Well, Saturday was a rest day, (a designated one, unlike Friday). The journey up to Scone on Friday, which started so smoothly, did not get any better as it progressed. When I arrived in Edinburgh, with a comfortable 15 minutes to catch my train to Perth, I made my way through the barrier to the train on platform 17, and thinking how fine it was when you arrived at a station early, and had plenty of time to make a leisurely choice of seat, I found a coach and made myself comfortable at a table. I quickly observed that there wasn’t anyone else on the train, and despite being 12 minutes early, this struck me, as a seasoned train-traveller, as unusual. I left my stuff, and stood at the doorway for a minute or two. An observant staff member spotted me, and confirmed my suspicions by calling out “Perth train’s in front of this one”. “Thanks” I said, and went back to my seat to collect my bags, and made my way back to the door. As I fumbled with my luggage, I heard that pipping noise the doors make when they are closing. I pressed the open button. Nothing happened. I pressed it again a few more times, despite realising full-well what had happened. They’d finished doing whatever they needed to do on the empty train, cleaning it presumably, and had locked it. I looked for an emergency button, but the only one I could see appeared to be behind glass. I wondered whether pressing it because you were locked in the train at the station constituted an emergency or a £200 fine. I grabbed my bags and ran up to the rear of the train, thinking that I might find some staff. I didn’t. The door to the driver’s and guard’s cabin was open, and no one was in it. I could see the ticket barrier, but it was behind too many obstacles for any of the staff there to see me. I looked for a button that might say “door release” but could only see one that said “brake release” which seemed a little dangerous, although I briefly contemplated taking the train to Perth myself. There was no other option - I was going to have to attract attention. Fortunately a train had just come in, and the platform was full of people. I banged on the window. Hard.
No one even raised their heads. I couldn’t believe it. I carried on banging, like the dement they were trying so hard to avoid. Eventually a lady with an orange jacket on banged a button and released the doors. “What are you doing in here?” she wanted to know. So did I. I hastily started to explain, but in all honesty, she appeared both disinterested and unconcerned. I had 2 minutes to get the Perth train. I legged it.
As I reached the door, I had a flashback of my placing my ticket on the table infront of me, as I sat in my empty coach, and realised it was still there. I shoved my bag on the train, and stood in the doorway until the train guard appeared. I panted, through my distress, my tale of misfortune. He was very good about it. I mentioned that I had my return ticket, and he told me that would be fine, and I should find myself a seat, calm down, and relax. That was actually the worst thing that has ever happened to me on a train, way above delayed trains, broken-down trains, going to sleep on a train, vomit-filled carriages (not mine), piss-drenched toilets, and train coffee.
I’m happy to say that this was more-or-less the end of my misadventures. I mean, I failed to pack my computer charger (brought along so I could blog my training, and other, adventures) and my phone charger. I thought I’d also failed to bring the heart rate monitor, although I realised too late, when repacking my bag, that I did in fact, have it with me. Susie and Paddy met me at Perth, and after taking the tourist route (the one that taxis often use for not quite the same reasons) we eventually met up with the rest of the hens. My fears of spending a weekend with 8 incomprehensible Scottish ladies were not entirely true - one of them was English, but appeared to have gone native and two were minors, but equally incomprehensible. Honestly, if ony o’ them ha’ said, “fair fa ye honest, sonsie face, great puddin’ o’ the cheftain’s race”, I really wouldn’t have noticed. Well, actually, I would, because I’d always recognise Rabbie’s most famous poem (excepting mebbe Auld lang syne) when I hear it. On the plus side, no one actually deliberately made use of the fact that it would be easy to lose me by talking faster, and amid peals of laughter, translations were made when my brain failed to keep up with messages my ears relayed to it.
I had very little idea of what to expect from a luxury yurt, (I certainly wasn’t expecting luxury) so it was charming to be confronted with rows of what were clearly Smurf houses. (I have never watched Smurf cartoons or films, and have no idea what they live in; but probably something like these). Although they seemed small on the outside, they were happily roomy inside, and our extra dip into luxury had provided an extra thick foam floor, which was excellent. In addition, they were furnished with rugs, sheep skins and cushions, and a little table. The sheep skins were especially welcome, as I have a two-season sleeping bag, which doesn’t cover what passes for seasons in Scotland. It was purchased for a summer indoor camping trip in Cambridge for Megan and Stewart’s joint Hen/Stag do, and didn’t pass muster in warmth then. (I do honestly do other things than attend Hen dos).
Well, we drank several glasses of wine, which seemed like the obvious way to toast our arrival, played a game of “man in the bag” which sounds like an exciting hen party-type game, but actually wasn’t (although quite fun), and had a brief sortie of trying out our smurf hats (I made Susie giggle by telling her she looked more like she was wearing her KKK hat - and made sure not to take any more pictures head-on) then headed out into the festival, amid folks dressed as badly as the 80’s suggests, with tu-tus and legwarmers. As a gentlemen with a sizeable paunch hove into view wearing a fluorescent pink tutu, Louise muttered “Tha’ no a tu-tu, it’s more like a three-three”. After a quick tour of the grounds, and a few more drinks, we tucked into our yurts, I put on my smurf hat, plugged in my ears, and tried to sleep amid some giggles and camera flashes that seemed to be going on around me. It was a’ grand.
We passed a leisurely Saturday morning, mainly waiting for the queue for the showers to decrease (it didn’t – they’d put six on, but only attached gas cylinders to three of them) and admired the ingenuity of the chemical loos, we took a tour of Scone palace gardens, before returning to our yurts to toast our Hen, and don our outfits. Now, in all honesty, I’ve never, ever dressed up at a Hen Party before, and generally loathe the notion. However, if you have to dress up, then an 80s music festival is clearly the place to do it. You stand a good chance of looking far less ridiculous than 80% of the other participants. Furthermore, how cool it was to be dressed as Smurfs! I’ve never seen Hen Parties of cowboys, red devils or sequinned nurses get accosted by so many people (men and women) and asked for their photos, or had their characters called out so many times – “Smurfs!” It was actually pretty cool. It also had a major advantage of being really easy to pick us out in a crowd – we never lost anyone.
And also surprisingly sober. Once we were out at the music, we didn’t bother too much with the booze, so after our initial drinks, we never returned to the hard stuff. The end of the evening, with some hot chocolate in our yurts, was not especially late, and we had a wee girly chat, and tucked ourselves back into our sleeping bags. Just ready for my long, slow run in the morning.
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