Stranraer

Stranraer, where the Irish Sea meets Clyde’s soft sigh,
A harbour town of gulls and granite, beneath a grey‑tinged sky.
Cobbled lanes recall the clatter of carts that once did roam,
While ferries hum their steady tune, carrying hearts toward home.

The scent of salt and peat drifts on the bracing wind,
Past lighthouse beams that sweep the night, their steady glow refined.
In quiet pubs, the lowland lilt of stories mixes strong ale,
And laughter rolls like rolling waves along the rugged vale.

Here history lingers in the stone, in every winding close,
A whispered echo of the past where restless tides repose.
So raise a glass to Stranraer’s charm, its modest, steady grace—
A northern jewel, modestly bright, embraced by sea and space.