Davey Allen, Garden Gnomes and Fishing Trips
There were only 300 people in the village. But would you believe it, there were two Davey Allens? Two guys with exactly the same name in a small Scottish village where the highlands meet the lowlands. And they lived right next door to each other!
Of course, there were two South Africans as well. My wife and I had travelled there first on an aeroplane, then a train, then a bus and finally in the back of the post van that did a weekly trip to this little village. Our other passenger was a blind woman with a guitar.
We had left South Africa armed with backpacks and a desire to see the world. But once the exchange rate had done a disappearing trick on our savings, we arrived in Scotland penniless and destined to see only a small village, where all the men were loggers working for the Queen’s Forestry Service.
I worked as the barman at the local pub, despite the fact that I pour a pint like an Eskimo builds a sand castle. My wife cleaned the rooms in the hotel. Romantic, it was not.
But you meet interesting people in a hotel bar. There was Dino, the mad chef from Glasgow with a temper that could be triggered by just looking at him sideways. My first job was to drive him back from the police station where he had been locked up for arguing with a cop.
Then there was Andy, who made garden gnomes. He was once terrified because a police car was passing up and down in front of his house, and the two officers were staring into his yard. Andy was convinced that they were there to arrest him for having an unlicensed car on the road. That’s until one of them climbed out and asked him how much he charged for the gnomes.
And then there were the two Davey Allens. One was a plumber and expert fisherman. The other was just a Davey Allen.
Fishing Davey and I used to fish the waters of Loch Long on my days off. Euan, the local sheep farmer, would join us. Davey would arrive in his old gold Audi, and then we would stop at the petrol station for a quick whisky and to borrow a boat. Next stop was the hardware store, for another shot of whisky and to borrow the motor. The final stop was house number 8, for yet another shot of whisky and to borrow fishing rods. Then we were off to catch our limit of mackerel, drunk as lords and liable to hook each other before any fish.
The other Davey I didn’t know as well. But there was always great consternation when the post bus arrived. You see, the other Davey had a girlfriend in London who used to write to him. But the postman would sometimes confuse the letters, so the girlfriend’s letter would sometimes find its way into married Davey Allen’s post box. On those days, married Davey would arrive at the pub early and leave around midnight, when he was convinced it was finally safe to return home.
My memories of Scotland always come back whenever I travel there. I am reminded of the many things I love about that country, such as the sign on their major highway proclaiming, “Scotland’s Secret Bunker” with an arrow pointing to the left, adding, “9 miles”. A generous bunch, are the Scots.
I recently returned from a trip to St Andrews with my wife. I had to work one Sunday morning, so she took in a service at the local church. Unfortunately, the village madwoman decided to come as well. According to my wife, the woman stormed into the church, threw a hymn book across the floor, and shouted all manner of things during the service. Then, just when everything returned to normal, she began to bang her head on the wooden pew in front of her. That is until a kind old lady calmed her down.
But I know how she feels. Religion is a tricky matter, and churches even more so. I recently wanted to bang my head on the pews of our church. It was when the building project ended, and they stopped selling delicious doughnuts after the service to raise funds.
Story by Michael Vlismas
