BLOG DAY 2

Day 2: Frank Gets to Scottishland

If I had known what an adventure lay ahead, I might have wagged my tail clean off my butt. We left home, which is just north of Cambridge, on the evening of the 25th of August. I remember because it was the day after Dad’s birthday, and Mum had been singing to him all day in that way she does when she’s in a really, really good mood and doesn’t care what key she’s in. Ok, she never really cares what key she’s in and Dad being the wannabe muso he is never lets on that it can grate on him.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the trees when we loaded the van. That’s Vincent, Vincent van—GO! You must shout the GO! bit like you’re starting a race, it’s important, please keep up.

I jumped up into my usual spot—passenger side, just behind the front seat, prime viewing position out the side window and curled up like the good boy I am. We were off, Grandma waving, Grandpa telling rubbish jokes. Dad behind the wheel, Mum in the co-pilot’s seat, and me, Frank the Dog, intrepid explorer, philosopher, and snack enthusiast, on the cusp of a great voyage to the magical land of Scotts.

Well, Scotland. But I call it Scottishland because it sounds fancier and I’m a fancy dog.

The journey north began under a warm, golden sky. The Fiat engine hummed along like a happy bee, and before I knew it, I was nodding off to the soothing chug-chug-chug of Vincent’s diesel lullabies. Every now and then I’d rouse to check out the scenery. Silhouettes of water towers standing tall against the twilight, hedgerows blurring into one another, and the occasional glint of headlights whizzing past us. Truth be told, it was dark, and I was asleep so missed most of it.

We made our first big stop at Scotch Corner Services. Now, you’d think with a name like that, we’d have crossed into the Promised Land but no! Turns out, Scotch Corner isn’t even in Scottishland. Honestly, humans and their naming idiosyncrasies’. Still, it gave Mum and Dad a chance for a snooze while I stood guard and occasionally farted.

When the time was right we hit the road again, the sun was back up and shining like it meant it. It was warm and breezy, perfect for van life. I stood with my paws up on the window ledge, nose pressed against the glass leaving small dots of nose goo everywhere, feeling the excitement start to build in my belly (or maybe that was just my meaty meat breakfast moving around).

At exactly 3:00pm, we made it to Scottishland for real. I know this because Mum let out a whoop and Dad gave a proud honk of Vincent’s horn as we zoomed past the giant “Welcome to Scotland” sign—complete with the blue-and-white saltire painted to represent it’s flapping triumphantly in the wind. I did a celebratory circle in the van and tried to lick Dad’s ear while he was driving. He wasn’t thrilled, but I felt it was an appropriate gesture.

Fun Frank Fact: Gretna Green

As we crossed the border, Mum started telling Dad all about Gretna Green, just a stone’s throw from where we were. Turns out, it’s one of the most famous wedding destinations in the UK. Back in the day, if two young lovebirds couldn’t get married in England (too young, parents said no, differences of opinion about the benefits of the horse drawn seed drill etc.). The young lovers would hop over the border to Gretna Green, where Scottishland law allowed couples as young as 16 to wed without parental consent. They’d race to the blacksmith’s shop (which acted as an impromptu wedding venue), and boom—married! Romantic and rebellious and free to move onwards through their life of misery together. My kind of place. Though frankly, after what happened to my love life (we’ll get to that when I’m ready), weddings aren’t quite the draw they once were…

We stopped at the services along the A66 for a break. It was one of those places where people seem to drive endlessly in circles looking for the exit. I watched, baffled, as cars looped round and round like confused ducks in a paddling pond. Mum and Dad sat merrily snacking, laughing at the chaos, while I enjoyed a Schmacko and tried to look cool in my designated area. You wouldn’t believe how many people make eye contact with me and then wave like I’m some kind of celebrity. Let’s face it, I am.

From there, we rolled on through Dumfries and into Kirkconnel, winding our way through lush green hills and villages. Bends came from nowhere and rolled me from left to right, it was a fun game till I felt the need to vomit. The further north we drove, the wilder the landscape became. I could feel the change in the air. It smelled different it smelled fresher, richer and older somehow. It smelled like freedom and foxes and mud.

Finally, we pulled into the driveway of Mum’s cousin Jo and her husband Si. I could tell we were somewhere special. The house was nestled among the little hills, and the air was full of history and distant sheep bleats. It was a proper Scottishland welcome.

Now, Jo is a wonderful person. She talks softly, quickly and smiles constantly. I liked her immediately. Si, on the other paw, is a force of nature. He’s always doing something, building this, fixing that, shouting “BRO!” at Dad like they’re in a Viking movie. He wears rigger boots inside the house and has a thumb that looks suspiciously like a tiny willy. I’m not judging it’s just… well, it’s worth noting.

They’ve got two dogs: Luna and Patch. Luna is, quite honestly, a goddess in fur. Sleek, graceful, eyes like starlight. I was smitten within minutes. But Patch… Patch had a look that said, “Oi mate!” While I’m normally a lover not a fighter, I decided discretion was the better part of valour and:

a) I have very high standards

b) I had my balls (Dad calls them pods) cut off years ago, which, frankly, still stings. Emotionally, I mean.

After some awkward social dynamics and a lot of butt-sniffing (us dogs I mean, not the humans – although I don’t know for sure as I was outside making sure every blade of grass had been “Frank’d”), we all settled in for the evening. Mum and Dad sat in the garden with Jo and Si, drinking tea, beers, wine and chatting about our big adventure. They talked about the places we’d go, the roads we’d travel, and the freedom of not knowing exactly where we’d end up. It felt exciting, like standing on the edge of something wild and wonderful. Si kept telling Mum and Dad to move here.

As for me, I lay on a patch of sun-warmed grass, ears twitching with every slight breeze, belly full and heart fuller. I watched clouds roll lazily across the sky and thought: This is it. This is the start of it.

The Midgie Invasion

Ah yes, before I forget. That night I met them. The enemy. The scourge of Scottishland. The midgies.

Wee, flying, bitey little bastards (Bast-ads in Scot) that come out when the air is still and your guard is down. I was just settling in when they descended—thousands of them, no bigger than sesame seeds but with the sting of a thousand wasps. I flailed. I snapped at the air. I spun in circles like a possessed fairground waltzer. It was like trying to outrun glitter. Mum laughed and tried to rub some weird-smelling oil on my ears. Dad got bit on the neck and shouted words I’m not allowed to repeat. It was chaos.

Frank Fact: Midgies

Midgies (or Highland midges or as Dad calls them “BASTARDS!”) are infamous in Scotland. They’re tiny flies—about 1 to 2 mm—but they travel in swarms and love warm, damp conditions. Only the females bite and their saliva causes the itching. They can smell carbon dioxide and sweat, so naturally, I was a prime target. Fun! Good job they’re not attracted to methane or they’d be bussing them down to Cambridge to get me. They’re most active at dawn and dusk, especially in the Highlands. Some people swear by Avon Skin So Soft spray as a repellent. I prefer the “run away barking” technique.

Eventually, as the stars came out and the sky turned a deep, velvety blue, the midgies pissed off back to where they live and I snuggled up beside Mum, safe and sound, and let sleep take me.

Before I drifted off, I thought about everything that had happened. We’d left home, crossed into a whole new country, met new dogs, discovered midgies, and made our first stop on what promised to be a journey of epic proportions.

Tomorrow, we head North, into the Highlands, the wilderness, and the heart of Scottishland to start this adventure properly. Dad is going to buy whisky, the ultimate bottled headache.

And me?

I’m ready, my nose to the wind and tail wagging. Ready to pee on everything.

Bring it on.