Life and letters

Barbara Millar
Volcanic eruption

I had been engaged by our national tourism agency to shepherd a group of visitors round Edinburgh on the last day of their five-day trip to Scotland. They were all involved with agencies and organisations which send students to Britain to learn English so, as well as the usual tourist attractions, they were also here to look around language schools. And, because of the lure of London for many young people, it was important to show these influential clients that Scotland and, on this occasion Edinburgh in particular, could more than hold its own in terms of what was on offer.
     Duly primed and raring to go, we set off towards Leith. I hadn't got more than two minutes into my intro when I felt a tap on the shoulder. 'Excuse me, please,' said the voice. 'We are trying to make an important phone call.' Shut up, in other words. And that brief interjection pretty much set the tone for the day.
     The Spanish – and the group was largely Spanish, with one French and one Italian representative – had decided they must get out of Scotland, out of Britain, literally at any cost, and mobile phones were in danger of overheating as they tried dozens of coach and ferry companies, car rental organisations and train lines, in their frantic bid to depart these shores. At each language school visit, a few would politely engage with the school head, who had come in specially to see them on a Saturday, while most took themselves off to a corner to mutter into their mobiles, in a futile attempt to book a passage, by any means available.
     Each time I ventured a sentence or two – I felt I should at least attempt to earn my day's pay – I was immediately quashed. 'To your right is Leith Links.' I hadn't even squeaked the word 'golf' when a Castilian chorus of 'Shhh' came from the back of the coach. In the end, I simply gave up.
     I tried to imagine why there was such an urgent need to leave. I know Edinburgh has its faults but – especially if you arrive after tea – it's a reasonably hospitable place to while away an extra day or three. Could it be their bosses, adamant that they return to work on Monday morning? 'I don't care how many times you blame "Eyjafjallajokull", you've had your jolly, now get back here.' But I thought it unlikely that even the most hard-nosed employer would insist that their workers could not hang on a day or two until normal service had been resumed. Whatever the impetus, however, they were single-minded and determined. There were a few dissident mutterings of 'this is crazy', even among the Spanish camp, where two or three decided not to go along with the schemes that were being dreamt up by the majority.
     At one point, those intent on leaving asked the coach driver to get them a quote from his company to drive them down to Portsmouth. As such a journey would necessarily involve not only a vehicle, but also two drivers and, possibly, an overnight stay, a rather eye-watering quote came back. A staggering £1,800. To be paid up-front. They didn't even blink, but simply added it to all their other considerations. Next they phoned a coach company in Spain. If they could get by ferry to Caen, in northern France, could this coach company provide a vehicle to drive all the way from Madrid to collect them? They also looked into hiring a fleet of rental cars to get them to England's south coast. Then, what? Swim the Channel?
     By this time I was just going with the flow. Having given up all efforts to 'guide' them round Edinburgh, I just sat back and enjoyed the spectacle. At least five people at any one time were making calls, two people were working on their laptops, others just looked miserable at the thought of another night eating haggis rather than paella.
     A few game spirits accompanied me on a rather desultory tour of the Royal Yacht Britannia, followed by a valiant attempt at retail therapy in the Ocean Terminal shopping mall. The others headed off for the railway station. Where, to my great surprise, the escape plan started to hang together. Miraculously, they got seats on a train to Portsmouth, and tickets on a connecting ferry to St Malo. After that, however, who knows? (To add the inevitable insult to injury, the French railways were on strike. Does volcanic dust screw up their engines too?) Perhaps they were planning to hitch their way through France.
     I have no idea what this journey home had cost them, but it certainly wouldn't have been cheap. It was also going to take many, many uncomfortable hours – and they still had to contend with travelling through France and much of Spain. But they were happy – and they were off. Edinburgh, meanwhile, had an eerily abandoned air. There was scarcely any traffic clogging the streets, and comparatively few pedestrians. Perhaps there's something to be said for the occasional volcanic eruption after all. What are the latest odds on Arthur's Seat?

Barbara Millar is a journalist and tour guide