The power of prayer

It was the day after my sunset visit to the Culloden Battlefield. I was visiting Inverness.

It's difficult to say much about Inverness. It's supposed to be 'the Capital of the Highlands', and it amply qualifies for that title. It's the only very large town in the north of Scotland. It's placed where road and rail routes converge. It has an airport. It has facilities galore, and is the headquarters of all the services you can name. It has by far the best shopping in the Highlands, the go-to place for almost a hundred miles around.

If you lived there, and wanted all the amenities of a city, you would not find it deficient.

And yet something is missing. I'm not quite certain what; but Inverness wouldn't be my number one choice for an interesting weekend break. Maybe Inverness has too little personality. Maybe it's just too 'ordinary', so that you can happily bypass it on your way to somewhere else.

Anyway, I will agree that its Eastgate shopping centre is one of the best, and it was one of the two reasons why I went to Inverness. The other? I wanted to check out a famous secondhand bookshop called Leakeys.

It was an easy drive in from the caravan site. Where to park? A slip road into the Eastgate car park presented itself, and I turned off. The car park was filling up fast, but I soon found a space. With Fiona neatly parked, I looked for the way to the shops.

And at once discovered that the car park was larger than I thought, and on more than one level. And the next level up spanned the road I came in on, the road tunnelling through, meaning that at ground level there were two parts to the car park, one each side of this road. I didn't realise that straight away, which would have consequences later.

Well, I had a good wander around, seeing a lot more of the town than I could in 2010. It was midday, and everything was open, so I took my time and had a good look. There were plenty of people. The place must be a magnet for shoppers.

I remembered where Leakeys was, in this rather fine old building.

It had once been some kind of church. Inside it was a vast space, with spiral steps leading up to an upper level that clung to the sides only, so that you could look down to the ground floor. I was once shown a bookshop in Hastings, housed in an old chapel, much on the same lines. But this seemed bigger.

Such a lot of books in one place! I wasn't there for anything in particular. I just wanted to look. But when last here, in 2010, M--- was with me, and she'd wanted to see whether Leakeys had any books on old country life in Aberdeenshire, as she was researching her great-grandparents' background. But Leakeys had been shut. By that time our relationship was over, but I'd agreed to her coming to Scotland with me so that she could donate some World War I diaries and other material to the Gordon Highlanders Museum in Aberdeen. Also so that she could have a good stab - maybe her last chance - at searching out old addresses, and genealogical information generally. I remember her interviewing a farmer in the Huntly area, for example. She'd thought Leakeys might be a good source of information, and had been disappointed that the place had been closed on the day we came.

Well, I was here now. And I felt duty bound to see whether Leakeys did in fact have a lot of books on old Aberdeenshire. And it had. I leafed through one or two, but found nothing about her family. A whole morning's searching here might turn up something useful, but I had to get back to Fiona before my parking time ran out. In any case, we were no longer in touch; and if by happy chance I did pick up a book all about her family, what then? So I left it. As a souvenir, I bought a copy of the works of Malory - he being the author of a collection of Arthurian tales, published in the 1480s.

There wasn't time to dilly-dally now. I went back to the Eastgate car park via the Victorian Market, an arcade full of unusual little shops. For instance, a shop that will kit you out with a set of bagpipes.

One had a dummy outside, dressed to resemble Marilyn Monroe in a playful pose - a strange thing to see nowadays, sixty years after her heyday.

It was stepping back a bit to take these shots that made me get in the way of a man in a hurry. We didn't actually collide, but I felt a bump, and he had to swerve from the straight line he's been taking. I immediately apologised, but he said nothing, not even a growl, and just sped onwards, clutching his carrier bags. There was something about his single-minded demeanour that made me understand that he was an odd character who wanted to avoid all unnecessary contact. I'd just been something in his way, a brief annoyance to be instantly forgotten. So it was impossible to think him deliberately rude. He has stayed in my memory as my sole experience of Scottish grumpiness. Everyone else was cheerfulness itself.

So, back at Eastgate. Where to pay for my parking? I found a door to the car park, and a pay machine one floor down. Now to find my car. I probably had fifteen minutes to drive out before I ran out of time, and be stopped at the barriers.

Twenty minutes later, I was still looking, and getting very worried. The car park seemed huge, and without much signage. I couldn't even locate the management office, where I could ask where I was and where my car might be.

Up and down car ramps I went - who knows where the stairs were - but to no avail. All parts of the car park looked much the same as the rest. I reckoned that by now I was well out of time, and would have trouble at the barrier for sure. I even began to wonder whether Fiona had been stolen, despite her immobiliser, and my having the key. I was working my way towards tears of frustration and despair, I can tell you - this was turning into a nightmare!

Two women saw me. They came up to me. 'Are you all right?' 'No...I can't find my car! I've been looking for ages, but I haven't seen it yet.' 'Oh, we know what big car parks are like. Back home in Parramatta - that's Sydney, Australia - we have a car park even bigger than this one, and twice as confusing.' 'You're from Australia?' 'Yes, dear, on holiday.' Well, this was intriguing! It completely capped my own case, of coming all the way from Sussex. It was the diversion I needed to calm myself down and get a grip.

'Where did you leave your car?' 'I turned left off a slip road, just as you come towards Eastgate from out of town, and I'm parked not far from the entrance, at road level.' 'You know, I think you're in the wrong bit of the car park.' 'Oh. You think so? So...I've got to get across that road, and look there?' A nod. Yikes. A whole section of the car park yet to look at. And the ticket problem now humongous. I must have looked very woebegone.

'Do you believe in the power of prayer?'

Ah. Not an easy question to answer, if you aren't religious. 'If it can help, it's worth a go - don't you think?' I carefully replied.

'That's right, dear. Now you just visualise your car, still safe where you left it, and pray for guidance in getting back to it. We'll be praying too.'

'I'll do just that. Thank you - you've made me think straight again. I feel sure I'll find my car now.'

And I meant those words. I wish I'd got their names and taken a picture to remember them by, but there was no time to spare. I found a ground-level exit, crossed the road, and (illegally) walked in using the car-only entrance. And, thank goodness, there was Fiona. I fired her up, and headed for the barrier. Would I get out, when I fed the ticket into the machine at the exit? Yes! The barrier lifted, even though it was now at least half an hour since I'd paid for my time. I put my welly down, I can tell you, and got clear of that barrier before it changed its mind.

Eastgate car park at Inverness? Never again.

Those Australian ladies helped me greatly. Impossible to be sure that their prayers did the trick. But their calming influence certainly got me in the right frame of mind to think clearly again. They were at least 70% of the solution. No, 80%.

After all this palaver, I felt the Melford Tissues needed restoring as a matter of urgency. Having escaped from Inverness over the Kessock Bridge, I found a garden centre at Bogallan on the Black Isle that had a very popular coffee shop, and consumed these items without guilt:

The cake was really nice. I said I'd be back, but never made it. Next time I'm in the area, then.