On having no keys

Two days before heading south for the summer, I thought it would be a good idea to see if the car would start.

It did.

However, when I pressed my foot to the accelerator, absolutely nothing happened.

It was turning over like a dream, but the brakes were completely salted up — a common ailment for vehicles parked next to the sea.

By means of a rhythmic rocking between first gear and reverse, the trusty, and increasingly rusty, Yaris finally eked forward, not without some resistance.

Knowing the value of a good run before attempting the 500-mile journey to Stroud, I nursed it around the single-track road to Bunessan and then stopped for a Twix.

On returning to the car, I noticed a rubbery smell and reflected that I’d had my foot firmly to the floor during the ten-minute trip and hadn’t broken 35 mph.

Nevertheless, I fired her up once more. But now the smell was in my nostrils and genuine concern for my safety was creeping in… not a moment too soon, I hear you say!

By the time Robin’s garage came into view, I was glad to have the opportunity to talk to someone who knows a thing or two about cars.

Having described my predicament, Robin, well past retirement age and with a pronounced limp, shuffled round the car, placing his hands close to the tyres, as one might if performing reiki.

“Feel that,” he offered, gesturing for me to put my hand around the area of the front driver’s-side wheel.

“Not too close, mind.”

I couldn’t get it closer than 50 cm before the heat became too much.

“You see the black smear around your brake disc?”

I nodded foolishly.

“That’s your brake pad melted.”

It was at this point that the folly of driving 500 miles came into sharp focus.

Considering the sizeable bill from the last MOT and the infrequency of use, I made a decision to let her go.

Reverting to public transport takes planning and sanguinity. From Erraid, there are, utilising the “most efficient/cheapest” coefficient, eight different legs to get to Stroud.

The upside: plenty of time for reading and taking in the views.

The downside: a man vomiting into his own lap in the seat behind me half an hour into the coach journey from Glasgow to Birmingham.

As I was slumped in a metal chair, staring at Ozzy, the huge reclaimed-metal bull in New Street Station, I realised I had achieved a life goal:

I have no keys.

During a time of managerial responsibility at school, I had so many keys I had to have a keyring hanging off another keyring.

After a small mental-health event, I decided to simplify life, and the shedding of keys seemed a good yardstick. Not the only one, but symbolic, at least.

In Italy, we never locked the doors of our little apartments at the top of the hill, but there was still the trusty Yaris and the school that kept my pockets a-jangle.

Erraid is a place with few locks. The ones on the bathrooms are the only ones I can think of.

There are no places that are out of bounds, although guests are discouraged from spending time in the chainsaw shed.

My personal effects are either too old or dirty to be of interest to even the most ardent kleptomaniac, should such a person decide that a week’s retreat on Erraid would be just the thing.

In the end, though, having no keys points to there being less to think about, which is fine by me.

I enjoy using the freed-up space talking to the pigs!