Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'
HIYA, BANKSIE! WRITTEN
any good books lately?'
'Not if you believe certain critics, but I'm going to be writing one about whisky.'
'A book about whisky?'
'Yeah. Malt whisky.'
'You're kiddin!'
'Not as such.'
'This mean you're going to have to do the “R” word?'
'The “R” word? Oh! Research? Yeah, basically. Goin to have to drive round Scotland,
or, well, be driven round Scotland, take trains, ferries, planes and such, go to distilleries,
taste whiskies, that sort of—'
'And they're going to pay you for this?'
'They've already started.'
'Right. I see. D'you need a hand?'
Friday the 21st of March 2003 is a good three-ferry day. It starts kind of weirdly; I get
up very early and print up a load of A4 posters with your standard anti-war slogans: NO
BLOOD FOR OIL, NOT IN MY NAME, and TONY BLIAR (my personal favourite,
though probably not really all that effective). While those are printing I watch the break-
fast news coverage of our bouncing, day-old war. I plaster the posters across the Land
Rover: one in a transparent sleeve taped across the spare wheel on the rear door, six on
the side windows. There's even one on the sunroof, though I think I must have been get-
ting a bit carried away by this stage; the only people ever likely to see that one are passing
helicopter pilots and people who happen to be walking over motorway bridges as I drive
below.
After I've taken the scissors to our passports, I compose a brief covering letter, send
an email explaining why we're doing what we're doing to the
Guardian
's letters page and
head into Inverkeithing to send the passports' remains via registered mail to 10 Downing
Street.
I come home and say goodbye to Ann; I'll be away almost a week on Islay. After that,
though I'm supposed to be making for the west coast, I head into central Edinburgh and
drive around for a bit, trying to show off my posters along Queensferry Road, Charlotte
Square and George Street before crossing Princes Street and going up the Mound past the
