Going solo in Scotland

An ATM swallows my Thomas Cook card, freezing my forex supply. Thank God that I had managed to activate a local SIM. I get on the helpline. The Chinese-sounding lady takes me through the paces with Zen like-patience, using English in second gear. I get impatient, knowing that my talktime was finite. Keeping the withdrawal of 100 pounds in suspense, I can encash my balance, she tells me. She confirms that she had remitted the card balance of 900 pounds to MoneyGram and I can withdraw it from any MoneyGram office. My talktime is over. There goes the walk of London’s Bankside that I had registered for. Instead, I go in search of the Hampstead Post Office. Since London’s famous buses only accept prepaid passes, I take a train to Hampstead, and then walk. The MoneyGram office added to my woes. “Your money is not with MoneyGram,” I was told. Later, with no money in my SIM, I make it to a Diners’ office, thanks to a Google search by a helpful youth. That turns out to be an administrative office of Diners and the receptionist cannot get through to any employee. I agonise over how I will leave for Heathrow the next morning, to pick up my car on hire. In no mood for the London-by-night walk I had registered for, I return to my room. 

Next morning, I reach the Marble Arch office of Thomas Cook. The official hears me out and says, “Thomas Cook has nothing to do with Thomas Cook India”. He explains to me that the Indian operations have been sold out sometime back. I muster some courage and tell him, “Okay, officially there is nothing you can do for me. How about human to human? I have to leave London in an hour. I need that 900 pounds. What can you do for me?” He takes a long breath and asks me to take my seat. “Melissa, my client here has a problem,” he explains. The lady at the other end is profusely apologetic. It seems, the Chinese girl had remitted my money to MoneyGram in India. She asks for some time to correct the mistake. I wait. The man who helped me is Mr Patel, a Fijian of Indian origin. In 15 minutes, Melissa calls and Mr Patel’s colleague confirms the funds transfer. In a minute, I exit, with my money and Mr Patel’s card in my pocket. Thanks to two people’s kindness, I resume my travel, albeit, after losing a precious day in London. 

At a car hire in Heathrow, the lady swipes my credit card. But, no, oh no, it is not approved. All my credit worthiness, healthy credit balance and the ego boosting credit limit enhancement they have been offering mean nothing then. So I revise my plans — reach Salisbury by train, visit Stonehenge and reach Birmingham to hire my car the next day, with my cousin’s credit card. 

From Birmingham, I set off on a brand new Ford Jaaz, via the beautiful Lake district, headed for Edinburgh. In the city of Edinburgh, it is not easy to understand the lady inside the GPS. “In 7 meters, turn left”. 7 meters from the left curb or right curb, or the median? So, this turn or the adjacent one? This intellectual debate is happening in a moving car in the heart of Scotland’s capital. The inevitable happens. A cop steps out of the police van in front. “I’ve been watching you. You nearly caused an accident. Show me your papers,” she shouts. I try to extract them. “You know I can fine you 200 pounds just now.” I vigorously agree with her, plead guilty and beseech her for a royal pardon. “I don’t have time, I am getting late, be careful,” she says before leaving. I am saved by her virtue. 

The next evening, I am treated to Oban’s golden sunset. Later, at 80 mph on a scenic highway, I sing to myself, Glasgow, here I come… Suddenly, I hear metal hitting my car underbody. All the alarm lights start flashing. I pull up. The fuel smell is strong. I kill the engine and get out. I call the service number. Half an hour later, at 11 in the night, no service van. So I call, and a less friendly voice says, another half hour. This goes on, each time the warmth at the other side diminishing. 

Then a flashback of filling fuel that morning. Both the diesel and petrol dispensers were unusually close. Did I pick the petrol or the diesel nozzle? OMG, diesel in petrol engine! 

Meanwhile, vehicles whiz past. None will stop, not even look my way. Soon my mobile will be dead, and no one on earth will know where Thomas is. Slowly a calm overtakes me. I look around the lovely setting, with distant mountains, forests and a benevolent sky. 

Then two trailers pull up. I walk up to the Daf truck, explain my predicament to John. Some luck, his charger works for my phone. We start chatting about trucks. After half an hour, David, the second driver comes along. David takes a look and says, “Why don’t you switch off the emergency light switch?” I do. The flash lights go off. Incredible! Everything is fine with my car! I must have inadvertently touched the switch while switching devices for charging, eyes fixed in front! I feel foolish, I feel relieved. John and David drive off, before I can recover, thank the two and take a selfie with them ending an adventurous ride.