Devonne Brown

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I’ve never been to a fishing village in Scotland. I don’t care about cities and tourism. The small town misty cold draws me. I want to walk out on a rocky shore to hear the waves crash and redden my cheeks with cold as long as I can stand the grey air. I doubt I’d last five minutes before I’d head to the pub for warmth where I want to spend the rest of the day.

I want to listen to the brogue of Gaelic where no doubt the old men would wonder why an old woman would take someone’s seat by the window to watch the waves, but they’d be too polite to make me move. 

I’d sip my tea and cider slowly to maintain my dignity and smile at their discomfort. I’d  know I’d displaced some locals where I’d eat a ploughman’s lunch of cheese and bread slowly, intending to read a book the whole afternoon and watch the fisherman come in with the catch of the day.

The big ancient dog by the stone hearth wouldn’t move to greet me, but would thump his tail at the scraps thrown in front of him by the regulars. They would have been admonished not to by the barkeep.

I expect I’d move to the bar near dark and listen to tales of the sea and the town. Scots are friendly especially after a pint or two. I’d order whatever local fare was recommended from the barstool though I wouldn’t be hungry. I draw the line at haggis. I’d be adopted by then. 

I’d still be sipping cider, pints last me a long, long time. I was told it wasn’t lady-like years ago to order more than a half, but I’m past the age of convention and can do as I like these days, like spend the whole day in a pub in an old fishing village if I choose. They don’t get many tourists in these parts and I don’t feel like one. 

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