Exactly forty years ago this summer, while hitchhiking through Scotland, my mom and her friend were picked up by a bus driver who drove them north to Buckie, a small fishing village on the North Sea. The bus driver, Jim, lent them his car for a week and brought them to a friend’s B & B where he said they could stay and eat for free. I grew up hearing stories about the tranquil, modest town where the road went right up to the sea, where my mom drank her first liquor in a pub, and where the bus driver and B&B owners’ generosity was without bounds. Buckie became a mythical place, so far removed from the hectic life we lead in the US, and my mom always talked about returning to Buckie and thanking Jim and the B&B owners for their kindness.
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