Seen it all

This past weekend saw Pauline and I perform our adventure talk twice in a row in the Borders region of Scotland.  Our first night was in the very pretty town of Hawick, famous for it's woollen mills dating back to the height of the industrial revolution. The theatre is very modern, housed inside an old water mill, with a fun glass veranda hanging over the river next to the building where you can sit and have coffee with a view.

Further to the west the following night we were in Dumfries for our performance at the Theatre Royal.  This was a great little theatre, run by a voluntary organisation called the Guild of Players who have owned the theatre since 1959. Inside it was showing its age but was due for a £2m makeover in the coming year. However, on reflection I'm not surprised it was showing its age. I later discovered that it was Scotland's oldest working theatre, built in 1792.

Let's just put that into historical perspective for a moment.  1792 was the year the French Revolution began and the very first President of the United States, George Washington, laid the corner stone to start the construction of the now world famous White House.  Imagine that. We were performing in a theatre the same age as the White House. When the theatre finally receives it's makeover I'm sure it will thrive for another 200 years and beyond.

Experiencing very old structures didn't end with the there. We decided to stay in the Dumfries and Galloway region for the remainder of the weekend, and on the Sunday, on a bright but windy day, we set off on our Brompton bicycles on a circuit to the coast. Leaving Dumfries we crossed the River Nith on the Devorgilla bridge. 

This is the oldest surviving multi-arched bridge in Scotland and was constructed in the 15th century, when Christopher Columbus was born, who would go on to reach landfall in America in 1492.  And here was this little bridge, still being used over 600 years later.

From the discovery of America to the building of the White House, Dumfries has seen it all.

Never been north

What seems like yesterday, though in reality now two years ago, I met a couple driving an RV on holiday in the USA in the state of New York.  I was astonished to hear that they had driven just 36 miles from their home.  This, apparently, was typical.  Most people do not travel outside of their own state. I once heard that some never leave the city they are born and brought up in.

I kept thinking how incredible this was, given the amazing diversity of the natural landscapes and its people in North America.  This would never happen back in Scotland.  Right?

Just now I am working on a short film for a local charity.  The overall theme of this film concerns the referendum in 2014 on whether Scotland should go independent or not.  My own personal view is it is a ridiculous notion with little or no benefit.  But the film is not about my views, it is about the views of those in their more senior years, upwards of 80 years old.

It is fascinating listening to them, hearing of the simple ways they would entertain themselves when they were kids, getting great joy out of berry picking in the summer holidays, or chasing a hoop down the street for hours on end.  I also ask them in the interviews what they have done as far as work is concerned throughout their lives, and today one lady took me by surprise.  Usually they tell me it's either office work, tradesman, miner or something similar. Today this lady told me she had been a magician during a large part of her working life.

However, the biggest surprise of all, is, having interviewed seven people so far, not a single one of them have travelled in Scotland.  One of my questions asks them to name their favourite place in Scotland, and the majority reply they have never left Edinburgh!  One gentleman said to me that he'd been to Perth once, but that was a long time ago! I'm even more astonished at hearing this than I was with the RV drivers in the USA.  Scotland is hardly big, but it has incredible beauty and diversity not to be missed.

I am also sad for these people to have never seen the beauty of a Scottish loch nestled in a forested glen, or a temperate inversion from atop a rugged mountain peak, or the snow capped mountains of Glencoe on a crisp winters day.

I've been very lucky over the past few decades to experience this and more, and if ever anyone interviews me in my twilight years at least I will not reply, I've never been north.

Edge to edge

On the seaside edge of the city I live in, Edinburgh, is the Pentland Hills Regional Park, what you might call a State Park in America. Designated in 1984 it covers an area of roughly 90 square kilometres.

On a glorious blue sky day, with hardly a breath of wind, I set off from my home on this seaside edge of the city, toward the hills. The first 13 miles I had to share the road with busy traffic, up and down many hills as I picked my way out of the city to the turn off into the hills at the Flotterstone Inn. An old staging post, there has been an Inn on this spot since the seventeenth century, it is now a popular spot with walkers and cyclists. This was the point where finally I could leave the traffic behind.

The road continues as tarmac for a further three miles into the hills, past two reservoirs, Glencorse and Loganlea. Fishermen were out on their little wooden boats drifting across the mirror-like surface as they hoped to lure a catch. All around lambs, now a few months old, were bouncing about chasing each other. As I cycled along my nostrils were filled with the strong coconut smell of the gorse, bright yellow and lining the sides of the road. Crows seemed to be everywhere, cawing and scrapping with each other. From the start of the first reservoir I could see the route up ahead through the valley, lined with trees in ten shades of green.

After the road ended I was on to narrow dirt path that led up and through a small narrow gorge and I stopped at this, the highest point, for an early lunch.

Just four miles further on, cycling out of the hills, I was awe struck at the beauty of vast meadows of bog cotton and buttercups as I flew downhill to the western edge of the city to an area called Balerno. At this point I joined the Water of Leith path. This is a river that starts in the hills I had just left and flows for a total of 24 miles right through the heart of the city all the way to the Firth of Forth and emerges not far from where I live.

All along the path the air was sweet with the smell of wild garlic. Surprisingly the path was quiet despite the glorious weather, but I put this down to people having gone away for the day because of the glorious weather. This part of the city is made up of what were once isolated villages, but as the city grew they were absorbed, but each still retains it's own character and community. As the track wound it's way along it passed many little houses nestled among the trees on the edge of the river.

As I rounded one bend I spotted a heron, completely motionless in the river as it stared into one spot waiting for a fish. It seemed to be having as much luck as the fishermen on the reservoirs. A little further on another heron was guarding a nest.

Approaching the centre of the city I had to divert briefly and join a portion of the Union Canal, busy with families in Canadian canoes and more serious paddlers in sleek skiffs. On the other side of a viaduct a set of stairs took me back to the Water of Leith. Due to the never-ending tram works in Edinburgh there is a short diversion near the Scottish Rugby's national stadium called Murrayfield.

On the well-manicured grassy field beside the stadium two teams were playing cricket, and the thwack of leather against willow was unmistakable as a summer sound. From here I was on the final few miles out of the city, passing under the Dean Bridge and back to the coast.

Just over three miles from where the Water of Leith flowed into the Forth I was back at my front door. The mile-long beach was covered in sun worshipers, most having turned the colour of a well-cooked lobster since I had left in the morning.

A great run, 35 miles miles from city edge to city edge and back again.

Brompton action

My friend Pauline commutes to work on a great little bicycle called a Brompton. It has to be the worlds best folding bicycle. The engineering and design are second to none and of all the folding bicycles I've ever seen it folds up to the smallest size.

It's bright yellow in colour and she looks very dynamic when riding it, and you can tell she's having a lot of fun. She's often suggested I get one, but I've always maintained that I would look ridiculous on it due to my height. Pauline is just a little over five feet tall whereas I reach six foot one.

We journeyed north this past weekend to give one of our talks at the Findhorn Foundation, just outside of Forres, which is a short distance from Inverness. Once the talk was over at around 9.30pm we drove an hour south toward Aviemore, with the intention of finding a camping spot for the night. By 11pm we were parked up in Boat of Garten and unpacking the bikes that would take us along a track out of the village.

You guessed it, two Brompton bikes. In the pitch dark, with just weak head torches to show the way, we pedalled along for half an hour on a little dirt track. Both of us found it funny that despite all my protests over the years, here I now was experiencing a Brompton for the first time . . . in the pitch dark . . . off road!

I can report that the experience was . . . great fun!  My first impression was, because of the unusual handlebar shape, that it reminded me of my days as a kid when I owned a Raleigh Chopper. The following day we happily cycled around little back roads in the area enjoying the sunshine and beautiful Speyside countryside.  You have to be careful to some degree when riding a Brompton. It has tiny thin wheels which don't like rough roads, potholes or bumps and because of the nature of the folding mechanism you can't jump off the edge of a pavement for example. It has many other advantages though over a regular bike, one of which is that you can take it with you easily on a train without having to book the rarely available bike spaces.  I can also see a use for getting along dirt tracks to reach the base of a mountain quicker and cut out the boring long walks in.

I'm sold on this little miracle machine, and I don't care what I look like.

The Green issue

I'm inspired this week by an article I read recently from America. It concerned the hard time an elderly customer was given at a supermarket by a cashier in her 20s. The elderly person hadn't brought her own bags and so was told by the cashier she was contributing to damaging the environment. The cashier added that this is the problem today, because past generations didn't care enough, didn't understand the green issue.

Well, I thought I'd write my own take on an appropriate response.

When I was a kid, every morning a glass milk bottle would be placed on the table for breakfast. Once empty it was returned, sterilised and reused. Repeatedly. Real recycling. But of course, we didn't understand the green issue back then.

My school was just over one mile away from home, and every morning I met my friends on the way there while I walked to school, along with all the other pupils. Our parents wouldn't dream of driving us to school in their fossil-fuel-consuming vehicle. But  they didn't understand the green issue back then.

When I got home from school my father would be on the back lawn of the garden, pushing and pulling the lawnmower to cut the grass. Good exercise and less polluting than the latest petrol or electric powered mower. But he didn't understand the green issue back then.

In the evening we might watch TV as a family. One TV. In one room, not one in every room! And a screen the size of a cornflake packet, not Belgium!

In the evening I would be outside playing with friends, getting fresh air and keeping fit so that in later life I wouldn't have to pound a treadmill, driven by electricity, in a brightly lit gym, to work off the excess from being sat in front of a game machine, using electricity while munching fast food.

Our neighbours, who had recently had a baby, would be outside bringing in the now dry nappies after they had been laundered, instead of filling a landfill site with disposable ones.

Our leftovers from meal times were put into the fridge and another dish would be created from this the following day, not emptied into the bin.

There was one telephone in the house, the original one from when the phone company that had installed the line several years before. If it broke it was repaired, not replaced by the latest version after just a few months because of a new colour or one extra button that did something you never needed to do before.

But of course, back then, we never understood the green issue.

The Pass of Gaick

It's been a busy old time recently, so apologies for my absence of posting for over a week.

Pauline and I have been continuing with our talk tour for Sleepless 'til Seattle, last Friday appearing at the newly refurbished Birks Cinema in Aberfeldy. It was first opened in July of 1939 but sadly only remained in operation until 1980. At that point, until 2004, like many old cinemas, it became a tacky amusement arcade. Now, thanks to generous donations, fund raising and grants it has opened once again with a 100-seat, 3D digital cinema.

This talk was quite different from all of the other venues we will be appearing at, mainly because of course it is a cinema and not an actual theatre. We were also not the only participants that night. Several amateur films were shown after us as part of the Highland Perthshire Cycling festival week.

It was a late finish when we left the venue, and it was midnight before we were pitching our tent on the outskirts of Blair Atholl, some 15 miles away. We had decided to make the most of being in the area that weekend by taking our mountain bikes with us for an off road run through the hills.

The following morning was bright as we pedalled out of Blair Atholl west, past the small settlements of Bruar and Calvine, before reaching our turn off for the start of the Gaick Pass that would take us 20 miles through the hills to Kingussie. The route is an ancient drove trail, a remote u-shaped pass through the Drumochter Hills.

It was more like winter instead of late spring, with a bitingly cold wind and frequent squally showers pushing through. Half way we were off the bikes and pushing for a mile and a half alongside a small loch callled Loch an Dun, which forms the pass, where in a previous year we had see whooper swans. This time there were no swans but there was a pair of oyster catchers.

We had anticipated three river crossings but in the end we only had to negotiate one, which was difficult enough pushing a loaded bicycle through knee-deep fast-flowing waters.

The run out at the north end was spectacular and fast. We popped out of the hills at the ruins of Ruthven Barracks at Kingussie, then turned west, three miles down the road to camp near the wildcat trail on the outskirts of Newtonmore.

Our second day, though dry, was hampered by a constant 20mph headwind. We had hoped that it would become a tail wind as we followed the curve of the Drumochter Pass back toward Blair Atholl. However in reality the wind was being channeled round the curve of the pass and remained in our faces for the entire 33 miles back.

It was great to be back out in the Scottish hills again, with Pauline, working hard on the mountain bikes, battling the elements and camping out.

This is the second time I have been through the Gaick Pass, once on foot with my friends Andrew and Pauline, and now by bike with just Pauline. Both times it has been entirely different, with the walking trip in a near white-out blizzard.

It is a fabulous walk or bike run, and I don't think it will be the last time I enjoy it's beauty.

Deuchary Hill

Just outside the small picturesque village of Dunkeld lies a small hill, just a little over 1500 feet, called Deuchary Hill. There's nothing hard about this walk, both in terms of physical effort and distance, but it is full of rewards.

I first walked up this hill last year with my friend Andrew, and last weekend we returned with four other friends on a glorious day.

Part of the joy of hillwalking for me is taking the train whenever possible to the starting point. Sometimes there just isn't that choice, such as for the mountains of Glencoe, but for Deuchary Hill it's a short travel time from Edinburgh to the outskirts of the village of Dunkeld.

The estimated time for a circular route of Deuchary is six hours, though in the end we took slightly longer. Even the reward at the end of food and a drink at the Taybank bar, overlooking one of the great salmon rivers in Scotland, the River Tay, couldn't tempt us to hurry.

At Mill Dam we were supposed to take a left on the advice of my friend Pauline, but we decided to continue on to the small body of water, Loch Ordie. We stopped briefly just after Mill Dam for a spot of lunch, soaking in the late spring sunshine and watching the birds flitting around gathering nesting material.

Doubling back slightly after Loch Ordie we found the path up to the summit, and 20 minutes later we were admiring the views from the rocky top. The unmistakable pointed peak of Schiehallion was visible nearby, still covered in late snow. As Dave passed around his hip flask of brandy we congratulated each other on a job well done.  For a while longer we sat silently, not from exhaustion but from quiet contemplation as we watched the few clouds there were drift slowly by.

We picked a direct, short but steep route off the hill and wandered back to Dunkeld for our evening meal, satisfied in our little expedition with old friends up Deuchary Hill.