicate? That's the nub. That story below there - the one about me and Allie nicking the Good Companions tent and taking it off to Blairgowrie berry picking. That was the start of a great wee adventure for two boys. It was, for me at least, one of those defining experiences of childhood which, even now over forty years later, I can still recall with a clarity that startles me. I can remember so many of those small things that separately don't amount to much but strung together could make an interesting narrative, if only I could.

In those days there was not the proliferation of street lights that we have now and, when you looked across the Clyde from Greenock to Helensburgh you could clearly see the main street leading out of Helensburgh. The street lighting over much of the town did not make much of an impression to a watcher across the river but Sinclair Street with its bright yellow lighting stood out tracing a path from the coastline north and east towards Loch Lomond. For a boy with a fascination for maps this was intriguing. Like a life size map was laid out in front of me, drawing me in, leading me towards the distant hills.

Much of my life has been like that, looking from where I am wondering what it is like somewhere else. It's an itch I like to keep scratching. Or at least I would like to. Anyway, here we were disembarking from the Gourock to Helensburgh ferry and making our way with high hopes and blissful naivety towards Sinclair Street and the road north to Loch Lomond, Crianlarich, Lochearnhead, St. Fillan's, Crieff, Perth and, finally, Blairgowrie. It's not a great distance, maybe just over a hundred miles; you could drive it in a couple of hours. But for us it was like embarking on a safari or a trek to India. I don't remember discussing it with my mother, but I suppose I must have. I guess she thought that as I was going with Allie then itwould be OK. He was a sensible boy, a year older than me and with an air of maturity beyond his fifteen years.