Buses

Public transport up here can be somewhat ramshackle. “Charmingly ranshackle”Â? is how I usually describe it to people; like, for instance, last Saturday when I went to Castle Douglas from the village and found myself, eventually, as one of twelve adults and two children trying tofit into an 8-seater mini-bus. A not altogether uncommon experience. All part of the appeal of living in a remote rural location.
There are two buses a week that run from outside my house straight to Dumfries 30 miles away. I can get on one at 9.35, step off in Dumfries at 10.30, enjoy three dizzying hours whirling around the town’s metropolitan delights, get picked up at 1.30 and step off outside my door at 2.30. It’s very useful for shopping trips and the route meanders through some beautiful countryside as well.
So, this morning, I decided to go to Dumfries. I stepped on board, offered my money, had it waved away. “Sorry, I’m new here, I’ve no idea how to operate the ticket machine. So I can’t take your money!”
Fine by me.
“Errr…”Â? continued the driver “I’m not too sure of the route – can you tell me which way to go”
Well, since I was getting a free ride, how could I say no? So, for the next half-hour, until we got past Corsock and were safely heading for Crocketford and the A75, it was “Right turn next!”Â? and”No, no, turn LEFT here!”
By some miracle, we arrived at Dumfries, and only a few minutes late too. Then the driver turned to us and said “Err… I’ve got an emergency dental appointment to fix my missing filling – so I might be a bit late picking you up.”
Well, OK – I wasn’t in a hurry. Not much.
So, come 1.25 and I was stationed at the pickup point. 1.30 came and went. 1.35, 1.40, 1.45…. Perhaps my driver had been delayed at the dentists? Maybe, fuzzled by the painkillers, he had got lost? Was there a a yellow-and-red single-decker driving all around the town, with a novocained driver at the wheel desperately looking for some passengers? “Excuse me, but do any of you want to go to Dalry? No? How about Mossdale? New Galloway? Crocketford? Anybody?”
Whatever, at just past 2, a bus to Castle Douglas pulled up. There was still no sign of my driver and his bus, so on I hopped. (Disappointingly, I had to pay a fare.) Got to Castle Douglas just in time to catch the Post Bus which, conveniently, goes down my road. So I eventually hauled myself – chilled, exhausted, hungry – and shopping in through my door at 3.30.
A ramshackle service, yes. Charming, NO.’