The Outer Hebrides

Posted on May 18, 2019 by gaelharrison

‘Away in the west land I’m longing to be,

Where the steamer leaves Oban

And passes Tiree

Where the sweet purple heather blooms fragrant and free

On a hilltop high above

The Dark Island’.

 

On the first of May we sailed away from Oban, five hours it took by the MacBrayne ferry, over the Minches to the Island of Barra. The sea was like blue glass and we idled the time with binoculars sighting landmarks we recognised from other trips: the Morven and Ardnamurchan peninsulas, Mull and the distant shapes of the mountains of Skye. I stared at the sea as ripples of spume broke into white froth, hoping and hoping to see a whale or a porpoise… but there was nothing, well, nothing that I saw. We drew into Castlebay in Barra and, looking about, I saw a smattering of houses dominated by a large RC church built above the harbour.

The tiny castle on its island was perfect in the evening sun. I remember a few years ago that the BBC did a series about an island priest and we got an insight into his parish and all the activities that went on. I know he used to enjoy putting his golf ball along the passage way in his manse on an evening. It was wild entertainment.

John and I settled into the Dunard Hostel overlooking the sea and went looking for a meal in one of the two hotels.

 

Afterwards we sauntered back, appreciating the Post Office, the very one filmed in Whisky Galore, then marvelled at a purple Maclaren sports car with a very low undercarriage. A man came out of the Pub so I asked him if he was Bob. The number plate was BOB69. He told me that Bob was still having his pint, but yes indeed that was his car, and the owner of the hotel had a red Ferrari. I noted the uneven roads and the potholes. We then came to a great blue lorry parked down by the pier next to the ferry. On it was written ‘Screen Machine’ and it was the travelling cinema that serves the people of the Islands and part of the Highlands. How exciting our time was going to be, so much entertainment that we had not envisaged.

I have always wanted to visit the Outer Hebrides,  and have always been drawn to the music and the plaintive sounds of the minor key that the tunes are composed in. When you meet an islander on the mainland, they tend to have a wistful look in their faces when they talk of their own special island. Well, we made it at last, and we were breathing the air on a beautiful spring evening, and we had plans to walk as much  as we could.

The  following morning we stood by the bus stop for Vatersay, and I casually enquired of the local policeman if this was indeed the stop. He was very nice, and told us there was little crime, and he was enjoying his secondment from Dundee. The bus arrived and I asked for two tickets to Vatersay. ‘Have you booked?’ came the question. I looked at him with some surprise. ‘You have to book the night before if you want to go there.’ I looked around the empty bus, and reluctantly got off.

So we walked. It was delightful, the air was fresh and the noise of sea birds kept us company for the four miles it took, including crossing the causeway to Vatersay.

We passed the remains of an old military plane that had crashed on a hillside, killing three of its nine men crew. The fuselage and wings are still as they were, and a memorial stone.

We met the black Hebridean sheep, and cows and then we saw our first beach of brilliant silvery white sand.

The sea was turquoise and royal blue, and deserted.

We finally made it to the Community Centre, and were thinking of how to get back, for obviously we hadn’t booked any public transport. But just then, along came our friendly PC and his partner in the panda car. ‘Just you hang about while we have our cake and coffee and then you can come back with us, handcuffs are optional!’

 

I watched the other tourists’ faces as we were summoned later and put in the back. It was great, we whizzed along, learning all sorts of facts about the island, and Compton MacKenzie and Whisky Galoreand were deposited in front of the hostel.

The afternoon was free now to explore North Bay and the airport, and we watched the little Logan Air twin monarch take off for its daily flight to Glasgow. We had a chuckle at the baggage reclaim section.

We walked across the dunes behind the airport and it was like being dazzled by snow. A sweet German woman told me she was so happy she just wanted to jump for joy. I told her she should and so she did, giving little skips, like she was on a pogo stick.

We drove to the northern tip of Barra to the cemetery of Eoligarry where Compton Mackenzie is buried. The sea beckoned, the turquoise tones, the machair running down the hillside alive with yellow primroses, it was all just too beautiful.

And the next day we sailed away, over the Sound of Barra to the island of Eriskay. I was looking for signs of the SS Politician, famous  for the cargo of whisky that it had on board during its fateful voyage on the 4thFebruary 1941. We bought the book, Scotch on the Rocks, written by Arthur Swinson, which is the true story behind Whisky Galore, and learnt of the struggle of the excisemen trying to prevent looting. But was it looting? It was really saving the whisky from certain loss for ever. A good read, but disturbing.

I did ask a man if he knew Donald MacKinnon.  He said he knew about fifty, just which Donald did I mean. So I explained that he was an old friend from the Hebrides Pub in Edinburgh, such a good friend that when I left for Vietnam I handed him my car keys and he promised that he would sell it for me. ‘Och, that Donald, yes, he comes up all the time, that’s his mother’s house up there, and that’s Christopher’s house there and his cousin lives over there.’ I was glad that the policeman didn’t drop us there, as everyone would have known about it and reported back to Edinburgh!

And then over the fabulous causeway to South Uist.

We spotted the Screen Machine lorry parked on the ferry. It was going on to the Borrodale Hotel in Daliburgh for its next show.

We hoped that maybe we could catch up with it soon. Instead we took in the fields of peat, the stacks newly cut and piled up to dry, and I read that in 1989-2002 the archaeologists had dug up two mummified bodies that had been preserved in the acid environment of the peat bog. We were lucky as we went tramping across the dunes and machair that there had been no rain for weeks. As a consequence the ground was springy and dry, and there was no fear of being sucked into these black bogs that have claimed the lives of many a cow and human alike.

Instead we saw lapwings and their fluffy babies, and above, the noise of peewits, gulls and starlings. The fields were covered with yellow flag irises just about to burst open, big daisies, little daisies, buttercups and dandelions. There was often a chilly breeze but the sun shone continuously. The sea, the constant sea with the long white sandy beaches was intensely blue.

We found an ominous large lump in the sand, so we both gave it a push with our boots. It was spongy and soft. Then I noticed a piece of paper nailed to a post on top of the dune. I clambered up like an agile goat and it said how this was the body of a sperm whale that had washed up on the shore and it was to go eventually to the Museum of Scotland, but the local people were monitoring its decomposition. No one must dare to touch it… dreadful diseases could be transmitted. Oh well.

We had planned to tent that night. We had our sleeping bags and planned to cook salmon steaks on the little barbecue bought in the Co-op in Barra. But the wind freshened and the sky darkened. It did not bode well. We walked on, thinking we could find the Gatliff Hostel in Howmore.

We rounded a corner and came to an open field, and there was a MacBrayne’s bus and a bridal party lining up for their photographs by the Atlantic ocean.

Whales and brides, and baby lapwing chicks, oh – and Flora Macdonald’s house (she who rowed Bonnie Prince Charlie over the sea to Skye). It was quite a day.

The hostel was warm and welcoming and we joined in the general camaraderie. Then after our salmon dinner we retraced our steps to go to a film show/talk/ceilidh at Daliburgh in St Peter’s Village Hall.

The place was packed, the majority of the voices spoke Gaelic. The organiser, Fiona MacKenzie, wore a long sparkling black waistcoat, and we were ushered into the packed hall.

It was the best evening ever. We had no expectations, other than that it was to be photographs and a film called Solasmade by a lady who had once lived in South Uist, and we were there so we should attend. Now I am obsessed by that special lady. Her name is Margaret Fay Shaw, and she lived to the age of 101. She was a young American woman who settled in the Scottish Hebrides in the 1920s and made films, and took photographs of life in the islands and recorded the music and songs of a way of life. She married John Lorne Campbell and they lived on the island of Canna till they both passed away. After the film that was peppered with music and Gaelic songs, the audience were hushed, and many were delighted to have seen relatives known only as old folk, as young people in their prime, laughing as they collected the seaweed and cut the peats and crooned lullabies to their children.

We were treated to a ‘strupach’ and I met a lovely lady called Patsy who told me more and more about Margaret and Fiona who has done so much work to get the film released with the National Trust. I would have loved to stay and dance and listen to the music at the ceilidh but we decided to return to our bunks in the hostel. It was difficult to climb up quietly when sharing with four other people!

That night I lay listening to the noise of the rain on the  roof and windows and the sharp cries of the corn crakes. Timeless sounds.

Canna House, 1975

For John and Margaret by Kathleen Raine

 The cards that brighten the New Year,

A Christmas-tree grown in the wood,

The crimson curtains drawn, the owl

Whose porcelain holds a lamp to read

The music on the Steinway grand

Piano with its slipping scores

Of Couperin, Chopin and Ravel –

John and Margaret Campbell made

This room to house the things they treasure,

Records of Scotland’s speech and song,

Lore of butterfly and bird,

And velvet cats step soft among

Learned journals on the floor.

 We drove north to Benbecula, and over the causeway to North Uist and the Lochmaddy Hotel. As we drove I couldn’t  help thinking the road and scenery were like fine lace lying on  perpetual water. We skimmed across sea lochs, pools, freshwater lochs and it was just all so watery, and then round a corner there would be the glittering sea lying waiting again, a reminder that it was not far away. Dotted around were crofts and stone houses, seeming to have been built with no rhyme or reason; there didn’t seem to be a village as such, but occasionally a school or post office and a dismal Co-op signalled an area of importance. Where were the clothes shops? Where could you buy a new red T shirt? There were notices on the wall of the Co-op advertising Bingo, and Pub Quizzes, ‘Eyes down at 7.30!’

 

Imagine our surprise seeing a sign advertising a bear in the Langass Woods.

The islands are not renowned for their trees, as nothing will grow on the acid soil, but the Forestry Commission have persisted and they have got quite a little forest of connifers growing well.  Amongst it all is the grave of the grizzly bear, Hercules. I couldn’t believe my eyes, as I had taught the Robin children in Dornie way back in 1987 and knew the family quite well, and had heard about their pet bear. I felt quite proud to have finally met up with him, in his final resting place.

Through the forest and up on the peaty moors we reconnected with our ancient past, and stood in the stone circle of the second millennium BC which is named after the Gaelic hero Fionn MacCool.

We stepped gaily down through the springy grasses and came to Barpa Langass, a Neolithic chambered cairn which is 5000 years old. I took a moment to think about how these ancestors might have lived and breathed on this very soil. How did they survive with no shops, nowhere to get a red T shirt? Hard times indeed.

After settling into our hotel we decided to double back to the Dark Island Hotel in Benbecula as we had spotted on our way that the Screen Machine was now parked outside.

Being Saturday the film that evening was Fisherman’s Friend. We arrived with time to spare for a quick drink in the hotel’s rather shabby bar with sticky tables, and then on to the night’s viewing. Oh my! The sides of the lorry extended outwards and inside was plush and proper with a huge screen. We were transported with all of the cinema magic to Cornwall and the happy story. What a treat. On the drive back we were quite euphoric, and felt very familiar with the road, and the ancient stones and the turn off to the bear. An owl flew up at us as we crossed a watery causeway. It was a good night out.

Our stay in Lochmaddy coincided with the Sabbath, and even though we are now in 2019, it was as though we were in another century. Everything closed. It was a day to reflect and look at birds, so that is what we did.

We drove over to Berneray, and found the most perfect jewel of an island, with exquisite beaches and sand dunes that might have come from Arabia.

On our way, a short eared owl suddenly flew up and sat on a post next to our car.

John was in bird heaven, as he quickly snapped his prize. And later we met a very dedicated ‘twitcher’ with a massive lens who taught us the finer points of watching a skylark at play.

I lay on my back on the machair and watched the bird fly up and up to the clouds making a huge racket (song) then when he got as far up as he could,  he suddenly put out his wings and parachuted down then ran about – such a proud little thing,  marking his territory. Vaughan Williams wrote the music depicting the skylark, The Lark Ascending, and the violins were set the difficult task of recreating the sound of spring.

 

And John took snaps of redshanks, lapwings, curlews but kept hoping  for a glimpse of the elusive golden eagle or sea eagle.

We set sail from Berneray to Leverburgh in Harris crossing the Sound on a beautiful calm day. There was hardly a ripple, but still no sign of whales or porpoises. We drove to Rodal, once a thriving tourist spot, but now the remains of St Clement’s church is all that is there, and a van selling lobster sandwiches and fish soup. A very pushy local man (with a Yorkshire accent) cut in front of me, and ordered the last two sandwiches, all the time talking loudly about being a local and tourists. We got back in our car and made up our own sandwiches of pate and tomatoes from the Co-op in Solas on the north coast of Uist. I was a bit cross.

But the mountains of Harris and sparkling white shell beaches of Sheileboist and Losgaintir made up for the initial fray of bad manners that we encountered. The views were breath-taking, and we walked out on the sand and marvelled.

Peter May, the author, has written some very good stories of the Hebrides, including the Lewis Trilogy and the Coffin Road. We thought, as the day was dry and the sun was out, that we should try and find the said road and try and walk some of the way. The Eastern side of South Harris has shallow soil and rocks. Some of the displaced population from the west side settled here after the Clearances, trying to eke a living on this side of the island. But when they died, their coffins had to be carried along the track which is now called the Coffin route back to their home land and back to the deep soils of the west. We set off from Likisto and clambered up the hill, and over the moorland.

 

The day was warm and the going was not particularly easy. A lot easier without carrying a coffin I am sure, but still. We enjoyed the walk, and went as far as was safe. If we had attempted the whole thing, we would have needed a bus or a lift to take us back, and time was marching and we didn’t want to risk a bus! I did enjoy the novel bus shelters!

We slept one night in Tarbert, and set off the next morning energised and ready to find the golden eagle. We drove along by Loch Seaforth, clambered up hills in the freezing wind, alone with only the dark looming mountains around us, but no eagles.

We drove north to Aline then Laxay (the salmon river) and finally came into the virtual metropolis of Stornoway, the capital of Lewis. First stop was the Co-op, to stock up on supplies. We ate in a pub, perused shops that sold clothes, and there were restaurants and colleges, big supermarkets and churches and of course a fabulous harbour. It seemed strange to see such a wealth of choice.

But then we were off again, we were heading west, over to Uig, over to the pod in Mangersta that was to be our home for three nights.

The evening was dark, the wind was whirling about and rain splatted  the windows. It did not bode well, but inside our little modern cave it was cosy, and our hosts, Tosh and Jed, had thought of everything.

The next morning, the wind was gone, the sun was out and we were off exploring. Oh my.

A glen secluded from the world, with perfect beaches, rock structures and the baaing of lambs. We asked Tosh where we could find an eagle, to which she replied, ‘Oh they are everywhere, just walk over there and you should see them.’ So we did, clambering over the spongy grasses down to the rocky cliff edges and suddenly there they were, two swooping birds flying very high above us. John was in heaven.

The next day we found the beach where the Lewis Chessmen had been discovered way back in 1832. Artists have had fun representing them, and we enjoyed all the different statues in all the different places, made from wood or cement. Of course the real ones are in the British Museum and the National Museum of Scotland.

Sitting on the step of the pod, having an evening ‘sundowner’ we espied a crow making a terrible din. Looking up we saw why. The golden eagle was swooping across the sky at him, and it was quite a dramatic moment. We had prime seats and didn’t have to walk an inch!

Tosh’s neighbours are extremely talented, making signs and sculptures

but best of all the bothy built into the rocks. It is camouflaged and beautiful. Inside it has the feel of a Mongolian yurt, as it is built in the same design. I would not really like to venture out in the dark, the fall would be fatal. But the setting is magical.

We were sorry to leave but we still had the standing stones of Callanish to see, and the Pictish broch and the Harris Tweed weavers, and the lighthouse at the Butt of Lewis. All this we saw, and the sun shone but sometimes a black cloud glowered and threatened but only added atmosphere to the day. We had only seen two evenings of rain in two weeks.

I like the above picture…I look as though I am doing line dancing with a very attentive chorus behind me!

The weavers weaving their tweed have to have their looms in a shed next to their house, or it is not classed as the Real Thing. We learnt all about it from  the very devoted wife of Norman, the chief weaver of Carrloway. She was so enthused with her story and product she did not see a cockerel and hen make their way into a display box and lie courting amongst the profits. We had a laugh as they were shooed out clucking and squawking and quite annoyed that their afternoon sleep had been disturbed.

At Ness, which comprised of a group of croft houses at the top-most end of Lewis, we decided to walk around the rocky coast to see the lighthouse. On the way we saw fulmars and herring gulls, curlews, starlings and crows.

The place was alive with birds and bird watchers. Exhausted we walked back along the road, and met Iain, or Bucky as he is known. He makes everything, black houses, motorbikes,  fancy statues etc. out of wood, and he very kindly parted with a necklace of fishing buoys that I asked for. I have plans. John just raised his eyes.

Later, back in Stornoway in the Lews Castle gardens, we met a lovely man walking his dog. He used to drive the Co-op van up to Ness, and he knew Bucky well. He looked at us both and told us to be happy. ‘You just never know the hour,’ he said, ‘my wife went out last year on a Monday and came home on Tuesday in a box.’

So yes, we will heed his advice, but it was with a heavy heart that we boarded the ferry in Stornoway for Ullapool and watched the islands recede. Images caught on camera will keep the memories alive, songs of long ago now have real meaning, and somehow I feel rejuvenated. The islands have worked their magic, and I feel richer for having visited them. I would go back tomorrow.

 

On our front doorstep we have a small memoir…the king and queen of the Lewis Chessmen!

 

 

 

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The Sea

Posted on April 7, 2019 by gaelharrison

I have been thinking a lot about the sea lately for one reason or another. For the last half an  hour a little guillemot bird has been causing us concern. It is bobbing on the waves, and the sea is wild and there is a strong wind, and above him we see the herring gulls, circling in menacing circles. They swoop as one, and fight each other as they attempt to pluck him from the water, but he dives and evades them each time. It is awful. Why can’t he get to the shore and we can save him?  The gulls usually pluck starfish from the broiling sand as the waves recede, leaving the creatures exposed, and then attack each other to get possession of their trophy. But a guillemot? That seems so cruel.

We were in Wales a few weeks back visiting Natasha and family, and along the Penarth coastline, long ago, the Jurassic creatures were known to prowl.

On Hazel’s second birthday,

after an elegant afternoon tea which followed an intense ice skating lesson,

we meandered along the beach, down by the pier, picking up fossils and ammonites.

I could recognise the odd familiar shape, but for serious searching you need the eyes of Natasha. She can pull a four leaf clover out of a field with just a glance, so on a stone-strewn beach it was natural for her to find part of a tail of a plesiosaur which was later confirmed by the Cardiff museum’s palaeontologist. Just the day before our visit, Leo had a letter from the same department confirming his find which he had submitted as being the actual poo of an ichthyosaur, only 200 million years old.

I could make out limpet and mussel shells. I felt like that lady in the poem, seen from a train, walking through a field wearing gloves, missing so much and so much!

John and I have been tramping the paths by the surging sea, and revisiting the east coast pathways… you are on the right path if the sea is on your right.

 

Fields are brown with the earth newly turned, lonely benches invite you to take the weight off your feet for a minute, and buttery yellow sands give way to manicured golf courses, defying the vicious salt-laden winds.

Pale grasses grew thick and high by the sand dunes, and I had a flash of memory of the safari trip in Botswana when the same sort of grasses disguised the colours of the lions.

We are lucky that we can walk along with no fear, our eyes trained on wild orchids and the burgeoning colours of spring.

Village life has been inviting. We went as guests to the annual curling ceilidh, held in the Masonic rooms, where Robert Burns’s portrait,  in full mason’s apron and fancy get-up, stood beside that of Her Majesty. It was a fun evening, with a bit of dancing to the ceilidh band, whose members, all over seventy, could have jumped out of the pages of The Highland Games. John is now full of trepidation, as he was being urged to join ‘the curling’ next season. Can’t be that bad, a bit like ten pin bowling I would have thought!

Long ago when I was young (ha ha) I had a swain, a couple of years older who left for Australia and left me heartbroken. I think I was about fourteen. He wrote me poetry and letters over the years and became a doctor and then a psychiatrist, and made quite a name for himself in northern Queensland.

Well, he has written a book, which he sent me and I have been like an armchair traveller as I lived his ocean journeys on board his kayak as he paddled the Great Barrier Reef over the course of twenty years. I watched the lights twinkle from lonely lighthouses, sat on beaches where giant crocodiles slept among the mangroves, and felt the pain of his reminiscences of his father and some of his patients. I learnt of a new hero that influenced  so many boys growing up in Australia in the 1950s and 60s, Jack Idriess. I tried to buy his books (a very prolific writer) but these are now out of print and the only copies available can be bought at an extortionate price.

I had never really thought of the Coral Sea, or the Torres Strait but now I feel as though I know them as intimately as Captain Cook, hence my earlier reference to thinking about the sea, not just as a constant changing backdrop to my life but as a living moving force.

My old friend’s book is Vicarious Dreaming, by Ernest Hunter. I do hope it becomes available outside Australia:

But bad weather leaves no space for reflection, just attention – to balance, to the shifting centre of gravity as the kayak is overtaken by following swells, to remaining true to the compass bearing against the sea’s pull to port, to glimpses of low coast through the rain, to the slowness of time – elapsed time; it’s hours until the bauxite-reddened cliffs around Sharp Point appear between the squalls.

Here John knows a lot about gravity. He fell off a ladder on Monday and ended spread-eagled on the decking, with a deep gash on his ear and a very sore rib cage. He was quite stunned, and confused, but made a good recovery. Nurse Me, coped well and didn’t faint at the blood this time. I just was horrified at the swelling of his ear; it looked like a purple plastic toy that he had glued on. Fortunately he is well again, but has been banned from ladders for ever. He affects deafness at these announcements and talks about summer days when everything is sunny and DRY.

We went to see Local Heroat the Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh yesterday. It was wonderful: a brand new score by Mark Knoffler, with new songs added to the already haunting original melodies. The play more than made up from the dire Vegan lunch we had subjected ourselves to earlier. Oh God! Beetroot burgers held together with some wallpaper paste which tasted of very old oil. Mine was teriyaki tofu which tasted burnt and was as tough as old leather sandals. I am still shuddering and John is still cross that we had to pay for it. We left three quarters of it. ‘Did ye no like it?,’ asked the waiter. ‘Not really our thing,’ I said, politely. Why are we so polite? What a waste of money –  but not all was lost. Earlier in the day we had gambled on the Grand National, and like true amateurs, we put our money on the Favourite which won. Sadly we didn’t bet £100, but still, we walked away winners!  Then we went home and I made an omelette out of a goose egg; now that was something  worth eating… absolutely delicious!

Irene and Mike came for lunch last week, and she gave me a CD from the troubadour  that plays in all the pubs around Edinburgh and Fife. He is a Scottish Chinese chap called Andy Chung, and Irene and I have such happy memories of him strumming his guitar and making us cry to the tunes of Dark Lochnagar and the Fields of Athenry. Irene then got out her phone and playedThe Wild Geesesung by Jim Reid:

Oh tell what was on your road, ye roarin’ norian’ Wind,

As ye cam blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?

My feet they traivel England, but I’m deein’ for the north.

My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o Forth.

 Far abin the Angus Straths I saw the Wild Geese Flee,

A lang, lang skein o beatin wings wi their heids toward the sea…

And finally, on Monday, I actually sat down and read my unfinished manuscript, The Fish in the Tree. I was mad when it came to an end… I just wanted it to go on – surely it must be a sign, I must get on and figure out what happens next!

But it’s the discipline of writing. How does a fierce writing programme fit in with looking after Darcey and Dillon, going to Pilates, going walking with John, sewing, reading the biography of Samuel Pepys (fantastic), and all the other distractions that come my way? Perhaps there is a time, or maybe it’s past. Have I have missed the boat or will it come again?

Ernest wrote half autobiography, half biography of Jack Idriess, and somehow linked it all to the sea. I shall finish with his thoughts:

Oceans warped by forces bent across time and space tightening their tidal embrace. Entwined with currents, driven by winds, checked and channelled by geography – its movements are different everywhere. And not – the sea comes in; it goes out. It’s the same with memory, the flow determined by intersections, coincidences and the submerged terrain of shame and denial. And like returning to familiar islands, recollections are always different, memory never revisits in precisely the same way. But like tides they go back and forward, back and forward – and back again.

 The book that I WILL finish (one day) may not be the same one that I previously started to write. My inner tides go in and out, and my memories do shift, but it sits inside me, and it wants to get out. I will just have to judge the time.

Posted in North Queensferry 2019 | Leave a comment

New Boots!

Posted on February 14, 2019 by gaelharrison

It is mid-February, Valentine’s Day, and the day is calm and quiet – the sea like silk. Red roses are in a vase in the kitchen, and I feel piano, and a little lacklustre. My bones ache a little from Pilates, and apparently I have arthritis in my neck, which is an unwelcome visitor to my once agile skeleton. I suppose the poor neck is a bit like a fragile drinking straw holding up a ten pin bowling ball, so on the whole, it does do a good job – most of the time. I am conscious of my bad posture, and am seeking to right the wrongs caused by my bad habits. I have ordered a shoulder brace that I shall wear a bit like a gun  sling, and walk about in military style. I shall look up to the branches of the trees and not stare at their roots. I am full of good intentions.

These last few weeks John and I have been pencilling into the diary walks and climbs for the coming year. We have both bought new boots, and in order to wear them in we have been on low key walks round Dalmeny Park, and Limekilns, admiring the fancy estates owned by Lord Rosebury and Lord Elgin.

Snowdrops are peeping  through the tired winter grasses, and sheep and crows dot the landscape like a wintery wash painting. On Monday we ventured back to our old stomping ground in Balerno and followed the Water of Leith. It was rather like meeting up with an old friend.

I found a fabulous walk to do in the borders in the Galloway hills, which we hope to do this weekend. It has a very dubious sounding description. We are to walk the ‘knuckle of the Merrick’, and the ‘branched finger’ is the highest in the so-called ‘Range of the Awful Hand’!   How wonderful is that!

I did visit a gallery in Edinburgh showing the photographs of Robert Blomfield. They were wonderful, and so evocative. Fabulous faces, of old and young, and I can imagine the cheeky boys shouting, ‘Take one of us, Mister!’

Babies left out to take the air on streets, children wandering about free, and sitting on door steps.

I looked at them, and could imagine being given the task of writing a short story about any of them; so much could be read into a face, a street, a man waiting for a bus by a corn field.

I have been sewing, and this time I have made a trapunto picture of trees and snow drops. I quite like it. Next one is to be trees and bluebells, that is if I get a chance to take off my boots!

My course at the University is going fine, this year it is Shakespeare in the time of James 1/V1. It was Antony and Cleopatra last week and I was supposed to meet Dilly for lunch after. She had to smile when she got a text saying I would be late as I was Cleopatra! Couldn’t leave until my part was done… get thee gone vile asp! This week is Coriolanus. Don’t know much about it, but will watch the film quickly and see. I know it was banned in China for a while. All about questioning the establishment.

Well it is done! John has just shouted that we are  going to climb Mount Toubkal in Morocco! OH my goodness… be strong, my sturdy new boots. It is 4000m high and when it is over we can lounge about in Marrakesh and watch belly dancing and have a Turkish bath. But the mountains are calling, in all shapes and forms.  A couple of years ago I read a book about the Cairngorm mountains here in Scotland by Nan Shepherd, a school teacher living in Aberdeen. It is called ‘The Living Mountain’ which is a reflection of Nan’s experiences walking in all weathers. Her descriptions of landscape, weather, flora and fauna are inspirational. She wrote it in the 1940s but it wasn’t published till 1977. I loved her words:

“It’s a grand thing

To get leave to live.”

To ‘get leave’ in Scots means ‘to be allowed to’. My mother used to shout at my kids when they were little and moaning that they were starving, ‘You don’t get leave to starve in this house!’

She turned 95 on 30thJanuary. I didn’t take a picture of her the last time we visited her as the hairdresser had her all done up in curlers. Instead I shall include a picture of her in her Prime!

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My life runneth over!

Posted on January 21, 2019 by gaelharrison

Well, a new year, and I am sitting here in a new pair of hiking boots that I bought so that I could march about at home and wear them in. The ankle part feels like a vice and I could quite easily lean over in a force 10 gale, and not fall on my face… providing my other muscles kicked in on time. I think I shall return them tomorrow after giving them a quick carpet trial. Maybe something a little more flexible? John sent me a text whilst I was in my literature class at the university on Friday, where I was learning all about Macbeth and the court of King James: ‘How do you fancy walking the Hebridean Way, 155 miles?’

Enough said! Immediately I had visions of the long beaches on Barra, and the standing stones on the Isle of Lewis, and I remembered lovely lilting tunes about boatmen going to Eriskay and Mingulay.

‘Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys

Heave her head round to the weather

Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys

Sailing homeward to Mingulay…’

Our tutor was talking about the book of Revelations and witches and all I could see was the wind whipping the waves as we crossed on the MacBrayne ferry from island to island.

At this time in January, we normally like to go to the local café and have a ‘business meeting’ and plan the year. Where shall we go? What home improvements need doing? – But this year we have been overwhelmed with family so no meetings or resolutions have been made.

Now – we have a goal. First for me is to get fit and for John –  he has to get over his cough and cold. He has been so miserable throughout all the festivities, and eventually he saw the doctor who organised an X-Ray and blood tests and antibiotics. Thank goodness he is on the mend.

Today is the first day in five weeks that we have had no one staying. It feels odd and quiet, and we both feel a little decadent, lying about reading our books and idly talking about walking boots and accommodation.

Christmas was wonderful; I was so lucky having everyone under the one roof, including Nick who arrived from Australia on Christmas day.

We borrowed a play pen, that became the Jail and saved all our sanity. The children loved it, turned it into their play house and gave us all peace.

Hazel and I ate porridge every morning at dawn, Bonnie decided that the sofa was actually a horse or a camel and rode it tirelessly, and Darcey just loved getting outside in my horrid red garden shoes to help Uncle Nick at the barbecue on the last day of the year. And Dillon  roamed and roamed, completely cut off by the play pen sections from anything that he could possibly break or pull over. He is like Bam Bam from the Flintstones.

I drove Natasha and family to Culross where we explored the ancient Abbey,

playing hide and seek, and posed on plinths. I taught Hazel the finer points of a good pose.

We found a very very old cemetery full of mature Yew trees and I hid inside, completely hidden from view.

Bonnie searched everywhere, and I heard Leo saying, ‘Your mum and John take this game very seriously don’t they?’ I was quite alarmed as the wintery sky darkened and they had still not found me. A place full of graves dating from the 1600s was not really where I planned to spend the night.

Natasha made bread, they all played on the beach, Leo set up his studio upstairs and continued with the film he was making, and John coughed and laughed and drank his whisky until it was time for him to go south and visit his own folk. Poor Matthew was recovering from a knee op, James had flown back from Hong Kong,  and Becky and Patrick had the new star attraction, little Jenson, who lay back and amused everyone.

Natasha, Bonnie and I went to see Peter Pan in Edinburgh (not at all like the Disney version), then afterwards we went to have tea and scones with my lovely friend Rose, whom I met in Doha. She and her husband Kim, and his sister, chatted to Tasha and Bonnie, whilst Rose and I talked and talked and talked. It felt like just yesterday that we were sharing our days at City Centre Mall or at the Souk or at the Tuesday Ladies’ Group. So good to meet up.

John and I did go to the Messiah on 2ndJanuary at the Usher Hall, and drank our prosecco and ate our smoked salmon sandwiches and felt very tipsy and woozy as we dangerously swayed during the Hallelujah chorus. Dangerous as usual we were way up in the gods, and it is all very precarious. A silly Chinese family brought their very young children to the show, and the baby started to howl…everyone turned and tutted and snarled and gave him dirty looks….it was ironic really as the baby chose to cry during the passage, “for unto us a child is born! And unto us a child is given” Ha ha!

And now my children have all gone. I was bereft as always when Bonnie and Hazel left, then Nick left yesterday. My heart felt so sore as I drove back from the airport. Australia is just so far away, but he left so much happier and healthier than when he arrived. He spent days exploring and fishing and gathering all the detritus on the beach to make a raft. It is so empty without his tall silhouette framing the sea behind him.

Thank goodness we have Darcey and Dillon. Gerry asked her if she knew who/what God was, and she replied, ‘Yes, it’s when you go o-oh!’

‘You mean when you make a mistake or do something wrong?’ said Gerry.

‘Yes,  you say, ‘God!’

 

I did escape one day after Tasha left and went for a walk down to the Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh… it was so quiet, and peaceful. I felt the whole place was in a waiting place, poised perhaps before the true winter arrived. Rhododendron leaves were splayed, ready but tight. Huge naked trees looked like monsters, their roots curled like toes digging into the pale grass. Above the branches stretched out to a cold blue sky. I liked my day away.

And now I have to read the Book of Revelations. Horses and angels and devils   – I believe that is what it is about. I just know all the great poets and writers were obsessed with it. Why have I not read it before?

Odd really, as I had my fortune told the other day, and in it I was told that the Angel Michael (who fought with the Archangel Gabriel against the devil) is looking after me. I must pay attention. Who was this special angel?

 

My fortune reading also told me that there are new beginnings to come, and sunshine and the smell of fresh cut grass. I love it, what a perfect beginning to a brand new year!

 

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An Anniversary

Posted on December 19, 2018 by gaelharrison

John and I  have been married fifteen years ago today. It has made me feel a little reflective.

Once upon a time I flew to Hanoi.

One minute I was watching TV in Edinburgh, and the next I was sharing  a house north of Halong Bay with my Vietnamese colleagues.  I had made a conscious decision to resign from my job and seek another on the other side of the world.

Changes, decisions, career paths, crossroads, Robert Frost and his road less travelled; we all have choices to make and then live with those choices. No one really knows what the outcome will be, and sometimes we don’t know that we need to get out of the comfort zone until life gives us a push. My son is a plasterer, and has developed chronic contact dermatitis from working with cement. It is time – he has been given the necessary push to change. But to do what, and where? Maybe he should be like Voltaire and cultivate a garden. I heard of a lonely lady who went to be a housekeeper to the minister of the Church of Scotland on the Hebridean island of Eigg. Her life turned round as in time they married and she went on to have children in her mid-forties and suddenly she was a treasured member of the community.

Today I remember our wedding on a crisp cold day in Edinburgh, my daughters and I wearing traditional Vietnamese ao dais, and drinking champagne overlooking the city roofs and steeples.

I look around our house and see the happy relics of Ukraine, Asia and the Middle East, and today I am wearing the cashmere jumper that we bought in Ulan Bator in Outer Mongolia.

We have travelled, walked and cycled  and I have written four books with John as my clever editor and mentor. I have quilts, a new skill learnt from international ladies in Doha, and best of all we have the grandchildren and all our combined family of grown up children.

My latest quilted picture

Christmas is coming and so are the families. We are relishing this time of relative peace before the onslaught of ‘Play with me!’ but would not miss it for the world.

A visit to my mum first, and Christmas cards and greetings to friends old and new.

Never a Christmas Greeting or when an old year ends,

But someone thinks of someone – old times, old things, old friends.

So farewell for now, warm wishes to you, wherever you are celebrating this year.

Happy Christmas and a have a wonderful New Year.

P.S. That last paragraph makes me sound like the Queen! HA HA!!

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Camino de Santiago Compostela

Posted on October 31, 2018 by gaelharrison

 

We are back home and although I walked to the cathedral of Saint James I was constantly reminded of Saint Roque,  that saint who represents the plague. He is normally portrayed holding his skirt up in a vaguely flirtatious way, showing off his boils.

I struggled the whole way with a rash,  brought on by taking a magnesium supplement a month ago, then had a nasty reaction to the pills the doctor gave me for that, so when I started out on the great pilgrimage I was going demented with an unbearable itch all over my torso.

To John’s great consternation I bared my midriff to a pharmacist in Serria, who just shook her head: ‘Go to Emergency, they will fix.’ So we did and were ushered in, and I stripped off my T shirt  just to make sure they understood. John again hoped it wasn’t the janitor that was getting such a view of my full frontal. They twittered away about passports and so on, then I was given a hydrocortisone jab in my hip, and five pills and off we went.

The  rash coloured the walk in so many ways. Walking through falling autumn leaves we ran about like Rocky chasing a chicken in the movie as we tried to catch a leaf in order to wish. What did I wish for? A dermatologist!

I even had a thought of writing a note on my back pack: ‘Dermatologist wanted urgently, reveal yourself please.’

I am back and have seen the GP who has given me more lotions and potions… I am still writhing and twitching, but he assures me that I will recover by Friday… mind over matter?

When we decided to do this walk, we knew we had so many options of where to start, what kind of accommodation was available, and so on. We had seen Martin Sheen in the film The Way. Someone we knew stayed in the multi-bedded dorms that were so cheap. He described his whole body itching from bedbugs, of how it was hard to sleep with so many strangers sharing and being privy to their sounds and smells, someone always going to the one bathroom, and the flushing that never stops. Not to mention the snoring, the stuffiness, just the intense human interaction that probably we could do without. We elected to go for the luxury version of budget hotels.

We set off from Samos, a fabulous monastery 127 km from Santiago.

We were full of optimism, ate an apple from a tree and breathed the morning air. We walked across carpets of acorns and chestnuts and a tree that had grown into the sign of the cross.

Just a reminder that we were indeed pilgrims following a worn path and had joined a group intent on the same purpose, to get to Santiago Compostela. Strangers wished us Buen Camino or Hola, and smiled. All nationalities, all ages, many it seems had started in St Jean in France and had been walking three weeks already. We felt the strain in our muscles, but we were  of good cheer.

Arriving in Sarria we were met by a tipsy Australian couple who had just emerged from a restaurant selling octopus, or pulperia as it is called in Galicia. It was my birthday so where else should I go? They literally pushed us in, ‘Go now, they close at 4 and this is the best restaurant for octopus in the whole of Galicia.’ We dutifully entered, and yes, oh my, It was so good! Just white wine, crusty bread and firm succulent octopus.

Then off to the pharmacy and the trip to get the hydrocortisone injection.

Later that evening John treated me  to new walking sandals, the best investment ever. No pressure on bunions, and with the Ninja socks, no blisters. I was in heaven, and even looked the part in my Jesus sandals with socks, not the most sexy of sights, but I was a pilgrim and was making good progress!

Off we went the next morning; it was still dark as we followed the scallop shells on the marker posts and the walls. It was all so beautiful, ‘Bien Camino!’, and we tramped through forests and farms and John snapped strange constructions designed for storing corn away from rats. The constructions came in all forms. Some wooden, some  cement, some ancient and some modern.

We stopped periodically for coffee, we ate picnic lunches of cheese and ham croissants or cold tortilla. Sometimes we walked with people and shared their stories. Some were sad,  some were happy. One elderly man from Croatia had been walking for a month and was very particular how we photographed  him at the 100km marker. ‘I want to make myself look nice,’ he said as he arranged his collar and his hair. He didn’t want to stop at Santiago, he wanted to go on to Finisterre. I am sure he did.

After 23 km we made it to Portomarin. We had to walk up a flight of stone stairs, reminiscent of an Aztec pyramid,  the locals’ cruel joke, a tough entrance to their town.

Good news for John, his daughter has given birth to a baby boy, and all is well. We shared our happy news with fellow walkers, all joined in the mood of celebration.

The next  day saw us marching for 25 km from Portomarin to Palais de Rei.

It was hard going and hot and mostly uphill. Smells of the rural farmyards were dominant, old crumbly villages looked picturesque, and a pretty Siamese cat escaped my camera. One stretch of road was long and tedious and we shared the way with a group of Spanish walkers all singing  to the same hymn sheet. We stopped in wonder at a forest of eucalyptus trees. It could have been Australia, the sky was so blue. Two American ladies offered to take our photograph and then we walked for a while. It was nice, they were friendly and good company. One was hobbling with pain as her boots were causing blisters. She was ready to pay millions for my sandals, and was determined to buy some at the next stop.

The day went on, we walked past giant dahlias, chestnuts, pines, gum trees and grape vines. Always the smell of the silage dominated the farmyards.

Arriving at Palais de Rei we were met by our hosts for the evening. They drove us to the most beautiful property where we relaxed, and sat under an arbour before eating a cordon bleu meal.

Our fellow guests were the same two American ladies – Barbara and Cathy.  Serendipity. We talked and bonded. My rash and Barbara’s blisters were a good starting point.

The next day was long and hard. We had 30 km to go to Arzua.

Our friends parted company with us in Meride, and we walked on meeting up with other familiar faces. It was all such an outing. People merged and chatted, then parted to meet up again like long lost friends. Others soldiered on, ‘Bien Camino,’ and some just plodded. I posed by my patron saint, San Roque, naturally he was there too.

There were photographs, articles of clothing, countless abandoned boots, and strange sad messages pinned on crosses and stumps of trees.

We were constantly reminded of the spiritual journey we were on and were sharing. I saw a South African man waiting by the side of the road, he told us he was waiting for his wife to catch up, ‘It’s only polite after all.’ She was taking her time. Different paces, different people, everyone mingling. We sat by a stream and were suddenly  surrounded by cows. We walked past a café decorated by empty beer bottles, and always the smells, the eucalyptus, the pine, the silage.

Along the way we saw a man who had hauled off his boots and was dabbling his feet in a cold river. It did look so good.

I was convinced I must be getting thinner, but alas – no. I had fallen head over heels in love with the Santiago tart. Oh my goodness. It is made with almonds and egg white and sugar. It was mandatory to the day’s walk – I hadn’t a hope of losing weight.

We arrived in Arzua,

and again were spirited away for our night’s rest at the pretty Casa Lucas, set on a hill overlooking a lake. We were blessed with a hot bath to soak our weary bones. We were seriously tired that night. Even my itching and twitching didn’t keep  me awake.

The route next day was from Arzua to A Rua, a pleasant walk compared to the trials of yesterday. The body felt fitter and the way was easier. We walked along easy tracks from village to village. I felt that I could do this for ever!

And finally the last day. We set off in the dark, the stars were so bright and low, and cats scurried away as we trudged past hedges.

Walking through the dark forest of eucalyptus the smell was intoxicating. There was no one about, just us. It felt so special. And then the sun appeared and so did the rest of the pilgrims. We walked through woods and beautiful fields, and we were getting closer, the way was becoming urbanised, vandalised and concrete was more prevalent.

We trudged up a hill beside the airport and then a further one called Monte de Gozo. In the distance we could see the spires of the cathedral. From then on it was downhill, and then finally the walk through the streets of Santiago was brutal, just pavement bashing and never-ending.

We finally made it to the Cathedral. In the square were hundreds of people just staring up at the great gothic building, embellished with pilgrim shells and images of Saint James.

We went to the Mass at 7 p.m., all in Spanish. There were hundreds of people, and a beautiful soloist tenor voice. I felt tears well, I don’t know why. I just had so many pictures in my head of farms, and forests, and fields and the pervading smells of pine and silage and big pumpkins and beautiful flowers. It was a week. Only a week but a very special one.

I looked  up and saw the old man from Croatia walk in. He went straight to where you can put your hands on the statue of Saint James. Perhaps he also went to look at the crypt where the relics are kept. I don’t know. I don’t know if he was religious or not, but he certainly was spiritual. I think everyone was really, in their own way.

The following day we had a drink in a café, and it was only when John had taken my photograph that  I saw it was San Roque’s café. How appropriate, my horrible rash was still spreading, with horrendous itching, despite so many creams; it was as  though an army of ants were crawling all over me.

Later we met up with the Australian couple who introduced us to the octopus meal, and we ate oysters together for lunch in the market.

We exchanged addresses and invitations. We later ate grilled fish for dinner with Barbara and Cathy, and got drunk on some strange after-dinner liqueur and gazed at the full moon.

Everyone had made it. More addresses exchanged. And we walked back through the streets, the cathedral looking now like some luminescent wedding cake. We had done it. I have the shell necklace to prove it! We had walked a total of 140 km, 90 miles, from Sarria to Santiago and wished that we had done the whole route from France! It was a wonderful experience.

Buen Camino.

 

Our little holiday ended with a couple of nights in Barcelona. We hopped on and off the tourist bus, gazed at the Sagrada Familia and got totally lost in the old gothic part of town. We wined and dined and strolled along the Ramblas, and were horrified that our tapas dinner suddenly went through the roof financially. We were persuaded to order the special negro ham, which means the pigs were fed delicious things and serenaded to music. The price of that was more than a double whisky and a glass  of wine and three other dishes. I actually thought it was a bit chewy.

Next day it poured and poured and poured.

The Park Gruell was a wash out, a modern day picture of Renoir’s ‘Parapluies’. We gave up and went looking for a warm restaurant for some paella.

And so we left Spain, and the spires of Barcelona cathedral, still in the making. I loved Gaudi’s words when he was asked when it would be finished back in 1926:

‘Don’t you worry. My client is in no hurry, He has all the time in the world.’

A befitting quote  to end my Pilgrim Blog!

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Reflections

Posted on September 18, 2018 by gaelharrison

I just looked back at the photos of the summer, and thought what a fabulous patchwork quilt they would make. All jumbled together, faces, colours and places; I could remember all the stories that passed across the dining room table.

I loved it all, meeting up with everyone just back from holidays, or being en route to somewhere else, it was a way of us gaining extra travel for ourselves, by proxy!

Lyn from New Zealand came to us from the Arctic Circle then Norway and told us of horrible tourist boats encircling a mother polar bear and her cub. Natasha and Leo told us of their three months in Greece working on organic farms, the last of which was in Thessaloniki where there were bears and snakes and copulating tortoises. Nick and Lin told us of the Blue Mountains and the Hunter Valley in Australia. Rosie and Pete were entranced with Alnwick Castle in Northumberland. They had come up in their campervan, stopping where ever they felt like, enjoying the freedom of the road. Irene and Mike told us of the cruise from America to Canada, and life on the ocean wave. Gerry and Cathal shared the joys of the rescue zoo where Darcey and Dylan got up close to animals who had been previously mistreated but were now lording it around like the kings they are.

John and I poured the prosecco, dished out the salads and chicken and fish and hazel nut meringues, and enjoyed their stories, adding to our own wonderful year.

Now, they are all gone. The house is quiet, and John has suddenly pulled out all the old rusting iron balustrades from the decking and is going to replace them all with  new ones. Not a trivial project.

I won three firsts at the village show and two seconds for my quilts and embroidery! Quite fun.

I have the fairy quilts to finish before I embark on the new Australian quilt for my new grandchild expected in November.

Now the new Academic year approaches and I have enrolled in 1920s literature. I have read Hemingway’s ‘Fiesta’, am reading Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Shadow of a Gunman’ and watched the brilliant re-make of ‘Journey’s End’. Lots more to do, but at least I have started and will be ready for next Friday.

The brambles are divine this year, and we gorged ourselves along the East Coast path, and every morning I admire the spiders’ webs strung along the roses and across the washing line in gay abandon. Gerry was horrified yesterday as she walked into the equivalent of Charlotte’s Web and a million little spiderlings flung themselves at her head and dashed about in amongst her hair and down her neck! She even thinks she ate a few. Meanwhile I await the autumn crocuses I planted… so far in vain. I shall be very disappointed if they don’t appear.

So it is nearly over, this wonderful summer of lush flowers and hot hazy days where we cycled and picnicked and walked about like in the magical days of yore where I remember tar bubbles erupting on the road as we walked home from school.

Now we have to unearth our walking boots and go practising as the Camino awaits – the walk to Santiago Compostela. We are going to do the last 120 miles of it in October. My birthday will be spent with tapas and pilgrims. Sounds nice.

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Hula Hoop!

Posted on August 4, 2018 by gaelharrison

I had so much to write about, so many travels and trips and what am I obsessed with this morning? – A badly bruised thumb. I sent away for a hula hoop, as I was so inspired by John’s sister Rosie’s expertise. She made it look effortless,

and even though we all had a go, and failed miserably, I thought it was something worth pursuing. The hula hoop is weighted (1.5kg) and if you do 100 spins to the right and 100 spins to the left you should have a wasp-waist in weeks. Your core muscles will be toned up and everything will be wonderful.

 

So – out I went to the company of the terns and seagulls, and tried and tried, and kept whizzing it around to get the momentum before it flopped down to my ankles with boring regularity. Finally I managed 20 swirls, and I was nearly worn out with the effort. Still, I persevered and gave it an almighty whizz again, and it smacked the base of my thumb and I screamed.

Ice, ibuprofen and swelling. Didn’t bode well. This morning more of the same. I shilly-shallied about going to wait 4 hours in A&E, and decided against it. John reassured me that he had many horrific shunts on his thumbs in his karate days, and it should be ok. So I am being careful and avoiding all pincer-like activities. Luckily it’s my left hand.

The last few weeks have been filled with Gerry and Darcey and Dylan, and walks and sunshine and eating ice creams in Princes street Gardens.

We did a fabulous walk up in the Angus Glens, in Glen Prosen.

The day was hot, and we tramped through woods, up a hill and past a forgotten cemetery. The scenery was a mosaic of colour,  with green and buttery-yellow fields and paths lined with wild blue geraniums and pink willow herb.

Out of nowhere we came across a monument dedicated to Captain Scott of Antarctica! There he was with his friend and companion, Dr Wilson, and all their huskies. It was in Glen Prosen that they used to train for their great endeavour.

John’s son James and his partner Christine and her 3 kids came up to stay, as they had promised to do when we were in Hong Kong together. Edinburgh with all its history and bustle kept them entranced, and it was fun being tourists with them and revisiting the wynds and alley ways and seeing it all through their eyes.

After they left John and I meandered over to Falkland Palace. The day was hot, the delphiniums were all about six feet tall in the high walled garden, with not a breath of sea wind to disturb them. I tried not to covet them in an envious way. Retired schoolteacher guides shared the secrets and stories of the palace, and we stood entranced listening to their practised oratory skills. There was a child’s highchair in one of the rooms, with one leg deliberately shortened to make it shoogly. Apparently if the royal child had been naughty, the nannies were not allowed to reprimand him so they would put him up on the chair and he would bellow with rage and topple out and bang his head. Enough said. They got good behaviour after that!

Last weekend we flew down to the boiling hot south of England, and went first to Chichester cathedral where we saw the tomb from Arundel,  where the Lord and Lady were lying hand in hand in stone. It reminded me of the Chris de Burgh song.

John drove me around to visit his old haunts and homes, and punctuated everything with, ‘We used to cycle here on Sunday mornings,  that’s where my friend, Willie Wiles used to live, that’s the barn that I converted, and so on.’ We couldn’t actually see the barn as trees and hedges had grown so high, so we drove round to the church. Imagine our horror when we came across a man sitting on the steps with his head covered in blood. I told him he looked terrible, and he said, ‘Thanks a lot.’ He had been coming round the corner and a speeding car came at him full throttle and swerved, the driver got out in a rage and started punching the cyclist (about 58). His ear, and mouth and head were covered in blood. I think he may have been concussed as he had fallen on the ground. He was waiting for the ambulance to come. It was quite sobering.

We left him, vaguely reassured that he had rung up all the right people, and we drove on and met up with all of John’s kids.

That evening we had the best barbecue ever and the next morning,  it rained, and rained and rained!  There was nothing else for it, but to gamble madly in the amusement arcade on Worthing Pier. Those two pence machines are evil; they entice you to play and play, and I had to laugh at Matthew, who is MD of his own finance company, pouring in the money in order for an elusive £5 note to fall over the precipice. Becky was chuffed that her husband won a giant Peter Rabbit for their coming baby, due in October! We drank tea in Arundel, and browsed through the antique shops. Such a quaint, pretty place, even if they did refuse to take a Scottish five pound note!

The next day the rain did disappear and we enjoyed the Lanes of Brighton, and mingled with the crowds in hot sunshine. We ate pizza beside The House of Correction (from William 4th time, not a parlour dominated by dominatrix ladies wielding whips and chains!).

And we were amazed at how many tattoo parlours there were. Christine had her tarot read, and seemed very impressed with the results.

Then we farewelled the family and drove east, along the Sussex lanes and highways with the beautiful Downs on our left and came to Bexhill-on-Sea. The day was like the water colours that Rosie loves to paint, blue skies and soft greens and a panorama of fields with brown cows. The line of the hedges meander down to the sea in the distance, and we could see the English Channel with boats dotting the horizon.

Rosie and Pete took us to the site of the Battle of Hastings. It conjured up a dusty classroom of long ago, rather like a sepia painting, and I remembered the lesson and the famous date of 1066 when William the invading Conqueror defeated the English and poor King Harold who had been fighting valiantly with his human wall of shields got shot in the eye with an arrow.

The four of us wandered around the Battle Abbey site, across grass burnt brown in the sun, and read the plaques and tried to imagine the days of yore. The  floor looks like a free motion quilt pattern!

It was beautiful driving back along Pear Tree Lane, through dense forest, and then come to rest in Pete and Rosie’s house and drink wine and eat delicious food whilst a wild pea hen strutted about their garden. And then of course the hula hoop came out!

The sun shone hotly the next day as we drove to Canterbury. We were like Chaucer’s pilgrims, The Wife of John, The Maid of the Hoop, and who could Pete and John be? They later turned out to be the ‘beggars two’ as they waited for us to turn up.

Inevitably we got lost in the Cathedral, it is so vast, and we each explored the site of the murder of Thomas a Becket and wandered through cloisters alone and meeting up at random.

The two men sat outside, and John wickedly put a couple of pounds in Pete’s cap and Pete acted the beggar man on a bench outside the cathedral. John nearly collapsed laughing as passers-by sauntered by with their noses on high! Maybe it was Pete’s I-phone and large bundle of keys that tipped them off!

And now we are home. And the pages of the history books can be closed, but I loved seeing the sites, and seeing England as it should be seen, with wide blue skies, and crazy eccentric competitions taking place… the best scarecrow exhibits were on show in Battle.

And the long piers and the sea, and Victorian houses, proud and arrogant, and pretty houses with nostalgic domes and chimneys built by long-ago colonials who wanted to recreate the homes they lived in in the Far East. But England being England, there is always one crazy house that stands out!

So farewell from the hot sultry South – I wish we had a pea hen or pea cock to walk about our garden! And the thumb! Poor thumb!

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Moscow

Posted on July 4, 2018 by gaelharrison

Moscow at last!

Everyone poured off the train, and John and I were met by a man from Kazakhstan in a sad looking Lada. Here was the promised ‘tourist ambassador’ to guide us to the hotel. The boot was full of a huge oil drum, so our poor beleaguered luggage was squashed in  and the rest rammed on our laps. No luxury then. We had booked into the Hilton, and our man from Kazakhstan looked about, after following us into the lobby, not carrying any cases and said, ‘fancy place.’ He gave us a tourist map, highlighted the metro routes and said, ‘goodbye, have a good time in Moscow.’

The shower was wonderful. So was the club sandwich, and then it was off out to explore.

The streets and buildings tugged my heart strings, it was as though we were once more back in Kiev. The air was full of poplar/chestnut/tree fluff, floating down like snowflakes. Grasses were allowed to grow high and there was a heat in the sun. For now we orientated ourselves with supermarkets, the Metro and the route back to the hotel. Tomorrow we would hit the high spots.

The following morning I looked at John hanging on to a strap of the Moscow Metro. We had done well on this trip, managing to find our way around the Beijing and Shanghai underground stations, marvelling at the courtesy and friendliness of all our fellow passengers. Here was no different. Later in the day we would jump off on the ‘brown circle line’ just to photograph the amazing art and art deco lights.

People smiled at us, in a quiet understanding way. It didn’t matter that it was rush hour. Photographs had to be taken.

First stop was Red Square, and for us it will  always be associated with the violent clashes of colour from the various football shirts and balloons and mascots. Mexico, Peru, Argentina, Spain, Brazil, South Korea, Japan. It was wonderful to be in amongst so much happiness.

We queued to see the Armoury Museum, in the Kremlin. There was gold, carvings and Bible covers, Faberge eggs, and horse armour. But the star of the show was the building itself and the enormous rooms. In one room were housed the carriages of the Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great who had seized the throne from baby Ivan VI, in another were the dresses of Catherine the Great.

I tried to imagine how they would feel waking up in the morning. ‘Hmmm, I think I will take the splendid carved carriage today.’ Thank goodness they didn’t live to see the Lada in action.

We walked in the sunshine around the Kremlin walls, admiring the glittering gold domes of the churches, and finally came right up to the best of them all – St Basils.

Afterwards we ducked into the Gum shop for an ice cream.

It was so elegant, so expensive and a museum in itself. Where was the shop that had withstood the harshness of the communist years? I had not imagined it to be so sophisticated. I imagined it to be like Tsum in Kreschatyk  Street in Kiev, where we were not allowed to buy the object on display, just point and another was brought up from the bowels of the earth for us to actually purchase.

We lunched in amongst the football-fan throngs; the place was alive with the babble of ‘tongues’. The Russians themselves were delighted with all the visitors and even had trained a  tourist police force to speak English in order to help.

We walked away from Red Square and down to the old Metropole Hotel, and across the square where Karl Marx stood proudly with a pigeon on his head.

My mission was to see the Bolshoi and perhaps get tickets for tonight’s ballet.

Here was where Anna Pavlova danced, here was where Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake premiered in 1877, and where operas by Puccini and Verdi and Rossini were performed. We queued and no one knew the price for the evening’s performance. It was frenetic, everyone mobbed around the box office window. John was going pale at the haggling prices, 170, 200… for what? One? Two? Is that roubles or dollars? Shady guys whispered that they had two tickets, special price…

It was astronomic, so we exited, much to John’s relief. Instead we joined the happy sunbathers and just for a laugh I did a few poses in front of the building. A lovely old lady came over and told me  to adjust my arms properly for 5thposition!

Then we met our first bandit of the holiday. We wanted to go to Gorki Park, and decided to flag down a taxi. Well, he tossed over a piece of paper with his rates and off we went. Admittedly the city was busy , ‘this is Moscow’ our rogue laughed happily, ‘always busy, always too much traffic.’ We eventually got over the river and he pulled up. John went pale again. He had to pay by card. The bill was £70!!!

But the park was beautiful, serene and quiet. The greenery such a relief after the frenetic scenes of Red Square. We watched sweethearts walk by the River Moskva and people playing ping pong and lying on giant bean bags.

We decided to rest our legs and have a beer. It was just so soothing. I remember the book by Martin Cruz Smith, and then the film. It was all spies and intrigue. Good setting, but for us, it was a blissful end to a very frenetic day.

 

There is so much to see, and so little time. I would have loved to have seen the painting of The Battle of Borodino in the Borodino Panorama museum. It is a 115 m long canvas depicting the all-out war between Russia and France in 1812 with Czar Alexander and Napoleon facing each other on horseback.  Another time.

 

Sadly we had to leave the next day. John was very reticent about getting another taxi, but he needn’t have worried. Our guy was superb. Courteous and professional. He even carried our bags to the departure door. He wasn’t even an ‘ambassador’.

And now we are home. Our amazing trip is over, and we have come back to a Scotland bathed in  hot sunshine. The grass is cut, the flowers are blooming and the floors are mopped.

Already we have cycled around the 23km of  Loch Leven,

and on Saturday we climbed the mountain, Schiehallion, a mighty Munro. (Mountain over 3000 ft, or 1000 m.)

The  day was scorching, the path was practically vertical and then it hit stones, scree and finally massive boulders. I really didn’t think I would make it, and had visions of being helicoptered off, full of shame.

But no, we survived and did admire the panorama of sheer beauty all around us, for miles and miles. So we can now carve another victory on to our bedpost!

I did manage to squeeze in a sewing class where I learnt how to print daisies and amalgamate the technique with applique. Quite nice.

It was good to catch up with Gerry, Cathal, Darcey and Dylan. All brown as berries and Darcey happy to spend the day with us last Wednesday. Gerry and I had a good day in Edinburgh with just Dylan, whose little head was whirling around at every car, bus and taxi that passed! A stimulating day for him, and I can’t believe he is seven months already.

Natasha, Leo, Bonnie and Hazel are spending the summer in Greece, working on farms. So far they have been on a horse farm, an olive grove and now they are on the island of Paros but are heading back to mainland Greece at the weekend. They all look like Greek natives and are thriving on salads and ratatouille. Bonnie sent me a picture of the Cyclops that she had drawn herself. I am impressed. They will be there till end of August.

Now I shall go and sit by the wall of yellow roses. Thank you for reading and thank you for sharing the most magical journey. Fair thee well for now!

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Trans-Siberian Express

Posted on July 3, 2018 by gaelharrison

Trans-Siberian Express cont.

10thJune 2018

We are somewhere between Krasnoyarsk and Novosibirsk. This train is so nice, so fresh and clean. Our carriage attendant, a very efficient Mongolian girl, is always washing the long runner carpet down the length of the carriage or dusting the doors.

 

The toilets are cleaned about every ten minutes. I am so glad we broke the journey in Mongolia as this train has a twin room and no bunk beds. Everything is sparkling and new.

 

Outside I see birch trees and orange flowers.

We pass dachas and people hoeing their allotments, then for another hour I see nothing but more birch trees. As Paul Theroux once described it, the trees begin to feel more like wallpaper than landscape, simple and repetitious. I feel a bit like being on an ocean liner, looking at a constant view. I am reading about our next station, Novosibirsk, on the River Ob. I have never heard of this river, yet it is the seventh longest river in the world.

The Trans – Siberian railway is an experience, you have a sense of occasion as you nibble almonds, drink tea or vodka, read or write. As Paul Theroux described it, it is like a luxurious form of convalescence. Ideal after our full-on tour of China. We are just so relaxed.

Monday 11thJune

 Monday morning and still on the train, and still birch trees and I am longing to wash my hair. We arrived in Novosibirsk last night in the pouring rain so we couldn’t get off which was a pity. When we do stop, we all spill out and walk briskly up and down the platform or stare at the kiosks selling eggs, pastries, crisps and Choco-Pies. They even have their own fridge magnets!

Yesterday afternoon on a platform with a totally unpronounceable name there was a train stopped alongside us carrying Russian military. There were trucks, armoured cars, missile launchers – the wagons went on and on, and soldiers were milling about, their shirts off and licking ice creams as they enjoyed the hot afternoon sun. I wonder where they were heading? John felt a little like a spy, photographing all the weapons of war.

John and I are both reading ‘Prisoners of Geography’ by Tim Marshall; it’s a fantastic book and so apt to read as we travel  through these vast countries. In the chapter about Russia, Tim describes the bear as being the symbol of this immense nation. There it sits, sometimes hibernating, sometimes growling, majestic but ferocious. ‘Bear’ is a Russian word, but the Russians are wary of calling this animal by its name, fearful of conjuring up its darker side. They call it medved instead, ‘the one who likes honey’.

We had dinner in the restaurant carriage or pectopah last night. So much better than the Chinese offerings. We ate delicious stroganoff and chatted to some of the other travellers. There was a lovely Australian couple on their way to Europe to meet up with their sons. There were football fans and other young travellers lolling about, all connected to WIFI  with their Russian sim cards. John and I are finding the lack of communication quite fun, the unknown, when will we are arrive in Yekaterinburg? Who cares? It was 1004 miles from Novosibirsk last night. The not knowing adds to the adventure. Russia has 11 time zones but all the trains run on Moscow time. It is quite disconcerting when standing on the platform and trying to relate what time it actually is now. We are putting our clocks back an hour each day in order to offset the jet lag so it is quite odd. John keeps asking if it is 5 o’clock yet and eyeing up the vodka bottle!

We play scrabble and backgammon and stare out the window. The trees are still there, interspersed sometimes with lush green fields and thick hawthorn blossom. Sometimes a village comes into view, and there is cherry blossom and lilac. Sometimes a man stares at us from the side of the track. Where he is going? This morning I saw children going to school and sunlight striking the golden domes of churches.

I finished the Golden Lotus – over 1000 pages and when I came to the end, it suddenly said, ‘End of Volume 1’. I could have screamed. Now I shall have to wait till I get home to continue the saga, resuming with Chapter 54!

 

Tuesday 12thJune

 We slept through Kazan station and in the early hours we arrived at Nizhniy Novgorod.

It was cold, so we briskly walked the length of the train and back and were bemused to see our industrious carriage  attendants washing the windows. They take such pride in keeping this train spotless, they are constantly mopping and wiping.

John came back from his morning ablutions this morning with a bleeding nick on his throat from his razor. The lurching and swerving can be quite dramatic at times, so it’s as well he doesn’t use a cut-throat razor or he would be beheaded. I am moaning about going five days without washing my hair but at least I had it cut in Shanghai. John is getting close to having a man-bun. Now that would be a new look.

And the train trundles on, getting closer to Moscow. Beside the tracks and in front of the birch trees  thousands and thousands of purple lupins are carpeting the  grass. What a glorious patchwork. It has been consistent now for hundreds of miles.

Somewhere just a little south of where we are now is Tula, where Leo Tolstoy had his estate, Yasnaya Polyana.

I look up at the sky streaked with cirrus cloud and imagine him writing about Prince Andre, lying on the field after the battle in War and Peace. This was his world. And here we are now on the way to Ekaterinburg, where the Czar Nicholas and his doomed family also travelled to – only to be shot.

History, stories, facts we have learned and I look out at purple lupins.

We ate borscht and drank beer in the restaurant, there is a feeling of an ending to our journey, the attendants have rolled up the carpets, suburbs are coming into view.

4,700 miles from China – I can’t believe it is nearly over.

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