Brodick

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At any one moment in time, somewhere in the world - and more than likely in Scotland - someone will be playing 'Highland Cathedral' on the bagpipes. Usually badly. It is a lovely melody that unfortunately all too often makes me cringe and throw a face. This happened when I arrived. I stepped off the ferry at Brodick and was met by some serious wailing coming from not far enough away. The piper was a young lad, cap on the ground, clearly intent on milking the hoards of wobbly-legged sightseers. Well, I'll tell you this: if, on arrival at Brodick, we had all been given the choice of either listening to his woeful screeches or licking a cow's bottom, then I have to say that the choice would not be a difficult one: I'd be licking like a good 'un.
There is, of course, much more to Brodick and the Isle of Arran than cows' backsides. The island is a magical place. It is difficult for me to properly convey just how magical it is. Suffice to say that whatever you do when you get there, it will culminate in an enjoyable experience that will remain with you all your days. It's like the land that time forgot. In the shadow of the 'Mountain of the Wind' strange tropical plants grow. I mean, even if your interest in life extended no further than a good pie, then you won't go far wrong in Brodick. In the bakers Wooleys of Arran I sampled what was without question the finest chicken and leek pie that I have ever tasted. And that alone is enough for me to return to that undiscovered paradise.