Flying Saucer (ii) Scotland

"Scotland," said Pete. He phoned me at my parents house. It was a Tuesday afternoon and I happened to be in.

"Scotland?"

 

"Scotland."

 

"What about Scotland?" I felt the need to move the conversation on.

 

"There's been a lot of sightings in Scotland," he said. "The north coast. Some of the islands." He listed a few of the places. "Might be worth a visit?"

 

"Are you sure?" I said. "I've not read about these sightings."

 

"Not reported," he said. "We get things come in that aren't bomb-proof enough for us to publish. We need to keep our reputation, we don't just print any old claim. And some of the callers sound deranged, you can imagine, lonely highland loonies that have spent twenty years living alone on an island. But still, there's enough of them to suggest there could be something in it. If there are UFOs visiting the Highlands our readers have a right to know about it."

 

I'd left school by this stage. I was a full-time, professional spotter. It was early June, the weather fine and the tourist season not yet in full bloom. How could I possibly say no.

 

I flew to Glasgow airport, took a train to a bleak, deserted northern town, where I hired a car, and drove to one of the villages mentioned by Pete, where I was lucky enough to meet The Boatman, who agreed to take me to some of the off-the-map islands where I was convinced I had the best chance of a sighting, as all previous sightings had been off the coast well away from humankind, as if the aliens were making secret visits to Earth, or perhaps they were just really shy.

 

I spent a night or two on each island, The Boatman picking me up as arranged. I had no joy on the first three islands I visited. Then the Boatman took me to ... well I won't say the name of the island for reasons that will become obvious. 

 

"Anyone live here?" I asked as the boat pulled in.

 

"Aye, the Lass."

 

"The Lass?"

 

"Aye. Just her and Stoaty. And the sheep."

 

"Stoaty?" I needn't have asked. Stoaty came running and barking towards us as the boat pulled in. An English sheep dog, though for fuck's sake don't let Stoaty know I used the 'E' word.

 

"Stoaty," the Boatman said by way of introduction.

 

"Strange name for a dog."

 

"Aye." He said no more. Not every name needs an explanation.

 

The Lass appeared, strutting swiftly to keep up with Stoaty. A young woman, perhaps two years older than me, perhaps younger, perhaps twice my age. She barked something to the Boatman in a language I didn't understand, glared at me then whistled to the dog, who bounded after her enthusiastically.

 

"Lass nae speaks English," the Boatman explained as she stomped away.

 

"What language does she speak then?" I asked.

 

The Boatman looked at me strangely.  "Gaelic wee barra. Do yer nae ken where yer be?"

 

Garlic wheelbarrow. Dowier knee Ken wear your bee. I had no idea what he was saying, even when speaking English the Scottish tongue made no sense to me.