LEARNING THE LINGO

A pre-Corona jaunt to Fuerteventura has Fiona Armstrong and the chief playing charades as their language skills are put to the test

A recent visit to Fuerteventura has Fiona Armstrong questioning her foreign language skills

Hurrah for some welcome post-Christmas warmth! With Corona still known primarily as a brand of Mexican beer, a winter break is much needed in the Armstrong MacGregor household and the chief and I argue over where to go.

Greece is dismissed as too cold. The Bahamas is deemed too far away for a week. Dubai is considered, then dismissed, as the MacGregor baulks at the thought of all that shopping. So, in the end, a place where paella reigns is decided on.

Fuerteventura is the second largest of the Canary Islands. A volcanic isle, it is a place where the sun shines and the sands are white. An area where the vino goes down a treat and the menus encourage you to sample the delights of ‘squid tiptoe’ and ‘wrinkly potatoes’. The Spanish version of these dishes will no doubt sound a lot more enticing. For translating words into another language is not that easy.

We try to explain to the head waiter that we would like to sit near a heater. Off he goes, scratching his head and looking for a waitress called Juanita.

Anyhow, Fuerteventura is rocky and dramatic. And it comes with Scottish overtones. Our hotel is a golfing one – don’t ask why we choose it, for neither of us plays. It boasts the aptly-named ‘St Andrews Restaurant’ where we sit at night next to a couple from Bearsden, just down from a German woman who is dressed in a Gordon tartan jacket. Crucially, whisky abounds. With a Celtic bar here and there to remind the thirsty traveller of home.

Yet the links do not end there. Take a ferry a few miles across the water and you really feel the connection. Nearby Tenerife is the biggest of the Canary Islands. And, interestingly, its blue and white flag is the same as ours. Which may have something to do with the fact that we share a patron saint. St Andrew, or San Andres, depending on where you are.

But back to making yourself understood. When I first set up home in Scotland, it took a while to get to grips with the lingo. But I persevered. I now banter with the best of them, whether it’s in Glasgow or Galloway. That’s much unlike my mother, who moved across the border from England two years ago and now spends her time nodding politely at the ladies in the hairdressers while trying to work out what on earth they are talking about.

I tell her to keep at it. With the reassurance that you do eventually get your hand in. Or, in this case, your ear. Getting the gist of a Scottish conversation is one thing. Trying to hold forth in a foreign tongue is quite another. I recently made the mistake of telling someone I studied German at university. They then proceeded to ask me as Lord Lieutenant to greet a bus-load of visitors from Dumfries’ twin town of Gifhorn in Lower Saxony.

I managed the opening words. ‘Meine Damen und Herren, willkommen in Schottland’ is fairly easy. But try explaining that you are Her Majesty’s personal representative. As I left, I hear the group muttering that I looked nothing like the Queen…

Meanwhile, the chief’s languages are no better. His French is passable. Good enough to order a coffee and a croissant. And being seconded to the Gurkhas during his time in the army, he has a smattering of Gurkhali. Which is very useful in Dumfriesshire. And, of course, the Canary Islands. Where neither of us speak Spanish. So we end up like Basil Fawlty, gesticulating and speaking in pidgin-English.

At least the wine went down well…

I hear the group muttering that I looked nothing like the Queen