The Last Boat Home

Living on an island has its hazards, one of which is making it back in time to catch the last ferry. Today I nearly didn’t make it.

The Last Boat Home, or, Panic on Rannoch Moor

To be sung, ballad style, to a lilting Scottish tune.

Heading uphill to Rannoch Moor,
The petrol light came on.
There was petrol not too far away:
Behind me – at Tyndrum.

What to do? It wasn’t far.
I could easily choose to turn,
But if I went back and took the time
I’d miss the last boat home.

When in doubt, my motto is,
Always keep moving on.
Twenty-four miles to Glen Coe:
That shouldn’t take me long.

I ploughed ahead, behind a bus,
Willing myself to calm.
Surely it was worth the risk,
To catch the last boat home?

I fixed my gaze on the petrol gauge,
Steadily creeping down.
By the edge of Glen Coe it was south of left,
I was driving on the fumes.

A wind arose and shook the car,
The rain came pouring down.
I really began to doubt that I
Could make the last boat home.

A petrol station saved my hash,
And I filled her up and went on
The wind and rain began to lash,
But I drove my poor car home.

Across Corran ferry, the last dash back
With only an hour to go.
I drove like a fool through tempestuous air,
and arrived in Lochaline with minutes to spare,
but I caught the last boat home.


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