To Peggy's and back again.

I arrived in Northern Ireland 9 am Thursday, local time, and spent the rest of that day and yesterday getting lost, doing ancestry research, and seeing Eire for the first time. That's another post.

Yesterday was Scotland Day 1. In my mind it started the night before, lying awake wondering what I would do if I got to the Scottish ferry landing and found that my rental car was not the automatic transmission with GPS I was hoping for. On the ferry ride from Belfast, I decided to take the view that it was all a wonderful adventure.

That view was challenged by what awaited me at Hertz - Cairnryan.

The rental agent was nice, but "were just a small station, so we don't have GPS to rent." OK, fine, I have good directions. But then I saw the car...

(cue theme from "Jaws."

Cue theme from "Psycho" shower scene.

Yes a Renault diesel. Five speed manual. Left-handed. Only my immediate family can appreciate what that means to me. For other readers, let's just say such a car is why I may never be able to return to Corsica.

But I took the challenge, and this time I drove it all day, with no smoke coming from under the hood at any time.

So off to Whitelees, the legendary Race estate in Dumfrieshire. I downloaded directions that were perfect, until I reached the lovely little Scottish village of Eaglesfield. There I was to turn left at a road marked "Corrie." After six runs up and down the main drag, I became morally certain that such a road doesn't exist. And I did something I had never done since I was issued my Man Card. I asked directions. 

A gentleman was walking a dog on the road in the rain. I figured he must be a good guy for that, so I pulled over and asked him about the road to Corrie. He gave me directions that I thought would not work, so I finally just said "I'm trying to reach Whitelees, where Peggy Race lives." His face lit up, and he set me on the right path in a delightful and (to me) barely comprehensible brogue. "Ah, I ken ya. I ken that." And he told me to turn left at the post office, which was not as easy to find as a U.S. post office, but it worked and I reached Whitlelees. It was the first time I have ever heard that version of the word "ken" in the wild.

They live in a beautiful setting, and I heartily approve of the furnishings.

Very cozy, in a beautiful, wild and secluded setting. I can see why they like it.

Peggy fed me a wonderful chicken luncheon and we had a nice, but all-too brief chat. It's hard to catch up on 23 years in an afternoon. I took a picture to commemorate the event, showing my special photo skills.

Then it was on the road to Edinburgh. To me, Scotland has two types of roads -- wonderful (the "motorways," which were like interstates with 70 mph speed limits and six lanes all the way) and terrifying (the others). Maybe I'm just spoiled by big Iowa two-lanes, but driving a diesel Renault five-speed left-handed, it's all terrifying to me. Especially passing on a two lane road (most of them). The two-lane to Edinburgh -- much of the trip -- was surprisingly narrow, punctuated with slow-moving semis, not infrequently around blind corners with walls inches from the road.  Passing was often indicated, but the Renault isn't exactly a perfomance car, and I only accomplished it once.

I arrived at Edinburgh, the most terrifying of all. I got promptly lost, and my Belfast strategy of driving around until I saw something that made sense only made it worse. Also, lots of steep hills (five speed manual diesel!), sometimes with traffic lights right at the top, and mobs of pedestrians. Nothing like holding a steep hill at a red light with the five-speed, left handed. Stop and ask directions? The street markings are obscure to non-existent, so unless I happened to ask very near my distination, I would have gotten lost again.

Finally, after maybe 45 minutes or an hour of touring old Edinburgh, I did what I should have done at the start -- I decided to go to the airport, drop the car at the rental agency, and take a cab to the hotel. I found a gas station to top the tank and ask directions to the hotel. A limo driver was gassing up, and I figured he if anyone would know how to get to the airport, and he did.  It helped that I was very near an exit to the motorway marked "airport."

And I made it.

(Note car rental sign in background. Not photoshopped.)

So, Rob, go ahead and get that stick Toyota SUV you want. If I can survive Scotland with this thing, you'll do fine with that in Iowa.