Have you ever been to Lendalfoot? I suspect not, primarily because it lies on the not hugely travelled A77, some way from the Sunset Strip, as it snakes its way up the protracted Ayrshire coastline. It is up this highway I imagine Donald ' I'm somewhat out of tune today ' Trumpet may travel, the tables having been turned ( never be shy of introducing an ablative absolute here and there ) when he has ben expelled by the millions of civilised citizens he seeks to exclude from the United States. He will have disembarked at Stranraer and make his way to his Scottish stronghold at Turnberry, home of a luxury hotel and the finest of golf courses.
I first walked the Turnberry links in 1957 when my father was playing there with his great friend Johnnie Moon and I clearly recall the rather charming Scots names given to the individual holes on the golf course, dating back to its creation at the start of the twentieth century. Here, at his own golf course, the President will find admirably appropriate commentaries on his progress, including ' Risk - An - Hope ', ' Roon the Ben ' and ' Fin Me Oot '. In passing, I wonder by what stage in life we should make progress through mature consideration and trained intuition rather than by putting our foot in it, making a mess of it, apologising ( sort of ) and carrying on, as seems to be acceptable in so many walks of public life in 2017.
The strange thing about Lendalfoot, to return to the main theme, is that you read about it, you can find it on the map, others refer to it, you pass the sign displaying the entry to it but, where'er you look, there is nothing, a void; in fact, like T S Elliot's mystery cat, Macavity, Lendalfoot's just ' not there '. This however did not prevent it from being the scene of one of my Desert Island Chats, a game to play with yourself by trying to remember the eight most significant conversations you have had during your lifetime.
Thus it was in early August 1977 I was travelling through non-existent Lendalfoot with my two greatest friends who happened to be married to each other. At the time I was quite pleased with the progress of my life and thought I was really doing rather well. I was climbing the not too slippery pole of the Prep school hierarchy without much difficulty towards the dizzy heights of Assistant Headship at St Wilfrid's School, Seaford. I rather enjoyed being a big cheese at a young age and looked forward to plaudits and increasing influence in the near future.
Then suddenly it happened. As we passed the mysterious Lendalfoot sign, I came under heavy attack. The female half of the friendly partnership, Nicky, rounded on me, clinically uncompromising in her criticism of my comfortably provincial lack of aspiration, my self-centred preoccupation with domestic horizons and the potential wastage of any talent I might possess. And, while she was about it, I needed to settle down in my personal life and stop playing the field or, rather, stop pretending that I was playing the field. I was dumbstruck as Nicky was one of the most generous people I have met and one of the most intelligent. I was therefore completely on the back foot, realising that any attempt at robust engagement would be fruitless. So I sat in silence through absent Lendalfoot and for many miles thereafter. However, within two years I was happily married and fruitfully employed on the staff at Sevenoaks School, one of the largest and most forward looking secondary independent schools in the UK.
I should perhaps explain that the reason for passing through Lendalfoot in the first place was a journey from Edinburgh to Cairnryan, whence we would take a ferry to Larne and a summer holiday on the County Down coast at Tyrella Beach. Here was a land flowing with Bovril and sherry, a mildly Spartan physical environment offset by the warmest of social atmospheres. The electricity supply was sparse and there was nothing in the line of telecommunication so the long evenings were rich in good humoured conversational diversion flavoured by an occasional foray into amateur philosophy.
Nearby was Tyrella House where an explosively benevolent Major and his not to be argued with wife kept a beautiful walled garden. We might meander to the newly planted maze at Seaford, the scene of my only ( unsuccessful ) attempt at levitation or on to Ardglass and its charming seaside golf course, picking up live lobsters from the quayside afterwards. Beside the house itself lay a long and golden strand, glorious in every respect excepting the red flag area opposite the military camp at Ballykinler, which you ignored at your peril as they might be a sign of live substantial rounds being fired out to sea. The sandy expanse stretched round to the town of Newcastle, nestling in the shadow of the Slieve Donard mountain.
Do come to the beach at Tyrella;
It's NI so bring your umbrella;
The Mountains of Mourne
The far distance adorn
But Newcastle's not quite so stellar.
We were never bothered by ' the troubles ' which dominated British news at the time. Quite the opposite in fact; with unashamed hedonism we were assiduously following the advice of Lorenzo de Medici:
Quant'e bella giovinezza
Che si fugge tutta via!
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia;
Di doman con c'e certezza.
Which roughly translated means ' How beautiful is youth but it soon flies from us. Enjoy yourself while you can today; there is no certainty in tomorrow '.
Years later, when as a family we arrived to live in Morayshire, Joe Paterson, a true gentleman and a superb gardener, told us we had moved to God's own country. I was a little thrown by this, having been told twenty five years earlier that this description was owned by the evergreen County Down. How could this be, I wondered? But then I suppose, if God is God, he's allowed two places he calls his own country.
1st November 2017
