Visitors welcome here as long as they don’t give themselves away

IHAVE been away for a long weekend, and can report that all is not well. Mea culpa, ken? As my own area had been inundated with camper vans and outsiderlooking people (vacant expression, louche apparel etc), I’d formed the impression that it was acceptable to have a holiday within the invisible borders of Scotia.

Hadn’t the First Minister himself – I forget his name now – decreed that we should go out of patriotic duty to support the tourist and hospitality industry?

It wasn’t easy to detect at first but, slowly, signs of hostility crept through. I didn’t get it in the neck personally, maybe because I didn’t look like a holidaymaker, doing everything I could to blend in by wearing a smock and chewing a straw. But, on speaking to natives and reading the local paper’s letters page, I found stark evidence of a grim, unbending bellicosity towards “strangers”.

It genuinely took me by surprise. I didn’t know anyone in my own area who held such views about visitors but, then again, I don’t get out much.

Regular readers may complain that, only last week, I indulged in an authoritative and logically impeccable rant about visitors. But the focus of my disturbing analysis was on shortswearing and bad driving. The Covid angle didn’t even occur to me.

I must say that I do partly understand the fear and protectionism, perhaps particularly for small islands. But the sinister Lord of the Flies aspects elsewhere disturb me.

One native I spoke to said: “Apart from people with B&Bs, all of us around here are against visitors coming back at this time. Mind you, I’m going away myself next week.”

He said it was dog eat dog, and every man for himself, which sounded a little barking to me.

His arrant hypocrisy was also clear to see in another place I visited, the one with the hostile letters page.

The massive ferry there had barely 20 passengers (just five of us on foot). But, returning in the early evening on a Saturday, a huge queue of cars was waiting to board: islanders returning from a wee break, coming back home to where they could moan about people taking a wee break.

Trying to be uncharacteristically hopeful for a minute, I’m sure these brutal, tribal attitudes are fading, even as we speak. In the meantime, I would advise trying to blend in or disguise yourself as a local.

Find out in advance about what sort of hats they wear. Eat local delicacies and, walking down the street, wave about a bridie, kipper, black pudding, bannock, or whatever. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Many visitors I saw clearly didn’t give a hoot: folk in camper vans or clutching maps and foolishly asking for directions or fetching up in swanky sports cars on the North Coast 500 route. Perhaps their honesty is more appreciated by locals, compared to me sneaking about scared to say or do anything that might give me away. Indeed, one solution that defensive locals might adopt is to have visitors ring bells as they approach, like lepers did in days of old.

Apart from all of which, if you’re social distancing, and you don’t have any symptoms, what difference does it make where you’re from?

During my forced and unwilling stay on this ghastly globe or planet, the impression I have formed is that, always, self-interest is the basis of all Earthling affairs. Rationalisations for resulting attitudes and ideologies are concocted to cover it up, but that’s always the starting point.

Thus, those involved in the tourist hospitality trade will say that the Covid risk in Scotland now is negligible, while the commonality assert – or, more usually, whisper – that it is still a threat, particularly from evil outsiders bringing it in from elsewhere.

Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between, meaning that decent citizens only need to ca’ canny, keep the heid and apply common sense. Oh, and if visiting, purely out of decency rather than Covidian sensibility, try not to look vacant, drive too slowly or wear louche apparel such as shorts. Thank you.

Tears for beers

For the first time in months, I’ve had a pint in a pub. The experience was deplorable.

I hadn’t visited this particular establishment – actually a hotel bar – for many years, but had fond memories of it.

The first indication of peculiarity was that customers had to use a sideentrance to hide their shame.

Outside, I consulted my movable telephone to find out if we had to wear masks but, ending up none the wiser, decided to wear one – then waddled in to find myself the only customer so doing.

After standing at the vacant bar for a bit, a fellow in a face-shield eventually appeared and asked if

I’d phoned earlier. “No,” I said. “Hmm,” he said.

He checked a clipboard then directed me to a table before disappearing again. Aeons later, he returned. I ordered a pint of local ale. Again he disappeared. I waited. And waited. He returned and said they didn’t have any. So I ordered a pint of trusty Tennent’s and it, at least, was glorious.

But afterwards, I must say that, for the first time in recorded history, I was glad to leave a pub. These are disturbing times.

A Porsche coasting the North Coast 500