28. Islay and Jura

May 26^th - 28^th

After a short drive I got the ferry from Kennacraig in western Argyll to Port Askaig in Islay. The trip takes two hours, down West Loch Tarbert then across the Sound of Jura into the Sound of Islay, and it's spectacularly beautiful. The sea was like a millpond and the Paps of Jura were prominent over to the north.

 

The Islay ferry at Kennacraig

I had a bite to eat and found myself sitting opposite a middle-aged woman who had been one of the SOAS team (The School of Oriental and African Studies) team which lost in the final of University Challenge this year. She was knitting; now, I don't know a great deal about knitting, but I think she was much better at answering difficult general knowledge questions than she was at knitting. I smiled and she smiled back and she looked quite pleased and surprised to have been recognised, but I didn't ask for her autograph.

Jura, from the Islay ferry

I had planned to go to stay with my cousin Jennifer at her home on Jura, but the ferryman said my van would be damaged by grounding on the slipway at the landing on Jura. (The ferry is very small and looks like an old WWII tank landing craft.) This was a bit of a blow. I drove off into Islay to try to find a caravan site, but without luck until Jennifer's daughter Sarah, who works in the Community Office at Craighouse, the only village on Jura, found one at Port Mhor on the south-west side of the island. Booked in there, but there were no electrical pitches left. Fridge in danger of becoming smelly and no TV or radio. Went to bed early.

The Jura ferry at Port Askaig

The next morning I drove up to Port Askaig, left the van there and got the ferry over to Jura on foot. Jennifer collected me and drove me the nine miles to Craighouse. It was a lovely warm day, and we went for a walk through the village, past the Jura distillery, up the only road on the island, alongside the Sound of Jura, and collected Jennifer's grand-daughter, Ava, from school, having first popped in to see Sarah at work. On the way back I had a look at an exhibition in the church of old photographs of Jura life. It looked harsh. We stopped off to buy ice-creams at the village shop and ate them sitting on the quay. In the afternoon, Jennifer's husband Keith drove us up to the far north of the island. Many deer and few people; there are two hundred people in total on Jura. Sarah and her husband Ronald, who is a native of Jura, live in an old ghillie's cottage, one of a pair, in an otherwise isolated spot. Jura is divided into (I think) six estates, one of which is owned by David Cameron's wife's family. Another is owned by an Australian who is planning to build a golf-course.

Jura distillery

 I got the ferry back to Islay, spent another night at Port Mhor, again without electricity, and met Jennifer at Bridgend, at the head of Loch Indaal, the next day. We took the van up to the north-west of the island to an RSPB reserve on Loch Gruinart. Again, it was a beautiful day and we sat outside the van and had a cup of tea. After that we went back to Bridgend and had a drink sitting outside the hotel there. It was a great treat to sit outside in the sun. It's been a long time coming this year. The islands have a relatively mild climate because of the effect of the Gulf Stream.



An old Jura house from the photo exhibition

It was ironic that I visited Islay now that I no longer drink. Islay malts used to be my favourite whisky, particularly Laphroaig. I loved the slightly medicinal tang of the peat and iodine flavour. While searching for a camp site I had seen all the nine distilleries except three and had seen the road-signs pointing to two of the others. The nine are Caol Ila, Bunnahaibhan, Bowmore, Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Ardbeg, Bruichladdich, Kilchoman and Gartbreck (a new one).  Outside the Bruichladdich distillery is a huge disused copper pot still, about fifteen feet high.

I caught the evening ferry back to the mainland and dived into the site at Lochgilpead at about 11:30 . Slept well, despite the smelly fridge.

A view from Jennifer's house

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another view from Jennifer's house

 

27. Lochgilpead

Private Site
23^rd May - 25^th May

It's my birthday to-day. Happy birthday, Rog. I see I share my birthday with, amongst others, George Osborne(43) (oh dear), Joan Collins (81), Graeme Hick (48), Richard Hill (41), Anatoly Karpov (63), Martin McGuinness (64) and Bob Mortimer (55). Could be worse. If my Mum had hung on for another day I would have been born on the same day as Bob Dylan.

Sixty-seven and I still haven't opened the batting for England at Lord's. Must try harder.

 

Ardrishaig Bowls Club

Quite a long drive (for me) to-day, 58 miles, up Loch Lomond to Tarbet, round the top of Loch Long, through the Argyll Forest Park, past Rest and be Thankful (a place on the map but which I didn't notice on the road) and down the west bank of Loch Fyne past Inveraray to Lochgilpead. I would have liked to go to Crianlarich because I love saying it. Crianlarich, Crianlarich , Crianlarich. There, I said it without even going there. As I set out the sun was shining on Loch Lomond and on the surrounding mountains and things looked great. There was even a bit of snow left on the mountains. The drive was predictably scenic and I passed the Loch Fyne Oyster Centre. It was strange to think of oysters inland, but then, of course, Loch Fyne is a sea loch. There is a huge acreage of sitka spruce planting here on the hillsides along the way and many of the plantations are being harvested. It's a great pity they make such a mess when they fell the trees, leaving a landscape like a World War I battlefield. Inveraray was the only place of any significance and it was totally monochrome, or black and white anyway, and it looked as if it was wearing a uniform. Possibly the whole place is owned by one person, just as most houses in Midhurst have yellow window frames because they are owned by the Cowdray Estate. 

I had a minor disaster with the gears on the bike and so took it into Crinan Cycles on the main street of Lochgilpead. The guy there fixed it for me within the hour, but at the cost of a new derailleur set-up, chain and back wheel. Mmm, expensive, but it goes like a dream now. To punish it I will take it on a long run along the Crinan Canal to the west coast. Not to be left out I fixed my bike computer myself. It's surprising what a difference it makes to know how fast you are going and how far you have travelled, to-day and since the beginning of time. Adds a bit of spice to the legwork.

On Friday night some bad people came, the first I've encountered so far. I was reading in the van when a motorhome came roaring fast past me (the limit is 5mph) and reversed, fast again, to skid to a halt about three feet from me. Three men were in it. I told them they were too close and they seemed amazed. A small old one started getting uppity. They said the warden had told them to pitch close. When I told them again they were too close the old one started getting twitchy and saying “Why?” “Why”? I said “What do you mean 'Why'. You're too close”. Luckily the driver had half a brain and moved over. The old one kept looking in my window and staring. Jesus! I don't need this. This is the trouble with badly-run sites. You don't get this kind of nonsense with Club sites. Thankfully, this morning they had gone. Bad people!

My cycling helmet has been a bit sloppy since I had my hair cut very expensively, and I looked for a towelling headband to take-up the slack. To great amusement I tried a hunting, shooting, fishing sort of shop. I said that I didn't think fishermen wore such a thing and the good-natured shopkeeper said “No we make sure we don't sweat”. I like a bit of craic on a Saturday morning.   

 

Towards Crinan

The Crinan Canal was built in the late 18^th century. James Watt was, among others, involved in the project, but he was better at steam engines and there were many problems. It was dug through peat bog (the Moine Mhor, one of the largest areas of raised peat bog in Britain) and the walls collapsed, flooding the surrounding land. The help of Thomas Telford, a real engineer, was enlisted in 1811 and, after six years, the canal re-opened in 1817 and has been just fine since. Talk to the engineer, not the oily rag! The purpose of the canal was to save ships rounding the treacherous Mull of Kintyre when heading for the Outer Hebrides. Ships could sail down the Clyde, round the Sound of Bute, up into Loch Fyne to Lochgilpead then through the canal to Crinan on the western shore of Kintyre and into the Sound of Jura.

The Crinan Canal for me

I don't like the wild raging sea

Them big foamin' breakers

Wad gie ye the shakers

The Crinan Canal for me.

Small cargo vessels called 'Clyde Puffers' made many of these trips, laden with coal and general necessities for the isolated communites of the West. One of these splendid little boats is preserved and moored in the basin at Ardrishaig at the eastern end of the canal.

 

The last Clyde Puffer

 

I cycled from Lochgilpead to the northern end at Crinan, all the way along the towpath. On the way I overtook a woman cycling with a small black and tan terrier. Suddenly, a fish rose, and the dog leaped into the canal and swam after the ripples. Finding no fish he swam back to the bank with a look of total bliss on his little face. Somebody's day made!

Also on the way I passed Moine Mhor (The Big Bog), where the Dalriada lived on rocky outcrops when they migrated from Ireland 1500 years ago. The water in the canal is black, presumably from the peat surroundings, black, black as a banker's heart. (Sorry, I watched The Fast Show last night).

Also on the way I heard my first cuckoo of the year, loud and clear, calling from the wooded hill overlooking the canal.

The Cuckoo comes in April

He sings his song in May

In June he dines on roast beef

In July goes away

That's an old one, but I think I got the third line wrong.

Crinan itself is just a basin on the canal and a sea-loch on Loch Crinan, an offshoot of the Sound of Jura. There is a bar there and a coffee shop and a small lighthouse. I had a rest, looked out at the hills and mountains surrounding the water and started back for the eastern end at Ardrishaig. It was a really enjoyable trip and amounted to exactly twenty miles. My knees were humming by the end and I'm a bit stiff now. In fact, I was too tired to have the barbecue I had planned. Although my strength was sapped by losing about three pints of blood to the midges, I should be fitter then this. Another twenty miles on Sunday! The bike went beautifully.

 

The Basin at Crinan

Talking of midges; they are omni-present here (plenty of water) and very persistent but not nearly as vicious as the West of Ireland midges. Those blighters were really voracious and you could feel them boring into you. Sometimes a bite would actually make you jump, and you couldn't stay outside amongst them when they were in full attack mode. Someone I know made some anti-midge protection lotion from a recipe on the Internet. It worked really well, but when she went back to the site to make some more she found it was intended for horses!

Talking of engineers and oily rags reminds me of a previous life working on contract for an insurance company in Croydon in the 'Eighties. A team of six of us had risen to the exciting challenge of migrating data from the old underwriting computer system to the new one, hopefully due to go live at some time in the not too distant future. Starting out as The Migration Team we became The Mutants, because the quality of the data was so poor that we had to mutate it, and, indeed, make most of it up to turn it into information to populate the new system. It was a dark and lonely job, totally without glamour or kudos, and we were all Oily Rags. I remember going up to the City to a meeting with our team leader, and he stopped off at Victoria Station to print some business cards for himself with the legend “Nick Hallett – Oily Rag”. He was a bit of a character.

 

26. By the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond

C & C Club site
21^st - 22^nd May

A thirty-seven mile drive here from Stepps, right through the middle of Glasgow on the M8, over the Clyde and then back over it again on the Erskine Bridge, skirting Dumbarton, which looked interesting. Just before the centre of Glasgow was quite a sizeable loch in a public park with over a hundred swans on it. I guess that's where my three from last night came from.

The first sight of Loch Lomond through a break in the trees and surrounded by mountains is quite breathtaking. The site is right on the bank of the loch in a 'conservation village' (whatever that is) called Luss. It's part of a big estate, I think, probably owned by Abramovic. It's a very strange village, perfect in every way. Tourists come here to gawp at the neat stone cottages with their beautiful gardens of many colours and to take a boat down the loch. So many come that there is a huge car park, with 'Visitor Centre' and 'Glass Studio' and 'Highland Gift Shop'. I went into the 'Village General Store', hoping to buy some bread and milk, but was confronted with souvenirs and woolly stuff and craft work. The whole place gave me a creepy feeling. It's a bit like Portmeirion, the village in “The Prisoner”. As I rode around I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see a giant white balloon coming bouncing down the road after me. I began to wonder if the people who lived here were like the Stepford Wives. So different from Stepps, a mere thirty-seven miles away.

Loch Lomond, looking north

I think I might become tired, if I lived here, of tourists poking cameras into my front garden and walking mindlessly in groups of fifteen down the middle of the road. I even saw a German in full highland dress (well, he was speaking German, anyway; maybe he was a cosmopolitan local). If I lived here I might dye my beard tartan and set myself up as a local landmark and charge the grockles to take a photograph of themselves with me.

I had a look in the graveyard to see if there was anybody famous buried there (that's the sort of thing you do to amuse yourself in a place like this). Nobody, but one headstone had an interesting Gaelic inscription:-

An cuid de Phàrras dhaibh

I wonder what it means. Another, that of a “wife and mother” of thirty-five, said “Thy Will Be Done”. I'm afraid I wouldn't be quite so accepting if I had been her husband or child.

 

The main street, Luss

But let's talk about the good things. The site itself is typical Camping and Caravanning Club; a bit scruffy and rough-and-ready but spotless and well-run and with friendly staff. The pitches are in clearings, so I have my own private bluebell wood. Overlooking the village is a large hill almost covered in bluebells. I was talking to the warden about it. He said he and his wife had gone out on to the loch the previous day and had taken a photo of it, but 'it hadn't come through'. We agreed that some things are just too beautiful to be photographed. Many gardens in the village have thriving azalea pontica in full bloom, and the scent is just exquisite. I remember my Dad used to have three or four in his garden and I used to go and stick my head in amongst them to get the full effect. Even the leaves are scented. I took a couple of his seedlings to Ireland and they started well, so I hope they are thriving now. Bluebells and azalea pontica. As good as it gets.

Bluebell Hill

I bought myself a bottle of Irn-Bru because (a) it's Scottish and (b) it's made from girders. It says on the bottle “Bru'd in Scotland to a secret recipe for over 100 years” then goes on to give you the ingredients! Some secret, eh? What, by the way, is “Ponceau 4R” which it contains? It might be the flavouring which gives it the slight tang of rust. I fear the whole thing may be an acquired taste and I might not have enough time left to me. I'm rather worried that I may have become the sort of person who drinks something called “Ponceau 4R”.

On the way back from my shopping trip I noticed that there were lots of expensive limousines and SUV's, many with blacked-out windows, parked outside the slightly sinister hotel which is next to the camp-site. I think it must be the annual drug-dealers' conference. Either that or a Police Federation meeting.

 

On my last evening I went down to the water's edge to take some snaps. The midges are out! Oh, calamity!

 

 

25. Stepps, Glasgow

Private site
May 18^th -21^st

An easy but boring 35-mile drive over the Clackmannanshire Bridge over the Firth of Forth. Stepps is a small village just off the A80 on the road's way into Glasgow. I guess it's about five miles east of the centre. The site is quite strange, stuck discreetly on the end of a large holiday village in the middle of a poor, oldish council estate. For a private site it's really good value, absolutely spotless, with lovely well-tended gardens and free Wi-Fi. Many of the chalets are occupied by workmen for Babcock, most of them Bulgarian. Most of the tourers here are Germans. The day I arrived I went for a bike ride, forgetting to put my new cycling shorts on, exploring the train station, the bank, the bus stop and the supermarket.

This morning (Monday) I got the train into the city. At long last we have a really warm day and I was wearing just a tee-shirt quite comfortably. I could tell the moment I got out at Queen Street station that I was going to like the city. It's about twenty years since I last came and can't remember anything about it. The streets are arranged in a grid system, which makes it easy to explore.

The architecture is monumental, with everywhere five or six storeys of ornamented stone (don't ask me the style) with very tall ground floor frontages, so that even the smallest shops look massive. The Cancer Research charity shop was enormous. It's a great feeling strolling around in what feels like an open-air museum. It was interesting to see the Gaelic equivalents of the railway station names displayed, just like in Ireland.

What I liked most was the almost total lack of touristification, a welcome contrast to Edinburgh. This is a real place. It seems much more substantial and forward-looking than Edinburgh, which seems to be stuck in the past and feels a bit precious.

The statue of the Duke of Wellington outside the Gallery of Modern Art decorated with two traffic cones was one of the first things to meet my eye; some healthy lack of reverence for the symbols of empire there. I went and had a look in the Gallery, but I'm afraid modern art is not really my thing (I went in really because it was free and because a nice young lady came over with a lovely smile and gave me a brochure while I was admiring the Duke). There was one exhibit which took-up a whole room and which consisted of probably over a hundred models of churches made from cardboard boxes. As a keen modeller myself I was impressed by the build quality, but I'm afraid the message went over my head.

Walking back through Stepps, I noticed that it is a Catholic area, with a Catholic Church, a Catholic primary school and a Marian Centre. All the housing is council housing and it's obviously a poor area, but, almost without exception, the gardens are carefully planted and well-tended. Some old people were sitting in the sun in their front gardens and passed the time of day. Two tiny dogs charged me and tried to look menacing, barking from behind their garden fence, to everyone's amusement. It seems a friendly community.

After one glorious day the weather reverted. I managed to have a barbecue every evening, though. The last evening I was treated to a special aerial display. First, three swans flew over in a triangular formation, honking away to each other as they went. What a spectacular sight! Then, a little while later, it started to rain (again!). I had noticed earlier than there were clouds of tiny insects flying around (thankfully no midges) and the next minute the swallows arrived. I watched them happily for twenty minutes or so, until my grub was ready. One kept on flying straight at me and then soaring up over the edge of my awning just at the last minute. It was a brilliant performance.

On my last day I walked down to the Clyde and along the river for a while. A bit disappointing, really; they haven't made the most of having a major river flowing through the middle of the city. There are river trips, but none to-day. There was a nice monument to the volunteers who went to fight against Franco's fascists in 1936.

And then, of course, I had to ruin it all. I found a branch of Fopp and seized on it with delight. I got a remastered copy of '2001: a space odyssey' for £3. When I played it it didn't work. Well, that's to say it just showed a black screen for about five minutes. Anyway, they changed it for me with pleasure. I tried again and the same result. This time, however, I left it and, sure enough, it started the great 'Also Sprach Zarathustra' music and off it went with the apes and so on. It wasn't faulty at all! The film just starts with a black screen! I AM an idiot, it's been confirmed now.

No pasaran

The old Glasgow city has been sanitised and it wasn't until the last afternoon that I saw any of the old-style Weegies at all. Small, weedy, pale, emaciated, etiolated, of indeterminate age, absolutely paralytic and roaring. They used to be quite common, but I think they've been banished to Paisley and Partick now.

I'm proud to say I understood a few words spoken to me while I was here.

 

Kipper Junction, Alloa

CC site
May 16^th - 17^th

Pleasant drive, thirty-five miles, along the north bank of the Forth towards Stirling. Past Rosyth, where part of two giant aircraft carriers, each costing over £3 billion, are being built to maintain Britain's position as a major world power. In opportunity cost terms, they represent 5,000,000 hospital bed days (I made that up, but you get the idea).



The Ochil Hills

The site is at Fishcross, known locally as 'Kipper Junction', next door to Sauchie, the birthplace of Alan Hansen, and just outside Alloa. Settled in, had a cat nap and then cycled in to Alloa along a dedicated cycle path. A word to the wise. Don't go there. The view of the Ochil Hills, 700 metres high, from the site is stunning. I guess this is compensation if you live in Alloa, a view of the lovely Ochil Hills. In the centre of Alloa are a giant Tesco Extra, a giant Asda, a giant Morrison's, an Aldi and a Lidl and the town is just a vast supermarket car park and otherwise dead. This is total madness. It's a small place (25,000 population) which has been taken over by supermarkets. What were the planners thinking of? Surely they must have been taking kick-backs. Alloa was where Skol lager was invented. I'll say no more. Well, move on, move on.
The talk of Heavy yesterday reminds me of Billy Connelly's wonderful turn at the Secret Policeman's Ball.
Two Celtic supporters go to Rome for a football match. Afterwards, they go out for a night on the town. Entering a bar they order two pints of Heavy. The barman doesn't understand, so one asks him 'What does the Pope drink?' 'Creme de Menthe' he answers. 'Right, Jimmy', he says to the barman, 'gie us two pints of that'. After drinking seven pints apiece they become unconscious and awake later, sitting in a shop doorway and covered in diced carrots (here Connelly embarks on one of his peerless digressions). One says to the other 'Jesus, if that's what the Pope drinks no wonder they carry him around in a litter'.

Walking through the town I passed a low, dark, single-fronted pub with, outside it taking a wheeze on a fag, two very drunk, very feral-looking men. There was also a sign on the pavement saying “Nae numpties admitted”. I was going to go in, but decided against, in case I proved to be a numpty. Pity, as I was looking forward to the intelligent conversation which I'm sure was the norm inside.

On Saturday I was very tired and stiff after what had been a long bike ride the previous day (probably about fifteen miles and very hilly, but I can't be sure as my bike computer had gone mad again). I pulled myself together, however,and got the bus to Stirling. £7.20 return! Thank God for the bus pass. £7.20! A pretty bus ride, with chestnut trees in full bloom and lots of spectacular rhodedendrons and azaleas everywhere, both in gardens and in the woods along the way. While waiting for the bus at Fishcross, I noticed that the Ochil View pub used to be the Miners' Welfare Institute. This used to be coal mining area.

Stirling was great, really alive and kicking and with a very complex and steep layout and a very nice restored arcade. Sadly, I didn't stay long, as I wasn't feeling quite the ticket, but I stayed long enough to see the Old Stirling Bridge, built in around 1550 close to the site of the older (wooden) Stirling Bridge where the Scots under William Wallace defeated the English army in 1297. I also saw the charming Stirling University, set on a campus with beautifully landscaped gardens, ornamental lakes and some very handsome modern buildings. The place had a really pleasant atmosphere. 

Old Stirling Bridge

Interesting plaque in Stirling

I also saw a pub called, intriguingly, the Curly Coo. I also saw some Highland cattle on the way back, so maybe that's what they mean by Curly Coos. I also saw a field of both sheep and lambs and cattle and calves and, among them, a calf lying down with a bull. Never seen that before.

Went into Alloa on my way to my next stop and filled-up with diesel. Went past Alloa Athletic football ground. The trailing letter “a” had fallen off the sign on the wall outside the ground, so that you got a nice greeting from “Allo Athletic”. Much friendlier. 

Edinburgh

CC Site
13^th - 15^th May

A beautiful sunny day – at last – and a lovely drive fifty-five miles up the A68 to Edinburgh. Into the city from the east and along the side of the Firth of Forth through Leith to Silverknowes. Leith used to be the docks area and was a bit of a hairy place. There are still many lands there, multi-storey stone-built tenements, but they seem to have been well restored and look great. I got the feeling that Leith was being gentrified, probably since the Royal Yacht Britannia has been moored here.

Edinburgh Castle

Fantastic site, probably the best I've been on. My English bus-pass doesn't work here in Scotland, but there is a special minibus from the site to the city centre leaving every thirty minutes and a fiver return. Sat outside and had a read, then cycled up to Morrison's to get a few bits. On the way back the sky went black, thunder and lightning abounded and I got totally drenched. Then, a masterstroke, I upset my neighbour. When I came back from the toilet a huge Hymer had arrived on the next pitch. When the bloke came out to plug in, I said, pointing at his van “Are you my daddy?” He looked askance and said “I beg your pardon?” Oh dear. I explained 'you know, big Hymer, little Hymer...............' but he just looked and went away. Oh no, I'll have to go out before dawn and return after dusk now for the next three days. Or I could put my cycling balaklava on back- to-front and pretend to be someone else.

Wednesday morning, and off on the minibus to the city. From one end of Prince's Street to the other, nearly a mile of opportunities for retail therapy and conspicuous consumption, all of them resisted successfully. Just like Guildford High Street but a lot longer. Interleaved with shops of designer names were shops of tourist tat (having said that I nearly bought a tam o'shanter with a bright ginger wig attached.) Waverley Station, though, that's another matter. It's one of the great railway stations, twenty platforms under a glass roof, fabulous.

Over North Bridge, up a precipitous narrow flight of ancient steps on to the Royal Mile. After another fifteen minutes of the Fleece-a-Tourist Campaign, I couldn't take any more and managed to get off the beaten track up South Bridge, into a land of charity shops where I started to feel human again. Two major finds, unread titles by Håkan Nesser and Pierre Magnan, both very rare. A good week's reading there. 

Down to Greyfriars Kirk to see the grave of Greyfriars Bobby and the little statue of him on the side of the street. There might be someone in the world who doesn't know the story. Greyfriars Bobby was a Skye Terrier whose owner died in 1858 and was buried in the churchyard and who sat by his grave for fourteen years until he himself died in 1872 and was buried in the churchyard. In the Daily Mail in 2011, a certain Dr Bondeson, described as a senior lecturer from Cardiff University, exploded the myth of the story. The estimable professor is quoted as saying 'In my opinion, all the theories about the dog’s life are about as full of holes as a piece of Swiss cheese. After five years of research, I believe he was an unwitting impostor who made use of the sentimental notions of how a dog should behave to get a good life for himself.’ Well, thank you very much, Professor, well done. I bet you told your children there is no Father Christmas as well.



Greyfriars Bobby's grave

 

Statue of Greyfriars Bobby

I was really quite tired by now, not being a very good walker, but decided to 'do' Rose Street in its entirety. This is a street which runs parallel to Prince's Street for most of its length and which used to be, in effect, two rows of pubs facing each other across a narrow lane. Really, when I went there in 1963, almost every premises was licensed. Now, it's down to just fourteen pubs, a sad decline but still quite a challenge for the pub crawler.

I didn't dare go into a pub, so I went into a barber's instead and got my head sharpened. £16-50 and no OAP concession! £16.50! That's more than twice what I normally pay. £16.50! The sooner they secede the better.

Now I'm watching the Scottish Championship play-offs on the BBC Gaelic-language channel, Cowdenbeath versus Dunfermline, two very near neighbours in Fife. It looks to be about the same standard as the English Division Two. No wonder Scotland can no longer field a decent national team. Dunfermline have a great little left-winger who has just severely clogged a full-back twice his size. He's carrying an extravagant quiff on the front of his head. Surely some mistake, as it must slow him down. The referee has rather a manic gleam in his eye. Alert ground staff, early baths indicated. The Cowdenbeath faithful sound very chirpy. They have a history of gallant graveyard humour, as they christened their team “The Blue Brazil” a few years ago. I wish I could understand their chants and songs, which sound very colourful.

I've only just discovered that Jimmy Nicholl, ex-Manchester United and Northern Ireland full back, is manager of Cowdenbeath. He achieved immortality when managing Raith Rovers. They were drawn away in the Cup to Rangers, who were then all-powerful and they would probably do well to keep the score to single figures. Nicholl was asked by an interviewer how he would approach the match.

“We'll just have to exploit their weakness at home, “ he said.

”What weakness?” the incredulous interviewer asked.

“Well, the pies aren't too good, are they?” was the priceless reply.

Quiet last day. Cycled to Morrison's without getting drenched then cycled west along the Firth of Forth to Cramond Island. This is reached by a causeway, submerged at high tide. It was bombed by mistake during the war and some clever person realised the mistake had been made because it looked a bit like a ship. So they piled earth on it to make it even more ship-like and it was regularly bombed after that – but never sunk.

Had a barbecue, Tesco Finest steakburgers and chicken kebabs, the chicken marinated in Greek yoghurt, feta, lime juice, oregano and rosemary. Green pepper, mushrooms and red onion on the skewers. Mmmm.

For the first time I wish I had stayed here an extra day, because there are lots of brilliant cycle paths throughout the city and I would have liked to explore the docks. Would also have liked to visit a pub near the Hearts ground at Tynecastle which a Scottish friend told me about. The proper name of the pub is The Athletic Arms, but it's known as The Diggers, its nickname coming from its proximity to a cemetery, whose gravediggers would visit the pub at the end of the working day to wash the dust from their throats. Its decor makes no concessions to modern taste: cracked linoleum, threadbare upholstered benches and wobbly tables. There is no juke-box and only a couple of ancient fruit machines. Apart from a few photographs of the Scotland football team, circa 1974, that's it. This is a pub where people go to drink, not to admire the surroundings. Beer brewed in Scotland mainly comes in two distinct varieties: 'Special', also known as 'Seventy Shilling', because that's how much tax was paid on a barrel many years ago; and 'Heavy', or 'Eighty Shilling'. Heavy is darker in colour, stronger, and more full-bodied than Special. There are sixteen beer taps in The Diggers: one for Guinness, one for lager, and the other 14 for Heavy. People drinking anything else tend to go somewhere else: legend has it that on busy nights anyone ordering lager will be politely directed to another pub 50 yards down the road.

The entry for The Diggers in the CAMRA Good Beer Guide simply says “Mecca”.

The older I get the more I realise that memories, even the most vivid and trusted memories, are suspect. In 1963 I went on a school CCF trip to Rosyth on the Firth of Forth. We were taken out on a night patrol to the mouth of the Firth and into the North Sea in a very small fishery patrol vessel and it was a very rough trip. When we came back the following morning we went to visit Edinburgh and I can clearly remember walking up Prince's Street and seeing the horizon at the top of the hill rising and falling just like the bows of the boat had the previous night. Except that Prince's Street is dead flat. How strange. I do remember correctly, though, that we went to the pictures and saw "Mysterious Island", brilliant, with giant crab and turkey and pirates and Captain Nemo and the Nautilus.
 
Wonderful sign in the window of a sandwich shop . "Breakfast yourself". A new verb. 

22. Jedburgh

C & C Site
May 10^th - 12^th

A beautiful drive through rich farmland with the rolling Cheviot Hills in the distance. Great variety of colours in the trees. Carefully manicured grass verges and hedges trimmed neatly into a taper towards the top (presumably an anti- snow measure). Almost like driving through a park. Into Scotland at Coldstream, passing over the Tweed on a lovely old stone six-arched bridge. On to Kelso and into Jedburgh from the north-east, passing through Bonjedward (yes, you heard me) on the way. Whatever happened to Jedward anyway? The site is in the lee of a wooded hill and faces west, with the Jed Water running through it.

This area is the heartland of Scottish border rugby, with Jedburgh, Hawick, Selkirk, Melrose, Kelso and Galashiels all within virtual touching distance of each other. The brand of rugby played here, with light, fast, mobile forwards, gave the national Scottish side its attractive playing style in the 'Sixties and 'Seventies. Ireland at the time had a similar style and it was a joy to watch games between them; total mayhem, all action, end-to-end, attack, attack, attack. Watching England was, I'm afraid, like watching paint dry. And Wales, of course, were simply in a class of their own. France were quite good, too.

A heron on the Jed, waiting

So it's farewell then to the great Professor Colin Pillinger, the mastermind of Beagle 2, Britain's gallant failure to conquer Mars. He designed it on a beer mat and built the prototype out of cardboard. Surely only Britain, or possibly even only England, could have produced such an eccentric; the world may have lost a character, but we haven't lost our essential national character. Not quite yet. The thing to remember, though, is that Beagle 2 is still out there, wandering silently through the universe and beyond. It will be like in Arthur C Clarke's ”Rendezvouz with Rama”; way in the future someone will discover Beagle 2 and wonder what it is and ponder the nature of the creature who created it. I like to think that one day in that far distant future the Prof. will be re-united with his brain-child.


http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/10815922/Professor-Colin-Pillinger-obituary.html


Now, here's a thing. I watched 'City of Angels' last night. It's a Hollywood re-make of Wim Wenders' sublime 'Wings of Desire'. Hollywood re-makes are usually awful, I detest Nicolas Cage, I cringe at Meg Ryans's little cutie act, yet I love this film. I suppose it's the central story. Stranger still, my Dad told me he liked it. Now, he wasn't into films at all, (which is probably why I went to the pictures so often as a child with my Mum) and I'd never heard him say he liked a film. Very strange. On a lighter note, when I typed 'Wings of Desire' just now I typed 'Wigs of Desire' by mistake. Ho, ho.     

Oh, bliss! On Sunday morning I put my cycling shorts on and cycled into and around Jedburgh without winceing or whimpering once! What a result! I found a promising-looking butcher's whose frontage boasted of its wonderful pies. Popped into the Co-Op to get some milk and found some interesting food in the cold cabinet; black pudding in batter, steak slices, which look like steak mince formed into a loaf and sliced like bread and lorne, which is a square sausage. The chief Cartwright in 'Bonanza' was played by Lorne Greene. Strange to name a child after a square sausage. Found the town's original public library which, a plaque outside said, was endowed by Andrew Carnegie. Just think, Jedburgh might have had a giant concert hall, too.

There was an interesting information board by the river near the lovely ruined abbey. Apparently, James Hutton, who is regarded as the father of geology, based his ground-breaking (sorry!) Theory of the Earth on rock formations he found in in Jedburgh.


Presumably the abbey was another of Henry VIII's victims. He was a complete bar steward, wasn't he? Why couldn't he just steal the monasteries' treasure, drive the monks out and leave the buildings alone? With the roof on an abbey would have made a great stately home or community swimming pool or working mens' club or Wetherspoon's pub. He was a complete and utter monarch, I think.

Now, here's a Stephen Fry moment for you. The name of the butcher with the magnificent pies is 'Learmonth', and this seems to be a local name, as I saw two more examples in Berwick. The great Russian writer Mikhail Lermontov was descended from a Scot whose name was Learmonth. Lermontov = Learmonth, see? The little lad on the advert on the door is saying 'Say aye to a pie'.  

There was an interesting stone in the graveyard of the abbey. James Laidlaw, RAMC, killed in action in 1914. On the grave was a small fresh wreath with an inscription from Jedforest Rugby Football Club. Was he the club doctor over a hundred years ago? How fine of the club to remember him for so long. (There are lots of Laidlaws here and two played at scrum-half rugby for Scotland in my time; Roy in the 'Eighties and his nephew Greig, who is still playing).

Rock strata by the Jed

 

21. Various places in Northumberland
       May 3^rd - 9th

Since I last wrote I have stayed a few more days on the north Northumberland coast. In hindsight, I think it was a mistake, as I have become bored, stale and grumpy and haven't felt like blogging. It's just too rural and the weather has been poor. I lived in the very rural West of Ireland for ten years, and I think that provided me with enough peace and quiet (and bad weather) to last me for a while. While I enjoy the countryside, I'm not really a country person; I don't enjoy walking for its own sake, for example, and I usually cycle to get somewhere, not for the sake of it. I think my ideal situation is on a quiet rural site near an interesting town.
 
Incredibly, last night I had the dreaded 'A' Level nightmare again, perhaps to mark the 50^th anniversary of my taking my exams. It's only once or twice a year, but it still shatters me. I'm sitting in front of an 'A' level paper and can't do any of it and I know it's because I haven't done any studying. That's all there is to it, nothing comes before and nothing follows, but it's really horrible.

On the way up to Berwick (again) I passed through Bamburgh, where there is a wonderful castle. In the rare moments of sunshine it glows orangey pink. It's like Berwick – best seen from a distance. From a distance it sits glowering out to sea, saying “I'm watching here and nothing will happen that I can't handle”. It's truly impressive. Up close, however, (and you get very close to it as you pass through the village), it's just a mountainous pile.


I don't have a lot more to say, I'm afraid, because I don't enjoy the seaside any more. I spent many happy hours there when I was a child and later with my own children but now I feel sad on a beach and can't wait to get away.
 
So, I'll talk instead about films. “Oh no,” I hear you say, “he's going to go off on a rant again.” Well, before I say anything, please remember that I defended “Blade Runner” when it was first released to general scorn and that of the critics and said it was a great film before it was finally accepted and attained cult status. See, so there. After much searching I found a cheap copy of the DVD of “AI – Artificial Intelligence” in HMV and watched it this week. I had seen it twice before and thought it enjoyable and essentially good, but now I'm sure it's great. This was confirmed when I found a “Kermode Uncut” page (http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/markkermode/posts/AI-Apology) where the film critic Mark Kermode, who is a bit conceited but whose opinions I respect, apologised to Spielberg about having criticised the film on its release. He described it as Spielberg's 'enduring masterpiece'. Please watch it as soon as possible; you won't be disappointed. And it co-stars a walking, talking teddy bear. Could it get any better?
 
I won't mention “Gattaca” to-day.

I'm back again at Berwick to-day, having had hardly a good word to say for the place last time. Now, though, the sun is out, a watery, breezy sun, but a sun nevertheless. I'm sitting outside reading and looking down at the mouth of the Tweed and I can feel my mojo returning. I have seen a great number of beagles, which I love, in Northumberland. We used to call them 'laughing dogs' because they seem to have a smile on their face. I've also seen several Bedlington terriers, which are like big poodles with a streamlined head and are named after the small former mining town of Bedlington in south Northumberland. Bedlington is also the home of a football team called Bedlington Terriers, who were the subject of a nice little film on Film 4 a couple of years ago called “Mr Rich and the Terriers” about the club being adopted by an American millionaire industrialist. It all seemed very hopeful, but when I looked to-day the “Club History” section of the website doesn't mention Mr Rich and the club is advertising for a manager and a sponsor, having finished 20^th out of 23 in the Northern League. Sadly, fairy tales rarely come true in non-league football these days. You can see a Bedlington terrier on the club badge.

 
The site here is wonderfully infested with blackbirds and I've been watching a pair foraging for worms and grubs in the grass just outside the door of the van. I've mention them before, but these birds fascinate me. They seem to be have real character and great humour and, of course, their singing is magical. This reminded me, and cheered me up a lot after the horrible 'A' Level nightmare, that I had to do a critique of R S Thomas's poem 'A Blackbird Singing' unseen for my 'S' Level English paper in 1964. Here it is:-

It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.

 

      Our English master, 'Ger' Davies, was a great fan of R S Thomas, who was an Anglican vicar and a hardline Welsh

      nationalist. A fantastical Celt, Davies despaired of us plodding Saxons and once said, unforgettably:-

You are cabbages, cabbages, rotting in the thick Sussex clay

 

The man was a poet himself, don't you think?

Cycled in to Berwick, but walked once I got into town. I did actually see two live cyclists to-day (I've seen plenty of dead ones flattened on the road or festooning hedges) but it's not cycling country this. Worse, the traffic system in Berwick is a complete mystery to me. I suspect there is a one-way system, but the council seem to be economising by not displaying any road signs. The system, then, may be “anyone vehicle can drive in any direction on any road and on any side of the road”. The evidence of my eyes certainly suggests this. I very nearly got cleaned-out twice by cars coming towards me in a narrow street that I had thought one-way and had to dive up on to the pavement.

 

Now, you're not to worry now or feel fearful, nauseous or faint, but I bought a pair of cycling shorts. I read on a cycling forum that they would change my life. Certainly something was already changing my life, because recently I've been suffering badly in the nether regions and have begun to walk like John Wayne. I say you're not to worry because I shall always wear them under ordinary shorts or trousers, so passers-by will be spared the horror. I found them very uncomfortable when I sat down in them and had decided to take them back, but then noticed the assistant in Halford's had left the security tag (the big, thick plastic disc) in. Phew!

Lots of bluebells around now, but I haven't seen a proper bluebell wood yet. If you see a really dense show it looks just like smoke on water. There used to be one I saw every weekday next to the main London/Brighton railway line between Three Bridges and Gatwick Airport when I used to commute from Sussex. For just a couple of weeks each year it was worth the journey. Funnily enough, just as I finish typing this they are talking about bluebells on 'Gardener's World'!