Shelley & I have just been on holiday to Scotland. Football was involved, you'll be relieved to know. So here's an account of how this Honest Man & his bonnie Lassie spent our time in Ayr -:
As
I’ve stated on numerous occasions, I don’t think I fit the strict definition of
a groundhopper, but I do like visiting different places. I suppose you could
call me a ground collector. This season I’ve got my eyes on 3 or 4 new Alliance
venues; Blyth Rangers, Hazlerigg Victory and Heddon United for definite, with
Burradon a possibility, not to mention 2 new Northern League grounds for
Chester Le Street United and Washington, but my real passion, and it may take
me several years to complete this, is completing the Scottish League.
At the start of the season, with Bonnyrigg Rose replacing Cowdenbeath, I had been to 26 of the 42 venues. Strangely perhaps, only 2 of those I’ve yet to tick off were in the West, namely Ayr United and Stranraer, with the rest in the East and Highlands. For many years, the delights of ramshackle, nostalgic Somerset Park had beguiled me and, when searching for a place to book for a short holiday with my partner Shelley and I, the obvious choice was an Ayr B&B (geddit?), to find out if The Honest Men had a women’s team called The Bonnie Lasses (I’m such a card, I really am), as Ayr United were hosting Hamilton Academicals on Saturday 13 August.
Stating unequivocally at the very outset that I give 100% unconditional support to the RMT, it is important to recognise that skirting train strikes is something of an art these days, meaning we were almost forced to travel up on Friday 12 and back on Wednesday 17; only 5 nights away, but that’s more than all the other time away from home I’ve spent since the pandemic started combined. The journey up was utterly unremarkable until we hit Glasgow Central, as the train down the coast, via Irvine, Troon and Prestwick was absolutely rammed, mainly with kids enjoying the last of their summer break (Scottish schools are back now) by indulging in the time old tradition of taking a huge carry out down to the beach for a bevvy and a fight. Coppers lined the platform at Irvine and Troon, confiscating boxes of Tennents and flagons of Buckfast from those without ID.
Soon we arrived, totally sober in Ayr and took a taxi to our splendid harbourside apartment, driven cautiously by an old fella who would probably be better off in a hearse than a cab, whether at the wheel or being chauffeur driven to his final destination. After a quick shop to stock the fridge and shower to freshen up, which each involved a totally sober Shelley taking tumbles and sustaining some awful bruises, we headed out on the town, or as much as you can in Ayr. The first bar we found, Wee Windaes on Newmarket Street, had 6 customers, no real ale, only took cash, boasted a sign behind the counter stating NO RIFF RAFF and shut at 9.00pm on a Friday. Ayr is not Amsterdam, but it’s a charming, old-fashioned sort of place.
You can understand why, as in the midst of the Blair Years Scottish Tory wipeout, Ayr was the last seat they held. Even now, I’m amazed that the SNP represent the area in Westminster, as I didn’t hear one word of praise for Jeanette Mugabe’s squalid shower up here. Indeed, people were at pains to point out how the SNP don’t represent the opinions of the majority of Scotch citizens. Rather ironic considering that the full moon over Ayrshire that shone brought the whole weekend is actually known as a Sturgeon Moon.
Anyway, after Wee Windaes, we found Tam O’Shanter’s Inn on High Street. As you could probably guess, Ayr is pretty much a Robert Burns theme park and this bar was dedicated to the narrative poem I was forced to learn by heart for my O Level. The Moretti was decent though and, feeling a bit peckish, we searched for food. Now, in all seriousness, if you ever need a curry in Ayr, go to The Rupee Room. The chicken dopiaza I had was cooked to perfection; chicken breast meat, and lots of it, lightly spiced and with a generous amount of sauce, while Shelley’s chicken tikka masala was as far from the rancid pink gloop so common down south, as you could wish for. Additionally, the garlic keema naans and mushroom pilau were both of top quality. A bit steep at £40 for a carry out, but a glorious feast, nevertheless. Shame I got us lost on the way home and we had to take a taxi, but that’s all part of the holiday adventure, I guess.
Saturday morning was hot. Scorching in fact. We breakfasted on smoked salmon and scrambled eggs (thank you Shelley), then took a slow, cautious walk up to the town to rehydrate and refuel, before crossing the bridge and heading north east towards Somerset Park. I noticed that football jerseys were as popular here as in any other town, although I literally didn’t see any Ayr United ones. Rangers, in a staunch and loyal town that has the remnants of fortifications constructed by Cromwellian forces in 1654 as the old town walls, are the team of choice of 90% of those wearing football colours. Celtic make up the rest, which probably reflects the demographics of this part of Ayrshire. I’d wager not one of the replica shirt wearers regularly sets foot in Ibrox or Celtic Park, of course.
Our sedate walk through the indomitable and affluent northern suburbs took us past Ayr racecourse on roads that were almost deserted. I realised that neither Ayr nor Accies were the best supported of sides, evidenced by the two sides drawing 1,504 and 941 to their clashes at Somerset Park last season, but surely there had to be someone going? Finally, we turned the corner to the ground and, in near 35 degree heat, saw plenty of fans milling around, many decked out in the traditional Scottish, woollen scarf in respective club colours. Loyalty defeats fashion every time up here.
In the end, a game that had been designated a family fun day, on account of free face painting and a couple of mascots in fancy dress, as well as a performance by Somerset Boab (whoever he is) was watched by a healthy, for the Scottish Championship, total of 2,014 sweltering punters. Considering that the minimum requirement to be in the Scottish Premier is a 5,000 all-seater stadium, it seems unlikely that promotion to the top flight is on the cards or even a stated ambition for The Honest Men. Sadly, I found no evidence of an Ayr United women’s team.
Unlike other games I’ve been to in Ayrshire, for instance at Irvine Meadow XI where I was stood next to the man with the worst case of Tourette’s I’ve ever encountered, this clash was played in a positive and almost respectful atmosphere, with only Shelley getting carried away and using oath-edged talk. Throughout a pacey, intense encounter that swung one way then the other, Ayr’s support stayed with the team. Muscular striker Afolabi Akinyemi opened the scoring for the home side within three minutes, as they began at a high tempo. This wasn’t to last though, as Akinyemi then saw a generous spot kick saved, before Andy Winter drew Accies level before the interval, with a fine curling effort.
Worse was to come after the break for Ayr, as despite dominating proceedings, they fell behind when Dan Reilly then put Accies in front. Akinyemi’s luck really was out as he touched in a loose ball in the box, only to be flagged offside. However, there was a degree of redemption to be found, when Andy Murdoch scored a late equaliser with a glorious, dipping volley, to salvage a point for The Honest Men. The ground, which is 75% covered terracing and boasts only one small stand, largely went ballistic at this strike, other than the 150 or so Accies followers whose hopes were crushed. But it had been a fine game on a glorious afternoon, and we wandered back to the apartment in a contented frame of mind, amused by news of Sunderland’s concession of a 94th minute leveller by the QPR keeper. A check later on found that Ayr United sit third in the Scottish Championship, one point off the top, while Hamilton are seventh. I now need to plan my autumn trips north of the border, for ground collection not ground hopping of course.
Worn out by our adventures (15k steps a day takes it out of you when you’re 58 you know), we chilled in the apartment with white wine and remnants of curry, before spending sunset on the modest beach that looks across at Arran, accepting the darkness that enfolded us on a warm, beautiful evening. Sunday was again a beautiful day; we took ourselves back down to the water’s edge, noticing that Ayr, once voted Scotland’s worst seaside town, is as clean as a Protestant’s front parlour. No amusement arcades or chip shops to despoil the area; it is a scrupulous and scrubbed place to relax. Also great to visit was the Glen Park Hotel, which is home of the Ayr Brewery; good quality food and an absolutely superb 5.3% New Zealand IPA to enjoy on a sunny Sunday evening, in the accidental company of Drew and Euan; a pair of clay-pigeon shooting enthusiasts who have little or no time for thoughts of independence.
Late Sunday night, the flashes of lightning that had been disturbing our peripheral vision from out at sea hit land, accompanied by deafening rumbles of thunder and an absolute deluge of rain, as at least two storms converged overhead. It was spectacular to watch from indoors, as well as unceasing. Monday still saw torrents of rainwater splashing down, so we took a slow train to Glasgow, spent an enjoyable few hours in the Glasgow Museum of Modern Art, nipped into to Mono (of course) and plodged back to Central. Once back in Ayr, we bought probably the worst Chinese takeaway I’ve ever suffered from The Ocean View Cantonese. There is no point in describing the dishes, as they tasted of nothing, suffice to say that the grey, greasy dross we were served gave us both bad guts all day on Tuesday. This was not enough to keep us out of the pubs for a farewell pint, thankfully.
On the basis of a sign in the window saying they took card payments, Shelley decided we’d best visit The Brig Inn. Equally serendipitously, the barmaid was wearing a blouse exactly the same as the one Shelley had worn on the Sunday and, on recognising our accents, announced her brother lived in North Shields. Small world and despite the overwhelmingly Bluenosed atmosphere, as a couple of dozen We Are The People sorts took their pews before the Huns v PSV, we enjoyed a decent couple of pints, but made a sensible choice to depart before kick-off, as we needed to pack. Nice pub run by nice people. I’d recommend it on a non-match day.
Next morning it was up and out via a taxi to the station and 3 trains home. All in all; an excellent trip and one that makes me keen to visit Scotland again. In fact, on at least another 15 occasions.
