Arran was a holiday that I always felt was the last trip of being a really wee lassie. I was there in 1987 for a very short holiday with my Gran, my Mum and Dad, and my sister. It was July, so right at the start of the holidays. There’s still joy in taking a trip even when you know you’re not going very far.
When you live in Ayrshire, days out to Arran should be more common than they are. It’s right there. You can see it all the time and yet, most of us don’t go that often. I’ve probably only been a handful of times in my life.
(Cue people butting in to tell me they go all the time - good for you!)
To get there, you take the ferry from Ardrossan. There’s not a lot going on in Ardrossan, if I’m being honest. It exists, in my mind at least, as a place you pass through on the way to somewhere else. It’s all very much geared around the ferry. You’ll find cars queuing, people waiting, that sense of people coming and going but rarely staying.
The ferry itself feels long. In reality, it’s about an hour but when you’re used to the Millport ferry like I am, which is over in ten minutes, an hour feels like a proper journey. It feels like you’re going somewhere important.
And then you arrive in Brodick, which at least in 1987, didn’t have a lot in it. It’s the main town on the island, but it still feels small and sleepy. I’ve always felt there’s more to it than I have ever seen - there must be.
Arran is often called “Scotland in miniature,” and it makes sense when you’re there. You’ve got hills, beaches, wee villages, and stretches of road where it feels like there’s nothing but you and the sheep.
They also call it the Sleeping Warrior. If you look at the outline of the island from the right angle, it looks like a person lying down. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
We took the car over, which was helpful, because the buses aren’t exactly frequent. So we drove around the island, just taking it in.
The west coast felt different from the east. I can’t really explain why. Just a different, wilder energy. I have a vague memory that there was a ferry from that side, possibly from Lochranza, over to the Mull of Kintyre. One of those things you remember without fully knowing if you’ve got it exactly right.
And then there’s Goatfell. You can see it from all over the island, just sitting there, waiting. I’ve always meant to climb it. Still haven’t. Maybe one day.
There’s also a beach called Cleats Shore. Rumour has it that it’s a nudist beach. I cannot confirm this, and at that age I definitely wasn’t investigating. But maybe that’s another thing on the bucket list…
The main thing I remember from that trip is Brodick Castle. As a wee lassie, it felt like a genuine magical castle. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a fairy tale. I may have been partially inspired by it when I wrote Cherry Lips. It dates back centuries and ended up in the hands of the Dukes of Hamilton before becoming part of the National Trust for Scotland, but none of that mattered to me at the time. What mattered was how it felt which was big, romantic and slightly ethereal.
I remember a photo of me and my sister there with my Gran. It was one of those slightly faded, very 80s pictures taken on a 110mm camera that exists somewhere in a drawer.
I don’t remember much else. A picnic, a tearoom at the castle. Something simple. I wish my seven year old self had made notes.
But the memories aren’t about what we did. They were more about being there and having my first trip on a ferry. There was also the feeling of being somewhere different enough to feel exciting but familiar enough to also feel like home.
What I do remember is the journey home because no 80s day out was complete without stopping for a chippy on the way back at the Chip Box in Stewarton. Nothing quite beats greasy paper, heat and the smell of vinegar. It’s that end of the day feeling where you’re tired but happy and already half back into your normal life. When it’s 8pm and your mum can’t be arsed cooking. When you fall asleep in the back of the car but your family know your usual order (Half chicken supper with fritters instead of chips and a pickled onion please) so you wake up a very happy wee lassie.
The last time I had that order was the night I brought Luke home from hospital, fifteen years ago. It’s the smell and taste of coming home.
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