I need a break from Govanhill.
Hit the road, the open road, Pollokshaws Road, see where it takes me.
Route 66 to Shawlands, Newlands, Merrylee.
Highway 61 to revisit the Gorbals, Oatlands, Richmond Park.
Big world out there.
I could be crossing the continent coast to coast, desert freeway with the top down. Carndwadric, Thornliebank, Hillpark.
Rickety gas stations and burger joints and neon-lit diners selling corndogs and grits and refried beans. Myrtle Park, Toryglen, Langside.
There’s a soundtrack too, with slide guitar, probably in D minor. Maxwell Park, Pollokshields, Dumbreck Road.
It’s Jack Kerouac, isn’t it, wise mystic bum saint in that soft desolate west, howl of the freight train in the soulful American night.
Junction three on the A727 just past Clarkston.
Want a lonesome ballad about life on the road? Try waiting for a late bus from Polmadie on a wet Tuesday in February. It’ll break your heart.
I might need a break from Govanhill but there’s no need to leave tenement city.
Glasgow has the best beaches in Scotland.
Pristine sand, sunset cocktails, relaxing sea air, none of that shite.
I’m talking the Broomielaw, Yoker, Clyde and Forth canal.
Go swimming at Kingston docks, Prince’s dock, or the old dry dock, splat.
Take a cruise on the Renfrew ferry, the Govan ferry, or round the pond in Queens Park.
Wild camping in the wilderness of Kelvingrove, Glesga Green, Pollok estate.
Escape to the mountains, and not just Mount Florida but Mount Vernon, even Mountblow.
Flee to the hills, and I don’t mean Crosshill or Maryhill, I mean Sighthill and Prospecthill.
And then back to Govanhill, jewel in the crown, hidden gem, perfect holiday destination.
It’s out there, I know it is, I’ve seen it, I’ve been it.
Stunning landscape, vibrant culture, friendly locals.
Nae midgies either.