Galldachd na h-Alba Brewery
Driving into Lockerbie in the van this morning felt a little different. Bentley the Basset and El Poco the Street dog from Nerja on the Costa Del Sol were in their usual positions in the back on the mattress that we shared last winter in Spain. They didn’t bark too much as I exited the M74 and drove past the rubble of what used to be the school I left in 1982.
The squash courts and the ice rink remain much the same; without the space invaders but full of many instant memories of a miss-spent youth.
We drove down through the busy high street, today packed with cylists heading up to Moffat on the back road. Down past the railway station where I first alighted in Lockerbie in 1975 with my mother and my big brother Alex, some three months before my 10th birthday.
Well Street is narrow and there is a dead end where I park up the van and walk through the vennel to the solicitors, Henderson and MacKay, next to the Kings Arms Hotel where I played pool and drank a pint of lager with my dad on my 18th birthday.
I am jovial and joke with the lady in reception that Tom my solicitor has booked his six shares in the brewery which is yet an empty shell.
With two keys for the door and my camera, Bentley and El Poco bark at this folly.
Tomorrow can be a day for planning; today is just a day for dreaming.
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