IT was with mixed feelings that I digested the news that the bijou village of Cockenzie may be about to become "the gateway for cruise visitors".
According to developers, it is the perfect location for a purpose-built terminal which, a decade or so hence, could accommodate around 200 cruise liners a year, each disgorging hundreds if not thousands of well-fed and watered passengers intent on seeing the sites. My ambivalence stems from innate cynicism. For I imagine that the day-trippers will be shuttle-cocked in luxury coaches directly to Edinburgh, some 10 miles to the west. Meanwhile, East Lothian, a pearl among plooks, will be largely ignored and will benefit little from the hordes it has bivouacking in its backyard.
I am aware that, when in competition with other desirable destinations (Venice springs to mind), Cockenzie may not at first appear high on one's list of ports of call. Its most notable landmark, for example, is the twin chimneys of a redundant, coal-fired power station that some think of as an eyesore; others believe them to be a landmark. Certainly, it would take an LS Lowry to see them as other than ugly. But that, we are assured, is destined to change. For example, there are plans for an eco village, a green-themed visitor centre dedicated to John Muir, the Dunbar-born father of American environmentalism, and a business park. A budget of £300 million has been mentioned which has led one academic to pronounce: "It would easily represent the biggest single economic development in East Lothian for generations."
Who am I to question such an authority? In any case, as a resident of the area I am obliged to cheer when anyone dips his hand into his pocket on my behalf. My main concern, however, is that what berths in East Lothian should stay berthed there. I dare say our capital has its charms but they are increasingly camouflaged in scaffolding. Indeed, I have a friend in Musselburgh who has not been to Edinburgh this millennium for as he often says: "Whit's it got that we huvnae?" It has a castle, to be sure, but East Lothian has many more. It has history, that one cannot deny, but it is pitiful when compared to ours. Lest anyone forget, here is where James Hutton stumbled across the spectacular rock formations which in the 18th century led to him becoming the father of geology. In short, this is the origin of the species; you can't get much more historical than that.
I appreciate that readers in the west may not be be acquainted with the east so perhaps a whistle-stop tour is in order. Disembarking at Cockenzie, the cruisers are immediately in what has been tagged "the golf coast". Musselburgh, as every truant ought to know, is where the first Open Championships were held. You can still play that dinky course while simultaneously watching thoroughbreds race round its perimeter. Before golf was gentrified it was like bare knuckle fighting. When the best player in St Andrews took on his Musselburgh rival, the former was so intimidated by the crowd that he retreated to Ma Forman's, a nearby pub, and refused to come out, fearful as he was for his life. At least that was his story.
Following the coast, we come first to Prestonpans where in 1745 Bonnie Prince Charlie chalked up a rare and famous victory. In my youth I was constantly reminded of this by feisty 'Panners', many of whom passionately re-enacted the battle every Saturday night. Hurtling past Cockenzie we arrive in Port Seton where almost every wall has a mural. Comparisons with Italian frescoes are not as odious as they may seem. After all, this is the home town of John Bellany, artist extraordinaire.
Soon we are in and beyond Longniddry. Ought it, I have often wondered, to have been called Shortniddry? Gullane is yet another place in thrall to the cult of golf. It was also home to Nigel Tranter, the bestselling historical novelist, who wrote as he walked, even in the wettest weather. This may be why his stories move at such a lick. Posh folk pronounce it "Gillan". They are to be avoided at all costs.
North Berwick is next on our itinerary. It used to be called "the Biarritz of the North", possibly facetiously. The Bass Rock is the town's best feature. David Attenborough, no less, said it was "one of the 12 wildlife wonders of the world" on account of the size of its population of gannets whose incontinent droppings have given it a curious white topping. If you don't mind being dive-bombed you can take a boat to it, assuming, of course, that you bothered to get off the one you came on.
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