Taxi tales
Chris Attkins describes a typical day in his life behind the wheel of George Lammie’s new taxi.
5am, Glen Rosa. Rounding up athletes for today’s triathlon. This unearthly time offers ultimate tranquillity, apart from the birds busy rehearsing their oratorio. Deserted roads make it easy to deliver ridiculously fit men to Lamlash in record time. One competitor is missing so I am despatched to Kildonan. As you know, much of the island has little or no mobile phone signal, which makes communication extremely hit and miss. I’m several miles south by the time I receive the news that Southend Superman has turned up. About turn and race for Belvedere to prepare fruit platters and cooked breakfasts for our guests.
9:15am. Summoned to collect a party of American visitors from Kildonan. Plenty of time to make the round trip to the ferry, but with cyclists in abundance I’m keen to get going. The competitors are no problem, peddling fast with good road sense. Unfortunately they are outnumbered by a raggle taggle horde of holidaymakers on tandems, tricycles and those little trailer tents on wheels. What sort of parent entrusts their little darlings to such death traps? They terrify the life out of me because every time mum or dad encounters a pothole they meander all over the road. Overtaking on a windy stretch is impossible, so I resign myself to 10 mph for several long stretches of the journey. It’s after 10am when I pull up. Plenty of time. The Americans greet me with anxious expressions. “Are we going to make the ferry?” I do my best to reassure them as they clamber into the taxi. With seats for six in the back and another up front, I frequently carry seven passengers, copious luggage, golf clubs and even bicycles. Today my four outsize Americans somehow manage to fill the entire volume of the vehicle. I sense the suspension gasping at the strain as each one climbs aboard, and remain in second gear throughout the long climb out of the village. Under such full load the dashboard displays fuel consumption of 9 miles per gallon. No sooner have we reached the main road than we find ourselves joining the tail end of a queue of traffic impeded by an elderly couple driving at an erratic 20mph. 
It delights me to observe visitors appreciating Arran’s wonderful scenery; I just wish they would pull off the road to enjoy it every now and then. The Americans are growing restless, checking the time as we crawl along. “Don’t worry,” I reassure them, “We’ve plenty of time.” Actually we haven’t and I need to step on it. There is bound to be congestion in Lamlash due to the triathlon. With my morning schedule of closely spaced bookings now in jeopardy, and masking my own frustration at the old dears causing such a tailback, eventually I manage to overtake them. Ten minutes to get to Brodick; it should be possible. As expected, in Lamlash traffic slows to a crawl, then stops. What is usually a leisurely one-hour round trip is extending towards two. In my head I rehearse an apology for my Americans missing their connection back home. It’s not my fault, but I want to placate them and have them take away a positive impression of the island. The clock shows 11 as I approach the ferry terminal and my heart sinks – until I turn the corner. The Caley Isles is still some way off. Phew
11:15am. I’m parked up at the rank waiting for Marella to disembark from the ferry. She has booked me to take her to a wedding in Lamlash. It’s easy to spot her among the multitude making their way ashore. Recognising the black taxi, she greets me with a big smile and a groan. “What a journey! I set off at 5am and I’m still late.” I know the feeling. Putting her suitcase in beside her, I offer calm. “Don’t worry, everything is running late today. I’m sure they won’t start without you.” Nevertheless I get moving, climbing out of Brodick right on the speed limit. As we pass Allandale I put my foot to the floor and choose for all doddery drivers to be taking a coffee break. The day is warm and I open the windows to catch the breeze as we accelerate towards the wedding. I am suddenly aware of an explosion of black chiffon behind me and assume the draught has caught the contents of Marella’s suitcase. “Oh, sorry!” I shout, over the rush of wind through the cab. “Don’t mind me,” responds my fare maiden, “I just need to get changed for the wedding.” And she proceeds to disrobe and climb into her costume. At least I think that’s what happened. Of course I had to keep my eyes on the road.
I offered my services to George because I love driving, I love exploring Arran and I was doing very little of either. Driving George’s taxi affords the ideal opportunity to do both. And how! On a busy day I get to visit Lochranza four times, Kildonan twice and Blackwaterfoot at least once. However, the best part is discovering delightful properties tucked away in secluded spots you never knew about. Have you ever been to Woodside Cottage?
I first explored Arran over forty years ago, riding round the island on a small motorbike, and although we’ve lived here for nearly twenty years, I’m still acquiring my ‘Arran knowledge’. With so few street names physically marked, when people book the taxi, locating their property frequently becomes a piece of detective work. Even if I could pronounce the names of half the houses on Arran, finding them is another matter entirely. I now have even more respect for our postpeople!
11:38am. On my way back to Brodick I am flagged down by a couple of holidaymakers. The concept of hailing a cab is still foreign to most Arran residents, so it’s easy to spot visitors. As I draw up they are engaged in animated conversation, which is not interrupted by climbing aboard. “Ferry terminal,” is instructed mid-flow and so we set off. It’s immediately obvious these are not happy campers. “When we get home I want a divorce,” says he. “Aye, that’ll be right,” she responds. There’s a screen separating the front of the cab from the passengers and the only way I can hear them is via an amplifier. I switch it off, not wishing to be party to such acrimonious dialogue. The life coach in me instinctively wants to go into action, but realistically this is neither the time nor the place. Several times I have been carrying a large party, with one gentleman sitting beside me in the front, and to a man they all think it’s a wonderful idea to be able to switch off their wife in the back
12:18pm. First run of the day to Lochranza. We trot along behind a horse until there is space to overtake. It’s hard to imagine this was the fastest mode of transport only a few years ago. I am thankful that at the end of the day I don’t need to feed and stable my steed. The taxi is something of a camel, only requiring a drink every few days, but what a long drink! The bill to fill is just shy of three figures.
The Boguillie is littered with sheep. For some reason the greenest grass always seems to be on the other side of the road, so the journey involves delicate negotiation between these woolly inhabitants that have a habit of running in front of you at the last moment. Blink and it’s mint sauce for these frisky lambs. Talk about gambling with your life!
In a city, I imagine a taxi seldom drives for long without a fare, but here on Arran, a trip to Lochranza tends to be a one-way deal, yet the metered price remains the same as anywhere on the mainland. People are surprised to discover that for some journeys the taxi can cost less than the bus! My afternoon is spent ferrying people back and forth across the island, with a break for a nap and to refuel myself ahead of a busy evening.
Please call 0754 550 1919.
