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Some tales of hitchhiking took up Monday's Tom Morton Show...and some didn't make it on air. For Graham Harris Graham, the kilt was his salvation...

I'm a regular listener & have tuned in on line here from Allentown, Pennsylvania while on a business trip. Your hitch hiking segment reminded me of a climbing trip I made to the Pyrenees many years ago. After a week ticking off some fabulous peaks, we finally ran out of food & descended about 4,000 ft to find a village to restock.

Unfortunately we reached a road & found ourselves separated from our objective by a narrow, unlit 7km road tunnel, far too dangerous to navigate on foot. Of course, we decided to hitch it & after two frustrating hours we were amazed to get a ride from a Glaswegian driving a beaten up old Fiat. Asked why when no one else was in such charitable mood that day, he pointed at our legs, saying that it would have been just plain rude to drive by two Scots standing in the middle of nowhere wearing kilts.

We safely navigated the tunnel of course, restocked with rations & decided to take a long, steep path above the tunnel back to camp, calculating that the odds of getting another ride from a Glaswegian in the central Pyrennees, about as remote as some of the mountains we had just climbed.

So the moral is for all hitch hikers is if you have a kilt, wear it.

...and then there was Graeme from Rutherglen on Wednesday, talking about 'honesty boxes':

Two friends and I once played a round of golf at the little course on the west side of Bute. It's more "adventure" golf really as there are no fairways, just fenced off areas for teeing and putting. These are designed to keep away the cows and sheep which also double as "natural hazards". Anyway, after trudging through the bracken we came upon the little green club hut and went inside. No one around except an honesty box and a room replete with bottles of every variety of alcohol under the sun! Tempted we decided to play our round and see if the stuff was still there when we finished.

Off we went hacking through the heather and our conversation largely filled with who fancied drinking what on our return.

Then, out of the undergrowth emerged three guys dressed in full Old Course finery - pink Pringle jerseys, grey slacks and white golf shoes ."Are you in the medal competion? they asked. Us, I should say, wearing jeans, gutties and in my case an old parka replied that we were not. We were then suddenly aware of more of these threesomes, all equally sporting lavenders, mauves and various garish golf gear.

Turned out that the booze was the entry requirement for their competition. So, I'm thankful we resisted our initial urge to help ourselves.

Wouldn't want to get lynched by a mob of golfing fascionistas !

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