Home thoughts from a broad Scotsman

Which is fair enough because there’s quite a lot to complain about when it comes to the old girl.

The rotten weather for a start. Then there’s wee Alex Salmond and his chums, the buses, our perpetual failure in the sporting arena and -- by no means last and certainly not least -- Susan Boyle, The Krankies and Jeremy Clarkson. (I know he’s not Scottish, I just like moaning about him).

All of the above pales into insignificance however, if, like me, you’ve been away from home for a while. Oh, it’s not entirely logical because I love my life in Oz, but for some reason, this week in particular, I’ve been missing Scotland.

Things got so bad, I even jumped online to search for The Alexander Brothers singing "Oh But I’m Longing for my Ain Folk", thinking it would cheer me up and help me count my blessings, as  it always has in the past.

You know what?  I started to well up. Weird. Once upon a time Tom and Jack made me laugh like a drain, now they have the ability to make me weep copiously into my porridge. Or at any rate, my toast and vegemite.

I started to panic. And realised a harsh truth had to be faced. Was I turning into that most despicable of creatures -- the Scotsman who’d do anything for Scotland except actually live there?

Well, maybe. On the other hand, there are a lot of things about my homeland that I do actually, legitimately miss.

Genuine, truly great things I mean -- not contrived, sentimental hogwash involving tartan and shortbread. Things like...well let’s think about this:

An early morning wander up the Whangie, waiting for a break in the clouds to reveal the magnificent sight of Loch Lomond stretching fluently up toward Balmaha.

Or maybe a stroll down Glasgow's Byres Road, doing some people-watching -- I once saw a bloke there who, instead of a medallion or a St Christopher’s, had a slice of toast strung from his neck.  Naturally, being Byres Road, it was from a sourdough, wholemeal, gluten free artisan-style loaf.

Then, into the city centre for a meander along Buchanan Street. Maybe I’d nip into The House of Fraser -- I never actually buy anything in there, I just like unfolding the jumpers and stuff they have out on display.

By this time, the sun would be well over the yardarm -- in fact it’d almost certainly be raining -- so I might head toward The Horseshoe for a pie and pint.

Lovely. Well fired, crusty, and a tad peppery. And I don’t mean the pies -- I’m talking about your average Horseshoe punter.

If I had time -- and of course I would, in your mind’s eye you always have time -- I’d jump on the train at Queen Street and go through to Embra, stopping off at Linlithgow to visit the Palace -- an underrated but highly recommended spot beside the lake there, absolutely hoaching with atmosphere and history.

Then Auld Reekie herself -- Rose Street, the Grassmarket, the Castle, the Royal Mile, the New Town -- which if it was in Australia would be the Old Town -- and finally, down to Holyrood to see what happens when you give 414 million quid to an architect with a sense of humour.

Back on the train to Glasgow, a catch-up with family and friends, a sing-song and a laugh, a few more beers and then the perfect end to the night, the full bhoona courtesy of the Ashoka. 
Does it get any better than that?

Oh come on, I can almost hear you say -- what’s your problem?  It’s not like you live on Mars.  Just jump on a plane.

All right, it’s a 24-hour flight -- and it’s not cheap -- but it’s not impossible either -- you miss the old country that badly, flash the plastic and come on over.

Oh I will.  And it’ll all still be there when I do. 

In fact, it’s there, right here and now. Today. Quite possibly, right outside your front door.

So, since I can’t, but you can -- why don’t you do it for me? Tell you what, we’ll strike a trade --you do some Scottish things for me and I’ll pat a koala for you.

Hey, believe me -- you’re getting the better part of the deal.