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I look out of the window to see dawn breaking behind the blue-grey hills ahead – the empty road snaking through them. The last thing I see before I fall asleep is the massive blue sign with the diagonal white cross. Welcome to Scotland. Fàilte gu Alba.
‘Breakfast,’ I mutter to myself walking out of Inverness bus station. It’s all pale modern stone round here; the sky reflects off smooth wet paving; sun glinting on shiny apartment blocks. I was expecting dark Victorian stone and castles. I’ll get something to eat, find a bank, see about buses to Lochgillan and then, if there’s time, maybe a spot of sightseeing?
There’s a bounce in my battered trainers. What was I worrying about? The Beginning of a Great Adventure.
I turn another corner and there’s a smart looking café advertising Full Scottish Breakfast. You reckon? That should fill the hole that is my ravenous stomach.
The café is all beech and slate with massive artwork in black and white and gold. The smell of coffee is overwhelming, they are actually roasting it in a gleaming steel contraption. I make my way past a group of French backpackers lounging on brown leather sofas and plant myself at a table near the bar. Reach for the menu and study which freshly roasted bean to have for my coffee? Finally look up to see a girl in a brown apron and blond hair pulled into a donut ring to top her chubby baby face.
‘Will you be ready with your order, Sir?’ she asks in the sweetest Scottish accent.
I grin, liking the ‘Sir’. ‘I’ve been up all night, it’s got to be the Full Scottish,’ I say, rubbing my empty tummy. ‘And, let me see, a large latte made with Indonesian Lintong, Madam Popa?’
‘Just the thing for a wee hangover?’
‘Ah, no, not that kind of night. As in just got off the bus from Sheffield. My first time in Scotland.’
‘Welcome to Inverness,’ the girl beams.
She retreats with my order and I look over at the artwork on the long side wall. A kind of stylised urban landscape with cheeky black cartoon birds perched on gilded barbed wire, little thought bubbles I can’t read coming out of the birds. Looks pretty sick, whatever.
There’s a leaflet stand by the plate glass windows and I wander over for something to read. A flyer advertising A Respectful Debate On Scottish Independence. Radical Independence Campaign Youth Planning Meeting. Leaflet from the Highland Council: Have Your Say: Register Now! This referendum seems a bigger deal than I realised. The Radical Independence leaflet is all about an adult-free meeting to discuss the way forward and organise events. Would I even be included now I’m officially an adult? I flick through the leaflet about registering to vote. Would my Scottish ancestry qualify me?
I literally don’t notice the girl with the tray until she’s right beside me. The full Scottish smells as good as it looks and I’m grabbing a bite of the fat juicy sausage before she’s set the coffee down.
‘You’ll be hungry from your journey?’ She smiles.
‘Sorry,’ I say through half chewed sausage. ‘Manners are not my strong point. But I have to say this is place is epic.’
‘Och, well it’s a social enterprise, you see?’ The girl nods, looking pleased with herself. ‘It means useless NEETs like me get properly trained and paid to work here, plus we get to design the décor.’ She waves at the artwork.
‘NEETs?’ I’m thinking neets and tatties, but that’s some sort of veg, isn’t it?
‘Not in Employment, Education…?’
‘Or Training, of course. I’m a NEET myself.’
She smiles doubtfully. ‘Well, I’ll be leaving you to enjoy your breakfast.’
‘Hold on,’ I say, gob full of black pudding. Pause to get it swallowed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jeanette.’ She puts a hand up to her mouth.
I wave the leaflet. ‘Have you registered for this referendum thingy?’
‘Not as yet, I’m only sixteen.’
‘But they’re giving you the vote, which is pretty awesome, no?’
‘There’s a lot of talk about it and I’m going to some meetings to work out what I think. It’s a big responsibility, is what it feels like?’
‘My father’s Scottish. Do you think they’ll let me vote?’
She shrugs, looks over her shoulder. ‘Well, I’d best be getting back.’
Feeling at least half a stone heavier but still full of the joys, I walk a couple of blocks in search of a bank. Find myself in the old part of town with tall stone buildings housing hotels and banks, including, would you know it, a branch of Abbey on the corner.
‘I’d like to cash this cheque, please?’ I smile at the dude in white shirt and tartan tie. He looks well young, is this another social enterprise? He studies the cheque, looks at my Abbey card.
