Ice cream in Cairndhu

Ice cream in Cairndhu. When the summer came, I remember standing with Rob staring through the big plate glass window into what we called the milk bar, where they sold Ice Cream. We didn’t have money for ice cream so we were just staring in. Inside, a wee lad called Pat was leaning over the high counter watching the old man who owned the place make ice cream.

The ice cream machine was like a deep mixer with a sort of bin that they poured the ice cream mixture into and it went round and round until it was properly chilled. The bin was then taken out and put into the refrigerated hole they served the ice cream from.

In any case, Pat Broon had a school cap on and, as we watched, his cap fell off into the mixer. I’ll never forget the look of absolute disgust and frustration on the old chap's face as looked at Pat, shut down the mixer and delved into it to get the cap out.

He pull out the cap and slapped it, full of ice cream, on to Pat’s head. Pat started to howl and rushed out of the shop and ran away down the street.

We watched him go.

‘I don’t know what he’s bubblin’ about,’ Rob said. ‘He got all that ice cream for nothing. He might have stopped and let us have a lick.’

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