I must have been about twelve. My parents had taken me on a camping holiday in Hungary. This was the sixties, the Iron Curtain was an oppressive reality, and visitors from anywhere as far west as the British Isles were a rarity, not something most Hungarians encountered.
We went for a day in Budapest. Dad parked the car on the outskirts and we got a bus into the centre. I've no idea what prompted me to do this, but I'd decided I'd wear my kilt (Crawford tartan of course). This was a stupid idea on two counts. Firstly, kilts are hot to wear, and Budapest in Summer is humid, so I soon found I was in for a sweaty day. And secondly, as I was about to discover, the concept of the kilt wasn't a familiar one to the locals....
This became clear as we passed a news kiosk, when the vendor jumped up, rushed out and stared at me. All the way down a very long street. Every time we looked back there he was, until, thankfully, the road took a turn. Then there was the shop my mother wanted to visit, looking for, I think, an embroidered tablecloth. The shop was dim inside, cool compared to the baking streets, so at first I was pleased to go in. There was one woman behind the counter, serving the one customer in the shop. On seeing me she forgot about her client, rushed round from behind the display cabinet and, ignoring my parents, homed in on me, bent down, and lifted..... I was twelve.
Later, getting back to the car, a group of hairdressers emerged from their shop, keen to ask us something. We spoke no Magyar, they spoke no English. Mum and I retired to the Cortina, leaving my father to try and fathom out the cause of their excitement. After a minute or so, and a lot of sign language, his bafflement turned to laughter and he made his way back to us. It took a bit of time before he could speak well enough to explain that they'd had a bet on as to whether I was boy or girl.
I was twelve. I never wore a kilt again....
Until this year. Cue Kiltwalk, and the decision to do it in the proper attire. Once I'd got a few training walks in, and was no longer getting blistered feet, it seemed like a good idea to try a walk in the kilt. Discovering unexpected chafing, or negative effects from having a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way, was best found out well before the day itself. So I took to wearing the kilt into town, then on my walks, and it got to see a few Fringe shows. It even made an appearance on TV (link only available until 3 October).
And so we became a couple, and it served me well on my walking challenge. Although the nearest thing I got to an injury did come from a soggy kilt hem, the one day I walked in a downpour, when the constant rubbing of sodden cloth nearly had me bleeding at one spot at the back of my right knee. But we didn't fall out over it, I just took to carrying plasters with me every time we went out.
I like it. I'm surprised how much I enjoy wearing it, the feeling it gives me, and I'm sure it won't be hanging lonely in the wardrobe until prep begins for Kiltwalk 2019 (yes, I will be begging for money again next year). There's even a chance I'll look for another one.
It's taken five decades, but my childhood day of Hungarian trauma has finally been resolved.
And finally.... many thanks to everyone who supported me and donated money for my walk. If you'd still like to give something then please click on this link.
Proof I made it to the end :
And click on this link if you want to see how I managed to still walk like a vaguely normal human after fifteen and a half miles!
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