Protector of the Realm

Holyrood Palace is the Queen's home when in Scotland. It is much more elaborate than publicly-supported housing in the U.S.

It’s quite an experience to shepherd two dozen wide-eyed teenagers through an unfamiliar city. As one of only two male chaperones, and by a wide margin the more formidable, my role while on the move frequently consisted of scanning the perimeter of the column for possible interlopers and intercepting those interlopers before they could gain access to members of the group.

Surprisingly, London was less threatening than either Liverpool or Edinburgh. The only real incident occurred when I spotted a seedy character walking in the street parallel to our group as we approached Piccadilly Circus. As we neared a parked BMW, I figured that, if he swerved inside the car, there might be trouble afoot. He did. Surprisingly, he worked his way past the girls until he was directly behind two of the boys. Meanwhile, I accelerated until I was directly behind him.

Both boys, of course, had ignored the constant reminders about not wearing their wallets in their back pockets. The wallets, stuffed with crisp new pound notes, were peeking seductively out of the pockets of their jeans. As the intruder prepared to make his move, I announced, “I’m right behind you!” He immediately spun on his heels, took a right turn, and crossed the street.

Sometimes the incidents could be amusing. After our tour of Edinburgh castle, we gave the students some free time to visit the shops and stands along the lane below. As I passed a rather strangely attired young man, he asked me if I was looking for “groovies.” I had no idea what groovies were--drugs? hookers?--so I kept walking.

Not ten seconds had passed when I turned around and saw two of our more statuesque young ladies being stopped by the same man. They were too polite to walk away as he began to speak earnestly to them. No pimp or pusher was going to talk to my girls, so I bolted back up the incline and pushed him back a step or two with a hand on his chest.

“What business do you have with these girls?” I demanded. “They are under my protection. You just back off!” The girls took the opportunity to disappear down the hill.

Well, it turned out that the pimp/pusher was actually a Hare Krishna follower who was trying to give the girls a free CD of what he called “monk rock.” Hare Krishna believers, I knew, were non-violent, non-drug-using vegetarians who avoid sex except for procreation. I felt somewhat chagrined about my over-reaction, so I talked to him a bit about the Ramayana and George Harrison. I did not, however feel bad enough to make a donation.

My role as protector underwent its stiffest--yet funniest--challenge when Ian led the group down into the lower level of the city below the castle. “Watch out for Australians along here,” he cautioned us. “They’re crazy!”

I looked ahead and saw two refugees from a Foster Lager commercial sitting at the outermost table of an open-air pub. I positioned myself right in front of their table and ushered the girls past quickly, single file, on the crowded sidewalk.

“Hey, Mate, yer blockin’ our view!” grinned one of the intoxicated Aussies.

“That’s why I’m standing here,” I told him.

“Well, that’s not very spoooortin’ of ya,” belched the other. We were having fun now.

“Hey, Mate, these girls are only sixteen,” I answered.

“Wha’s yer point?” the first wanted to know.

But by this time, the girls were safely past.

"The Folly of Scotland"--the money ran out long before this likeness of the Parthenon could be completed