In 1969 dad and Trevor broke down near Torloisk, where Jimmy Milne was hosting a rally-watching party which had also been tasked – perhaps by Customs & Excise, who knows? – with despatching several bottles of whisky. Trevor had gone about half a mile past the house when the car stopped, and was wondering what to do next when Jimmy arrived in his minivan, clutching two full glasses of whisky (don’t ask me how!) which he gave them whilst ushering them into the minivan. He drove back to the house, nearly crashing about four times on the half-mile journey. When at last (or so it seemed) they arrived, Jimmy said “Och, I’m sorry for the rough ride boys, but I’ve had a hellll ovalot to drink!”
The Honeywells and Robertses became good friends of the Milnes. If ever you called whilst touring the island, Jimmy or Jeanette would always pour out a full glass of whisky – at least a week’s worth at home. Dad once said “Jimmy, it’s an awful long way just to Tobermory (the nearest town) – how do go on when your car needs an MOT – do you just have to lose a day’s work?” “Och no!” Jimmy replied, “See, I just ring Duncan McGilp (the garage owner) and say ‘Duncan, I need another MOT’ and he says ‘I’ll have it in the post tonight for you Jimmy!”
Jimmy and his son Angus later became popular musicians. I had a tape of theirs entitled “Jimmy and Angus live at the Bellachroy” which you couldn’t help reading as ‘live’ – rhymes with ‘spiv’, rather than ‘live’ – rhymes with ‘hive’. We asked him if he drank much when he went to the Bellachroy; “Same as always!” “And do you get a lift home?” (the ‘hill road’ is a very challenging single track mountain road). “Och no, I drive the minivan. The secret is to keep it in first gear all the way. Never change out of first gear. Two weeks ago I forgot, and changed up into second, but after 200 yards I said to myself ‘Woah! Slow down Jimmy, you’re going too fast!’ and changed back into first again!” Jimmy cut down his alcohol consumption after one particularly good night in the Bellachroy: he got home late, went to bed, and in the morning Jeanette asked him where Angus was… it was then that Jimmy realised he’d completely forgotten to bring his son home with him!
I find it hard to believe that for several years we towed the rally car to Mull and back with my Orion 1.6i Ghia – not the largest of cars. Not only the rally car and trailer, but four-up in the car (well, two children) with all our luggage for at least a week, and the rally car was jammed full of more luggage plus all the (heavy) spares, tyres, the lot.
One year the trailer had a suspension failure, which meant unloading the rally car somewhere around Ecclefechan just north of the England / Scotland border and driving it the rest of the way, the reduced load on the trailer meaning it was just about towable. The rally car engine was by this time reasonably well tuned – to be driven with right foot to the floor, or braking hard – and not much in between. 70 mph was achieved on something like a one-sixth opening of the throttle, but it still didn’t like it and popped and banged the whole way to Lochaline, where the ferry went across to Mull. It felt like an awfully long way…
Worse was to come. The poor Orion was still overloaded on the way back home when we set off from our rented bungalow at Strongarbh in Tobermory. There was only one route out of town that avoided hills that were too steep, but on this occasion it was drizzling and after I turned on to Victoria Street I took the wrong turning – first right instead of second. Half way up the hill the Orion’s front wheels began to spin, and we were going nowhere. Nothing for it but to try and reverse back to Victoria Street, but reversing on the way down was hardly possible either, as the car was completely unsteerable. And we had a ferry to catch. I missed the railings on the corner by about a centimetre, and must have sweated at least one litre in the five minutes it took to get out of danger!
Bert Hall was the landlord of the MacDonald Arms in Tobermory, a legendary and rather fearsome character with a rather intimidating gravelly voice.
He got on well with dad, however, although the relationship was put to the test in 1975 when we went to Mull in for a week’s holiday during the last week of May. The day we travelled up was the day of the once-traditional annual England v Scotland Football International, and we listened to the match commentary (with some pleasure and satisfaction) on the journey there as England thumped Scotland 5 – 1 at Wembley.
As we walked into the MacDonald Arms that evening, dad, feeling rather cock-a-hoop, approached the bar and before ordering the beers said to Bert “FIVE – ONE!” Bert appeared almost unmoved, then leant over the bar, looked dad straight in the eye and said in his menacingly sotto voce gravelly tones “Roy – you can say that once, and go in peace. But say it again, and you’ll go in pieces!!”
Tony Wagstaff, the winning co-driver in 1992 with son Mark, upped sticks with Jean from their home in Horton-in-Ribblesdale to live between Pennyghael and Bunessan on the Ross. Like most of Mull it isn’t densely inhabited, and a few years ago his next-door neighbour (from at least 200 yards away) called in to tell them he was going on holiday for a fortnight and would Tony and Jean look after his chucks? “Certainly,” said Tony. “Will you be locking your house?” “Och no, I never gave that a thought,” was the reply. But Tony mentioned that one or two dubious characters had been spotted recently, and thought it might be a good idea. “You’re right,” said the neighbour, “I’ll let you have the key in case you need it.” Two hours later he was back. “I’ve looked everywhere but I cannot find the key. I’ll have to leave the house unlocked.” “When did you last have it?” asked Tony. “Well, let me see, it’s 19 years since I bought the house… and I’ve never locked it, so that’s probably when I last had the key!”
Tony also told me that after moving to Mull he got a part-time job with Bowman’s Coaches, which involved sometimes driving the regular bus between Craignure and Fionnphort (where the ferry crosses to Iona). It was on one of these drives that he picked up an American tourist who insisted on standing just behind the driver and talking the whole time. Once or twice Tony suggested he would be safer taking his seat, but he carried on talking (and to use Tony’s words, he was just so boring!)
At Pennyghael Jean had just finished her stint at the café, and spotting her walking along the road, Tony stopped to pick her up and give her a lift the couple of miles home. She got on, smiled and thanked Tony, and went to sit down. “Gee! That’s what I just love about this country!” exclaimed the American. “You stop the bus to pick up a passenger and she isn’t even at a regular bus stop. That just wouldn’t happen in the States!” “Well, the thing is,” replied Tony, “that I quite like that lady, and I’m hoping I might get to sleep with her tonight!” Quickly, the American found a seat and sat down for the rest of the journey.
Meanwhile, back in the MacDonald Arms… Before the McGochans era, things were a little different. During rally week, every night was busy in ‘The Mac’ and Thursday night was unbelievably so. Dave Fotheringham, that well-known ‘second-hand Mexican bandit’, seemed particularly to enjoy himself at these busy times. One evening many years ago a young lady (I think I’ll hide her identity but she’s on Facebook and will hopefully remember the story…) was there with her good-looking beau, and with space being so tight, they were almost crushed together as they talked. Dave, standing behind, put his hand on the young lady’s bottom. She thought it must be her beau and smiled at him. He liked this. Dave caressed her bottom a little more. Half the MacDonald Arms, including me, had been watching this with much amusemen, when a couple of minutes later the young lady realised she could see both her fella’s hands! She whipped around to see who the culprit was – but I can’t remember whether he was caught ‘red-handed’ or escaped undiscovered.
Another Thursday evening, Ron Townson from Clitheroe, perhaps navigating for Derrick Hall, arrived at the Mac wearing a tie. He was without doubt the only person there wearing a tie. Dave accosted him, stating the obvious – “Ron, you are wearing a tie!!” “Yes I am,” came the reply, “and I shall wear what I want.” Dave quietly went behind the bar, picked up a pair of scissors and returned, severing the tie just below the knot. “I don’t think so,” he said, as the flabbergasted Ron looked on, and the pub erupted in laughter once again.
On a much quieter night a few years later, I was in the bar at the Mac and got into conversation with an older gentleman who told me he had been to the south of England on his summer holidays. He had gone to the pub there – the Hampshire coast, I think, and was telling a fellow customer that the following day he was planning to visit a village some 20 miles away. “He asked me what route I was taking, so I told him, and he said ‘Oh no! Don’t go that way!’ – and then he went on to explain a route in such detail I couldn’t possibly remember it, but I listened, and he went on and on, and I had to listen to him until he eventually finished, saying ‘that way will save you at least 10 minutes’. So I looked at him and said ‘It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, and I’ve listened very patiently do your directions, but now would you kindly tell me – what am I going to do with that 10 minutes once I get there?’” There’s a lesson for us all there…
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