hope; Faith; charity

0 Comments | Sunday Herald, The, Nov 28, 1999 | by Gordon Legge

Interestingly, Nig bought his suit on a visit to Oban. This keeps cropping up, the places folk mention, not just Oban but towns like Oban. Hard to define, but for the purpose of this piece we shall refer to them as "towns without football teams".

"Every so often Dad'll drive down to Peebles, and I'll cadge a lift. For years all I ever wore was bought out of charity shops in Peebles."

That's Sylvia. Favourite charity shop purchase: her winter coat.

When it comes to finding a land without football teams, there's no place more bereft of goalposts than our very own blessed Borders. And as for charity shops, it's the area that keeps getting mentioned. A friend told me that, once a month, there's this guy drives down from one of the trendy central belt second-hand emporiums, picking out the best stuff. Well, if it's good enough for him ...

I got out my Yellow Pages. Hawick looked good (five shops to go and visit) but I wanted to cycle, and Hawick was a bit far. I checked the Youth Hostel handbook. The nearest hostel was Melrose, adjacent to Galashiels (a mighty seven shops!).

The great thing is, with charity shops, you know there's a chance you're going to pick up something. Just don't know what. Also, and this is important, for this journey, I was looking for something. Something you find in near enough every charity shop. Something that would forever remind me of my trip down to the Borders. My memento.

Now, I hadn't done much cycling in recent times. This pedal, the best part of 40 miles, was the longest I'd attempted in five years - and it was great. I got really into it. Resolved to do more. Aye, there's nothing like a prolonged spell of pedalling to get the creative mind going.

And then there was the memories. Truth be told, cycling-wise, I've never spent that much time in the Borders. Only when I was heading south and I'd cycle through them. One time I was on my way to London. It was winter, pitch black, and just a wee bit cold. Two o' clock in the morning and I'd just passed Jedburgh when this group of about 15 or 20 bikers appeared on my tail. For the best part of two miles they were all around me, going at my pace: in front of me, behind me, alongside me. They never spoke. Never made any sort of contact. Remember, this was the dead of night. And there was me, a potential Scratchy to their Itchy, trying not to think of the scary bits in Hunter S Thompson's Hell's Angels.

After the couple of miles, they just revved up and headed off.

Phew.

No such close encounters this time, Safe and sound, I reached Melrose, checked into the salubrious, 84-bed youth hostel, fed my face with tea and toast and went for a wander.

From the hostel's dining room I'd enjoyed a rare picture postcard view of the famous Melrose Abbey and made this my first port of call.

From there, I wandered on, got lost, and ended up on the by-pass. Here, I came across another building that was no longer in use. In addition to being the land without goalposts, the borders is also the land without trains. But here, in Melrose, they've at least had the decency to retain their station, or at least part of it, and what they've done fair tickled me. They've kept, and obviously maintained, the south-facing platform and its building. Telling you, if I could've remembered the tune to The Railway Children, I surely would've whistled it in honour.