Monday
Glasgow
Dearest,
Now to tell you all about the weekend. The island of Bute has certainly got to go on the list of places to be visited when the war is over, although how we are going to afford to see all the places I visit in the course of the war is something of a mystery at the moment! Had we tried all the year we could not have chosen a better day than Sunday was. There had been heavy rain in Glasgow on Thursday and Friday and on Saturday morning it was still pouring down, although it began to clear up a bit about eleven o’clock and then when we got to Wemyss Bay to catch the steamer over to the island it rained again. Fortunately, the boat was late and we had to wait so that by the time we got on board, the rain had cleared and that was the last we saw of it for the weekend. We decided to stay in on Saturday night as the weather was so doubtful and so we sat in front of the fire and chattered away until ten o’clock, to the great delight of Jack’s aunt, who is a maiden woman of about sixty and who, incidentally, made me very welcome indeed.
Jack was up fairly early on Sunday morning but I was left in bed until nine, which suited me down to the ground. Apparently Miss Muir had been all round her tradesmen telling the tale that she had two sailors coming for the weekend, because she got four fresh eggs so that we were able to have lashings of ham and eggs for breakfast as well as some of the nicest porridge I have tasted. For dinner we had more than we could eat of stewed steak followed by prunes and custard and, one way and another, we did so well that you would not have known there was a war on. This was a great comfort to me because I am always a bit chary of going to these single-person households and taking their rations, especially as we do so well for food at the billet. Anyway, the main thing is that we did not seem to be robbing her.
What a glorious place Port Bannatyne is. It is about half an hour’s walk from Rothesay, which is the main place in Bute. The island is up towards the mouth of the Clyde, much nearer to the sea than the places Mother saw, and at the island there are several different stretches of water – the Forth of Clyde, Loch Striven and the famous Kyles of Bute. After breakfast on Sunday we walked on to the hills at the back of the port and got a lovely view of the whole bay ringed in hills clothed in all the glorious colours of autumn: the greens of different grasses, the gold of fresh cut grain, the dark greens of the conifers, the russets of bracken and leafed trees, and the mixed russet and purple of the heather. Oh, darling, I kept wishing that you were there so that I could point out to you the ever changing patterns of cloud shadows on the hills. The hills themselves were wonderful. They seem to roll on, fold on fold for ever – certainly beyond the range of one’s eyes and as ever I was amazed that nature never duplicates any of her patterns. There is one hill right opposite the window of the house where we were – for once literally within a stone’s throw of the beach – and it was deeply scarred with typical Scottish burns cascading almost vertically down its face in many places. But I have got away from what I was saying. From the hill we came down to the sea level again and walked round the end of the bay and along the shore through a small yard where yachts were built in peacetime – now forbidden property as you may imagine, for it is not yachts they are building these days. Michael would have loved that particular spot.
On the beach I collected several giant mussel shells which will make nice ashtrays when they are properly cleaned and which I would like to keep as a souvenir of a really lovely weekend. From there we skirted the bay for some distance, collecting large handfuls of blackberries as we went and so came to the Kyles of Bute. Kyles means a stretch of narrow water between two pieces of land and the Kyles of Bute run between the island and the mainland. They really are glorious and one feature is a belt of trees planted by the owner of one hillside somewhere about the time of the Battle of Waterloo, so that the trees represent the formation of the British troops in that battle.
All this, I’m afraid, does not do the place justice. The hills were at their best and the day was absolutely perfect, but you weren’t there to share it. If only you had been, love, it would have been even more of a red letter day than it was. Some day we shall see it together but the trouble is, of course, that I won’t be able to guarantee the weather for you. Jack’s aunt is quite convinced that the war is going to end this year and she thinks I owe it to you and the family to let you see Bute and she is quite determined that she will see you one day – but unfortunately she did not extend an invitation to us all. I suppose even Scottish hospitality cannot be expected to run to that!
Now to answer briefly some of the points in your Saturday letter. I don’t think there is anything more to be said at the moment on the main subject. We will deal with that when I come home and full weight will be given to all the points you have so ably made in your letters. So that subject is taboo in future letters.
How is Michael now? Hope he is better and that you have not been prevented from going to Limedale. Did you have a nice time? And how is May? That stuff of Dave’s seems to be the best of all the things you have had for Wendy’s cough and if it means better sleep for her it must mean better sleep for you. I would like to see her able to go through the winter without these hacking coughs which must pull her down a good deal, for all the medical assurance that they are not serious. How is your tummy now, love? Things should be past their worst now and you should be getting in good fettle to welcome John home to the fold again – and what a fold!
There is not a great deal of news from here. We have not had any intimation of an extension of the course so I expect we will be away pretty well to time, which means that by the time you get this there will be little more than a full week. Nice work. There does not seem to be any real rush to post people from the depot, because the fellow who left here weeks ago is still there and he spends his time knocking studs into football boots! Which means that there is just a chance of us being home for Xmas although, of course, we cannot build on that by any means. Still, one never knows.
Well, love, that seems about all just now. Your Monday letter has not come on this delivery so it looks as if I’ll get it by the evening delivery. If there are any points to be dealt with in it I’ll deal with them tomorrow. I have missed you terribly this weekend, love, as I always do when I am enjoying myself. I always want you to be there to share things. Goodbye for now, sweet, and take care of yourself for I love you such a lot. Goodbye for now, sweetheart. Little more than a fortnight and you may be in my arms again. Precious, I do love you.
All my love, sweet.
Ever your own,
Arthur X
Oct 121942