Ian Reid

Uncle Ian died last night. His daughter was by his side, and he’d had a good life of ninety years, most recently followed by a difficult two months with esophageal cancer. He and I only really got to know one another in the last few years, but he has been a big part of my adventure here in Scotland.

It was to his house that I plunked myself, my dog, five suitcases, and a whack o’ travelling-during-COVID problems 14 months ago. And he seemed delighted to have us. He was particularly fond of Scout, and loved taking her on long walks through the woods around Braidwood. The three of us did a road trip to the south of England last March, and he was great company, telling me all about his travels on a motorcycle all over Scotland and England when he was a young man first starting out. He also raved about my driving on that trip to anyone who would listen, so of course I adored him. Interestingly, he greeted my every visit with a 6 oz tumblerful of gin, regardless of the time of day – if it was before three in the afternoon (once was 10:30 a.m.), I would demur and set the glass in the fridge. After three o’clock I would carefully tip 4 oz back into the bottle and then sit and have a wee drink (or two) with him in the kitchen. *Edit: I should be clear: the gin was for me. He’d heard I like gin so was always well stocked. It’s not like he was sitting around all day pounding back mugs full of mother’s ruin. White wine was his tipple.

I am definitely going to miss that smiling face (he so looked like Dad), the stories about the old days (particularly the ones about my Grandma – she was something else), the way he spoiled Scout, and the way he called me ‘pet’.