An advantage of not cycling with Fat Mac is that I don’t get drunk. With Fat Mac, it’s a case of:
“Where shall we bike to, Mac?”
“Weez kin gang tae Balerno. Ah ken ra route, an it’s doonhill baith ways!”
“Are you sure you know the right cycle-path?”
“Aye. Ah wiz oan it twa week ago. It’s braw.”
What happens is that, after a mere ten minutes, Mac stops his bike and exclaims:
“Ah’m totally loast, Rodz. Weez kin go that track instead, ah thunk. It should go tae thon bar in Cramond where they sell cheap beer.”
And we end up in the Cramond Inn. Two hours later, the inevitable has happened.
“Rodz. Ah’m rat arsed. Ah kinnae go ma bike. Weez should have anither pint an sober up.”
This is a theory that sounds plausible at the time, but has been shown again and again not to work.
Today, instead of ending up in the pub with Mac, I cycled some backroads that lead eventually to Fa’side Castle.
I can remember the castle from the early 60s, when it was a ruin.