Across Continents

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Back on the mainland

Ardrossan looked just like any commercial port town I’ve ever been to.  Depressing.  I must have looked lost.  Having gone just a short distance from the ferry, I stopped momentarily to consult the map when a lady asked if she could help.  The chips she carried smelt good, but instead I asked for directions to Troon.  Her directions were precise, and proved accurate.  She had travelled extensively with trade plates, delivering vehicles all over the UK, and seemed sympathetic to my uncertainty as to where I might stay that night.  I appreciated her openness, and reciprocated by admitting that I would have been one of those many drivers who would always have ignored her requests for a lift.  She understood.

The sign welcoming you to Troon tells you it’s the home of C K Marr.  Shipping charterer apparently.  He left at an early age and did not return.  The town has lots of golf courses.  Lots.  But no campsite that I could find.  There were lots of helpful suggestions from people as to where it might be, but all came to nothing.   There was also a dirth of B&Bs.  It was getting quite late.  A seafront shelter was starting to become a realistic prospect, but I doubted I could now even get a brown paper bag for my meths.

I met two Australians, father and son, also searching for somewhere to stay.  They had a car.  Feeling sorry for me on the bike, they gave me a business card for a B&B nearby that might be able to help.  I accepted graciously.  Thirty minutes later I was in a very well appointed house a few miles from Troon.  A good end to the day.

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