The Scottish Pools Coupon Towns

 

Do you remember , about a year ago when the Beeb was criticised for insufficient coverage of our northern neighbour? Well, they have certainly redressed the balance and long may it continue. Even Rab C Nesbitt is getting another run out – late doors, before ‘Early Doors’…the ‘Scottish Pools Coupon Towns’ was the latest in a long line of special progs…. This was a strange wee film. It began with the somewhat wordy, upper middle class presenter Jonathan Meades (Off Kilter it’s called) lying on the floor in the kind of position which might suggest he’d just fallen from a ten story building, or the edge of a steep crag by Glencoe…ie’ off kilter.

 

He’s a cross between Elton John , Robert Palmer, and William H Macy….a very distinctive man indeed and his way with words means one really has to concentrate…I only understood nine out of every ten and I consider myself fairly accomplished in the use of our language. Within minutes he was driving around Fife…looking for the stadia of minor Scottish football clubs (I feel there are only two or three major ones, after all). Cowdenbeath was his first stop. He then radiated east and west to nearby towns who would constitute a local ‘derby’ for the ‘beathers. East Fife (Methil), Dunfermline etc. Conversations with his ‘sat-nav’s’ voice were a clever device to reveal his ignorance (and educate those of us who didn’t know Saints Mirren & Johnson were not towns) He’d do a short piece to camera about the merits of each place he visited. Shots of Grandstands, and terrace roofs very much in evidence. and he’d not shy away from the difficulties facing them in this post industrial age….seldom more apparent than in Methil.

home of East Fife F.C.

His last stop – or as far as I got before I started nodding was Alloa , in Clackmannanshire. A town of breweries. Once there were ten, he explained…now there is but the one. It seems many of the Scots are condemned to live in a cheerless central belt which has seen better times. Time swhen the rich lined their pockets and housed many of their factory fodder in ‘schemes’ Remarkably, and quite without any explanation the programmes emphasis then suddenly changed from football grounds to housing. Endless shots of poorly designed ‘all the same’ homes many covered in that awful grey palour which I recognised instantly. Meades reckoned that the populace were denied colour, because it would have been seen as a luxury, presented too cheerful a face to the world. He also touched upon diet, and the awful statistic that makes Scotland the most ‘likely place to be physically attacked’ in Western Europe. Apparently life expectancy is also the lowest in terms of years. As Meades began to compare the baronial homes and grand Castles of Scotland to multi-storey flats and flat roofed council houses my eyes began to close and I turned off the telly. I’ll see it through to the bitter end tomorrow, I reasoned to myself. Next morning I’m thinking about this though and realising it was perhaps the most intelligent programme I’ve seen in a while. Perhaps the finest of all the recent Scotland related output on BBC 4. I’m not saying I agree with some of his dismal observations, as I really do like the place very much. This film concentrated on the Scotland one would avoid on holiday. I’ve been to all of these places though and the depictions were inevitably brief but fairly accurate, and an excellent eye-opener to a country of stark contrasts.

out on a Lymm…

We decided to re-acquaint uz-selves with the Bridgewater Canal this morning and had a fifteen mile ride to the Cheshire  village of Lymm.  Bobby Charlton lives there don’t ya know? I’ve driven through it more times than I care to remember over the last forty years but the road from Warrington to Manchester (thankfully) does not go through the centre of the village, and I’d only ever seen the place at close quarters the once c.1972…and even then, not on foot.

the approach

 We’d turned off the main road before the town centre and found ourselves in a country lane going under a very low bridge. Only about nine foot headroom with water dripping down the insides of it we figured it was an aqueduct and we were right under the canal.

We carried on , and looked for a spot to park but these narrow Chehsire lanes were not promising – then we spotted an opening to the left with  a low plank nailed across  two uprights giving about half as much headroon as the bridge! We were in though, and found a little car park where half a dozen motors were ‘moored’

Just fifty yards away we spied another stone bridge and sure enough the canal passed underneath, the descent involved a reverse clamber but we were on the towpath and Lymm-bound after consulting a resting hiker, munching on what looked like a boiled egg butty!

Wallet: happy to be back by the water

The bit of blue sky which had spurred us on thus far had all but disappeared, and the overhwleming greyness – so common in this part of the world had returned . It was mild though, not at all cool and the towpath was of superior quality.  The Bridgewater Canal follows the maps contour lines and there are no locks to negotiate. It was the first of the canals, and originally intended to move coal into central Manchester to fire the furnaces of the industrial revolution.

We emerged into the less than bustling streets from Lymm Bridge, our first sight was the Bulls Head, but we resisted the gravitational pull in search of a cheese and onion pie. The village appeared in the Doomsday Book and was sacked by Normans in 1070  -I doubt they fancied cheese pies, perhaps   the odd spit-roasted wild boar.

local boozer

Yes, we were getting hungry by now. The first notable sight we encountered was the ancient village ‘stocks’ where local miscreants would suffer ritual humiliation at the hands of their peers.  A much better idea than the ASBO don’t you think?

bring 'em back !

Then I heared the unmistakable sound of a ‘Big-Issue’ seller. ‘Eee-shoe…beeg eeehshoe’  Incongruous  enough in this prosperous village, and even moreso as she turned out to be a middle-aged Eastern European woman ! Or perhaps she’d been evicted from the Turkish food shop just yards away. I wasn’t tempted to buy. It seems that the thorny issue of immigration is never far away from impacting, however slightly upon our daily lives.

beeg eeeshoe ?

Consider: this poor woman , (probably) due to EU law has been allowed to decamp from her pittle-poor homeland and sit in the street here selling a magazine which benefits the homeless, in a village where young locals have hardly a hope of affording a roof.  Not for the first time I wondered  ‘what’s goin’ on?’ ……before moving on to the pie shop, Wallet was setting a cracking pace.

a most attractive bakers shop

We plumped for Cheese and Onion pasties in the absence of pies (maybe we’ll visit the Leeds & Liverpool Canal near Wigan next time). Wallet wanted cakes too!- I chose a  Custard tart and she settled on  a Vanilla slice.

We sat across the road on a bench while ducks waddled and squawked - little wonder given  the size of the ‘opposition’.

big fish!

 

We had a little walk up ‘The Dingle’ passing these lovely little cottages as we went.

The Dingle

We were shedding some of the cake created calories as the pathway steepened. We looked down to our left down a steepish canyon as water lazily flowed vilageward. What little sunlight there was filtered through the leaves, which will be dislodged by the next stiffened breeze. No wind today though , all we could hear was the increased traffic noise as we climbed unlevel steps to the main road and Lymm Dam. A man-made lake the creation of which was linked to the excavations for the ‘Manchester Ship Canal’ not far away.

A canal for ocean going liners this of course, and   built on a much grander scale in the late nineteenth century by Manchester Merchants who had  tired of being over-charged by Liverpool Wharfage and Dock owners. It was also difficult to imagine the mighty M6 motorway and the huge eight lane Thelwall Viaduct were just  a cockstride away from this relatively idyllic spot.

looking south west across Lymm dam.

Heading back down into the village we exchanged nods with other walkers on the descent which soon revealed another angle – another pub. A most handsome frontage too. I wondered if the village was usually spared the weekly Saturday ruckus of vomit spewing binge drinkers and wobbling women, tattooes and mini-skirted , breasts almost spilling forth from straining brassieres  and big-bum cleavages above sagging denims as they cavort hap-hazardly in their drunken state.  I rather hoped it is.

The Spread Eagle

Appetites appeased yet not ready to head homeward just yet we decided to explore some more. Up and down side streets we found another aqueduct and were soon canalside once again. The smell of burning wood permeated and our nostrils sniffed most greedily at this agreeable smell.

woodburner

I imagined a reclining boater within, devouring a novel  whilst warming his feet by the stove, and contemplating his lot in life, which from the towpath seems both enviable  and agreeable.

We headed back for the car as the sky darkened and rain seemed imminent – but not before noticing this beautiful waterside  property…

location location location !

We managed to time our arrival car-park side just right as no sooner had the red roadster emerged into view than the rain began to spot. I was aching like a good ‘un if I’m honest and glad to see the car while Wallet is still spry and nimble-ish. I expect I shall feel better as the exercise benefits my new ‘bits’ and my recovering muscle.

We fired up the old girl and I tuned in the radio to hear footballing stalwart Jimmy Armfield describing Burnley’s 3-1  home win over Sunderland. Two fine football clubs who have known hard times recently. I doubt that can be said of Lymm., beyond marginal recession driven fluctuations. For it’s a handsome,  prosperous place, inhabited by those lucky enough to earn more than  a bob or two.

A couple of  hours well spent.  We may well be back.

Ullapuddle remembered (2007)

Another one we prepared earlier is this…

 

“Having opted for the scenic route northward to Ullapool we were more than miffed when the weather seemed to object. I’ve never known a more miserable traverse of Glencoe since we piloted an old motorbike through the valley in 1994. When windalmost had us off , and only dogged perseverance, allied with a measure of stupidity kept us on.

Listening to the English Cup Final for much of the afternoon, not only the game went into ‘extra-time’ I actually felt tired, and a little cheesed off during this ten hour marathon. Even Manchester United’s defeat failed to cheer, given their opponents.

An hour later than expected though we arrived in Ullapool, and collected the keys to the ‘digs’ . In truth a rather splendid detached cottage overlooking Ardmair Bay. The sea was so close that from some angles we appeared to be on the bridge of a boat!

bay window

The place was almost entirely decked out in wood and magnolia emulsion. Utterly functional. We didn’t need two of the bedrooms and in fact, the first floor of the house went almost totally unused.

Enchanted by the view, and the prospect of a coal fire to play with, and delight in we settled down to our first evening with red wine. No need to abandon usual behaviour just because we‘re on holiday.

We are far from ‘party animals’ and comfortable in our own company. So, we were not overtly looking to mix, or make friends. Just as well as apart from our immediate neighbours, much of the local populace was four legged and woolly. I saw only half a dozen people pass by the house all week !

Sunday brought some bright weather, although the strongest wind was omniprescent the whole time. We ventured on a drive to Coigach. The yellow of the Gorse contrasting so strikingly with the deep inky blue waters of placid, still ice cold Lochs. I pondered the ‘Summer Isles’ from various angles, and thought of the opening sequence of the ‘Wicker Man’ and the haunting song that heralded horrors unimagined for that gullible Copper, winging his way in from the Metropolis polis.

open road & nobody else on it

As the rain fell on Monday we were ensconced within our comfy digs all day !

Lighting the coal fire proved a little difficult, We’d chosen to watch an old film – ’Mississippi Burning’ the flames onscreen were in stark contrast to the action going on in our grate, despite expectations. Persistence paid off though and eventually we were toasty warm. Hypnotized for a while by the flickering flame and the warming, hearty glow. Surely a primeval connection for even the most sophisticated of men, of which I am not one.

We read and gazed occasionally across the bay toward the ‘Minch’ The nautical highlights were several sightings of the Lewis ferry and her twice daily shuttle.

ferry 'cross the Minch

How I loved to see the familiar black and white boat plying her way in and out of the ’Minch’ I read a rather splendid book. Unusual for me, I only get through about two a year of late. ‘Never Go Back’ by Robert Goddard. A suitably Scottish flavoured tale of a re-union of auld R.A.F. comrades in a Highland Castle. Murder, and intrigue in good measure, and a Hebridean finale. A suitable prelude to our Tuesday agenda.

As Monday fell away the gathering darkness brought reflected moonlight dancing on the waves outside. We was in love with Ardmair , our bay window an unexpected catalyst for one way romanticism.

setting sun

Next morning we sailed to Lewis. The Minch was choppy, which for me is far more interesting than a flat calm. Twenty five years have passed since I last set foot upon Stornoway. A dark November night in 1982. I was making a delivery of large diesel engine parts to the Hydro-power Station. I’d never forgotten the place and always wanted to go back, never having seen the island in daylight. The stones at Callanish were an obvious, and long held attraction for both of us. Planned motor-cycle jaunts to see them had been thwarted in the past.

Leaving our trusty old car behind on the mainland we plumped for a bus ride after a brief look around Stornoway. The town centre looked a trifle tired if I’m honest. Callanish however, looked anything but, even after five thousand years. I’m not sure why I like these ancient places. Yet I do, oh!, I cannot claim to go into some kind of spiritual trance in an overwhelmed rapture, communing with the past but I do like to survey, and if possible to touch. To close my eyes briefly and honour those who toiled to build these mysterious structures. To ponder time, and my own relatively tiny slice of it. This place is comparable with Stonehenge. The wind howled and the rain came down but these temporary hardships have been battering these sentinels of stone for eons and epochs. We could cope with fifteen minutes or so.

A friendly local gave us a lift part way back to town. We’d booked B & B in ‘Dunroamin’ a largish terraced house just off Alba Street – apologies for mixing the Gaelic with the Angle. We tramped around town later and ate reasonably well at the Crown Hotel. I’m not a lover of eating out. Wallet is a fine cook, and I’m easily pleased. I always contemplate rather sadly the passing of increasing numbers of notes when the bill arrives. Seldom does the food live up to the thirty quid plus price tag. Strangely, my better half has a completely different perspective on the matter.

We walked off some of the expensive calories around the harbour area and finished with a pint in McNeill’s. As we walked back to Dunroamin – and our ’king-sized’ bed, which was about eight feet wide ! the rain came down heavily, yet somehow it felt appropriate. This Hebridean outpost had given us a traditional welcome it seemed and the day had gone very well indeed.

Hebridean Hauler

Breakfast was a feast. I could easily become addicted to ‘black-puddings’. Effusive compliments were conveyed to our hostess, and she smiled as the sixty quid was handed over un-begrudgingly.

We spent the morning traipsing around – not good for me with a heavy rucksack across my shoulders. The hips were protesting as we hiked back to the museum at the appointed opening time, only to find a sign saying ‘closed until September’ Bah!

I consoled myself with coffee and a caramel wafer in the ‘Coffee-Pot’ caff.

Wallet  chided my choice, reminding me of my borderline glucose intolerance and a one word reply was my only option – ‘Tunnocks!’

quayside art

A circular bus trip – one and half hours to Tolsta entertained us splendidly, although we resisted the urge to burst, Gene Pitney like, into song. I’m sure the locals are sick and tired of such banal references.

 We boarded the boat back with a feeling we may never return to Lewis. I’m sure it will get along fine without us. The place has a promising future and a distinguished, if difficult past. I read of the ‘Iolaire’ disaster whilst there. A sinking ship bringing home First World War survivors A moving, poignant story of returning heroes snatched from their loved ones within yards of home. Awful. I found a slight sadness had lingered in the air somehow but cannot explain why.

The ‘Velvet’ ale helped pass the journey time. Even the arrival of a group of elderly ‘bikers’ on adjacent seats could not inspire me to much conversation. Some of them fell asleep, and snored quite loudly. Such is life.

The car was not stood on bricks when we returned to it’s spot in the middle of downtown Ullapuddle, as we had affectionately christened the wee toon. No surprise, as the rather tatty wheels are the worst thing about our rather wonderful auld motor. Vorsprung durch technik indeed. Perhaps I might invest in a set of new ones.

Back to reality. We toured the local museum on Thursday – not bad for three quid – although it was one of those experiences you berate yourself for not enjoying more. I treated myself to a new pair of bootlaces at the ‘outdoor pursuits’ shop opposite. So, my days spending was mounting up. Pints at the Ferry Boat Inn boosted the tally.

The week was disappearing fast. Friday dawned. News of a ‘rock band’ playing at the Seaforth Pub pricked up my ears but the prediction of a ‘packed house’ put us off a tad. We decided to take advantage of the bright start and drove to Lochinver via Inverkirkaig. Two years ago we almost bought a holiday home in gorgoeus wee village, with a view to renting it out until we retired ten years hence.  (six and a half years now – ed.)

For the first time in three visits though I saw Lochinver kissed by the sun. How cheerful and bright the village looked. How blue the sea in the bay. The drive back filled our senses with the scenic splendour of it all. What a difference some sunshine makes. Perhaps one day Lochinver may still beckon. A short detour to a deserted Achmelvich beach reinforced this theory. What a stunning place it is.

 

We chose the chippy for our final foray into celtic cuisine. Eating at ‘home’ looking out to the Minch as the ferry slipped out of our view for the final time. Runrig entertained and I left the video tape behind for others to enjoy – the evangelist in me.

I also decided to leave the book I’d read, with a note inside for would be readers of the tome to ‘get stuck in’ to ‘Never Go Back’….….though e’ll not apply that titular advice to future holidaymaking.

Suddenly , an intrusion!!

 Movement to my left caught my eye, and somewhat surprisingly, an ebony black face with long & thick  dreadlocks was walking past , then peering in the landward window. Somewhat incongruous given the surroundings.  Seconds later a knock at the door. I answered to find the man , along with his girlfriend, asking if ‘our’ house was a bed and breakfast establishment. They were travelling with one other woman, recumbent in a parked up Peugeot. Thoughts of our two surplus bedrooms flashed into my mind but as we had only four rashers of bacon left, and no black puddings and were needing an early start, reality quickly kicked in. I asked them inside and furnished them with several ‘phone numbers from the ‘Rough Guide’ They had had no luck in Ullapool and were heading North. I don’t think they appreciated the isolated and sparsely populated region they were entering. I hoped later that they were okay.

the beach at ARdmair - Skylark in the background

Sinking the last few dregs of wine as the embers of our splendid coal fire sank ever lower into the grate , the darkness gathered as evening turned into night and holiday slowly turned back toward normality. Always a poignant, reflective time. How does time go so quickly?

 Then I remembered my thin slice of time, becoming thinner by the month, by the year. Make the most of it and try not dwell on such uncomfortable truths. Life is like granary bread. The smaller bits (holidays) do you the most good. They are to be savoured, and above all remembered.

 Our return journey was foot-down over a different route and we made it in seven hours flat. Another memorable foray into Caledonia and memories to savour of dear old Ullapuddle.”

 

thanks for sticking with Wallet & Grimace.

DVD of this trek available dirt cheap e:mail  - Walletandgrimace@aol.com

the shroppie

and finally found it…

Jumped in the old car again today – I’m amazed the way she constantly does what we ask of her…long may it continue. Vorsprung durk teknik – summat like that anyway!

'owdoo!

After a forty mile trip iunder sunny blue skies we went for a long , long walk  along the Chehsire section of the Shropshire Union Canal. We met friendly folk – like this chap,

and feasted us eyes on some grand scenery

 

lock-down

 

  those who know describe this as the ‘Clapham Junction of the Canal Network – to me it’s just a lovely bridge at Barbridge.

 We had a wee picnic by this bridge which , somewhat sadly was only yards away from  a busy trunk road. No matter, the tuna was on form.

wallet by the old stables

 We called at the Anglo-Welsh boatyard at Bunbury,  a delicious Cheshire village. Wallet saw lots of narrowboaty stuff to buy (coasters and prints and stuff) but kept her hand on her ha’penny! We’ll be back.

 

how green was our valley?

 

stonework

 

this has seen a few! a good old boat

 

 

where the hell are we going?

 We walked and walked, looking for Beeston Castle. We were told ‘it’s only about a mile’….and ploughed gamely onward..must’ve been  a country mile ‘cos we gave up in the end.

 

a lovely boat - we want one !!

 I think we’ll get one too, one day - providing hiring one first is fun.             Such  a colourful boat this, with lots of adornments. Porthole windows added to the charm – it was just moored there radiating in the warm sunshine – smashin’

reed 'em and weep

 

 

 

 

spot the stag

 We were quite surprised to come across Deer in the fields, must be a Venison farm. I’ve never had it.

Virgin Express from Chester

a bit weary and digging deep

Still no sign of the flippin’ Castle – it’s been there since twelve hundred and summat – allegedly.

baa baa black sheep

back at Bunbury

get yer skates on Grimace!

we decided to look for the Castle in the car

…and finally found it

THE END

lapping it up in Tongue…

…another old story from the vaults – this time Sutherland July 2006.

Another week in the north of Scotland was on the agenda and an early start required for Satuday the first day of the seventh month of 2006. The alarm clock’s clarion call at three-thirty am was dutifully heeded, for once with relish.

An espresso dash for our destination saw Inverness reached in six motion blurred hours.Forty five quid replenished the Audi’s fuel tank to the brim and from here on in the motoring became more demanding. Eighty or so miles on single track road. Yes, there are numerous passing places but as ones speed inevitably builds & concentration momentarily lapses the chances of a head on collision are at least worth factoring in to ones safety equation. The key is to always imagine a Land Rover, or some other tank like vehicle is about to loom ominously ahead of you around the next, fast approaching bend.

As landscapes turned more barren and the north coast beckoned, scenic appreciation stops increased & the travel clock neared nine hours. All gryst to the mill of seasoned Scottish travellers. I suppose if we’d headed off by air a similar time span could have us comfortably esconced on almost any tourist beach you could mention – perish the thought. Having ‘been there, done that’ several times over. I would not rule it out in the future, at all, but I still have a lot of Scotland to see.

 

I mused inwardly how more redolent of pit winding gear and brass bands the name ‘Skinnet’ was. Our objective, stands on the Kyle of Tongue, almost at the edge of the Britain’s mainland Perhaps my current read: Orwell’s ‘Road to Wigan Pier’ had inspired such reverie.

The cottage when we found it was surprisingly large and delightfully situated. Sea views from the garden and windows, and lot of space inside and out. A ‘pub’ less than seventy yards away added to our euphoric first impressions.

cottage at Skinnet

I settled to watch England tackle Portugal in the World Cup quarter final and was predictaby disappointed. All the more bitter was my sense of loss when a cry-baby fancy dan  called Ronaldo first applied the knife and then twisted it.Never mind, I was soon over it.

We soon set to exploring and a walk down to the aptly named ‘Skinnet Beach’ provided our first scenic feast. It was indeed one heck of a beach! Filling the senses just like John Denver’s missus in the forest we breathed it all in and slaked our burning thirst for Sutherland, her isolation and her beauty.

life's a deserted beach

No one was around. The beach must have stretched a mile and a half, made up of pristine virgin sand and only we two walking upon this expanse. At a time of heatwave down south I pondered the sardine like crushing at places of traditional seaside fun and games, at the same time giving myself a notional pat on the back.

The ‘Kyle’ itself beguiled me from the start. Although, we had first clapped eyes on it briefly, only last October, we both knew we would be back before long. I sometimes try to analyse what holds such fascination for me in the furthest flung corners of these great British Isles. Why a damp , often dark land draws me, and luckily Wallet too, like moths to a flame?….

beguiled by the Kyle

….undoubtedly with me, my ‘go against the grain’ mentality has something to do with it. I have become more cussed as I age and buck trends generally. Perhaps also, like the Celts in the midsts of time, escape to the very periphery of the lands brings peace of mind, albeit temporary. As urban England changes so dramatically in its’ ethnic make up, and the English countryside ever more becomes a weekend refuge for hooray Henry’s & Henriettas in green wellies and matching Range Rovers.One is as likely to see an affluent ‘erbert enjoying the inner city streets as one is to see an ‘ethnic’ strolling around in our last remaining wilderness.

Combine these no doubt to some, dubious motives with jawdropping beauty , ever changing light, a wind that can sing a soothing lullaby , a haunted lament or a vicious howl and where a glimpse of sun means so much more for its’ unpredictable shyness.

 

The following days brought walks. Lots of them. We scrambled to the top of a big hill to see a little castle. A Viking buttress overlooking the Kyle.

Castle Varrich. Out of puff I surveyed what remains of this old norse landmark and bastion. Not very much but an estate agent would make much of the ‘stunning views’. A JCB was working on the forestry, slightly diminishing the sense of peace and isolation up there. It’s clanging bucket alien to ‘us surroundin’s like.’

Midweek we ventured to Thurso, which as the ‘Rough Guide’ mentions, appears a ‘seeming metropolis’ when approached from the west. So empty has the road been for mile upon mile. I was charmed by the wee town. Independent shops (a sore point locally at the minute) give it a sense of identity lacking in other burghs & boroughs, as corporate retail marches ever onward.

Places like Thurso remain a novelty to visitors but local needs must take precedence and if a large supermarket is what the majority wants then Walmart will have it’s inevitable way. Is this not the asda-price of democracy?

Pasties, (or are they Bridies?) from Johnson’s the bakers were enjoyed overlooking the greyish beach, Scrabster harbour in the near distance. Gulls wailed plaintively for tit-bits and were disappointed. We boosted the local economy further with the cutting of keys. Friendly service and a ‘bring them back if there’s a problem’ made us smile too.

Halkirk

Deciding to look at Halkirk, another familiar name yet so far unknown to us was a good decision. Driving out of town passingthe ‘all-star’ cinema emporium the countryside was like a soothing balm. Big and wide rolling fields, full of buttercups and colour. We slid roof back to enjoy the air further. The village was bathed in light and looked lovely, if a little ‘Stepford wives-ish’ Planned rows of mostly single storey dwellings neatly laid out to an obvious plan. Lots of open space had been included and tracts of greenery, and wild flowers conspired to make us almost wish we lived there. A rewarding diversion.

a river runs through it

The week sped by, as they always do and soon the end drew near. A sun drenched return to ‘that’ beach was another delight. The Kyle of Tongue was ours! No-one else to savour what was truly a remarkable sight of emptiness. Great tracts of sand and a glimpse southward to the peaks of Ben Loyal and Ben Hope confirmed their majesty, especially the former. A mountain of true excellence.

Ben Loyal

Deciding to make a break for home on Friday lunchtime with minds made up the road to Inverness this time treated like a rally-track as I re-discovered the fast driver in me. Most enjoyable when allied with experience and common sense.

Another visit over, and once again we are back here in the familiar. Urban Manchester offers us little in comparison except steady wages. Ain’t life a beggar sometimes?

a last look, but we'll be back

9/11: Calls from The Towers

9/11: Phone Calls from The Towers  (Channel 4 last night)

 Ten minutes into this programme I felt uncomfortable watching. Any thinking, caring human-being would share the same emotion. A father was sharing the depth of his loss to those acts of atrocity propelled by blind faith.

His 31 year old daughter was on the 106th floor of the North Tower when a Boeing slammed into it at four hundred miles an hour. We all know what happened in the hours afterwards. I felt uneasy for two reason: first a feeling of deep intrusiveness into private grief become public. I also wondered about the relatives who were not taking part. I’d guessed these people sharing their stories were in the minority…after all almost three thousand people perished on that September morn. The people selected were surely no more special, their stories no more poignant than countless others whose desperate calls to loved ones revealed the uncertainties of the terror they were facing.

For what these calls revealed was that few people inside really knew what was going on. As the programme progressed, and skilful direction revealed more and more of the details of the dead a dignity emerged which began to allay my sense of discomfort. A sense of understanding of the human element in this day of days. My imagination is far from stunted but I confess I’d not given a lot of thought to individual suffering in the shattered buildings. The sense of shock and abject helplessness victims must have felt as the smoke and heat permeated what had been air-conditioned comfort on that bright, sunny day. Many floors below the point of impact walls had buckled and debris blocked exits.

As I pondered the motives for furnishing a television production company with the voices of Daughters, Sons, Brothers and Husbands I considered how these still grieving families would feel if nobody had watched. If the sense of ‘discomfort’ had been so overpowering a collective turning away had rendered their grieving Redundant ? – surplus to requirements. And I watched on, to the bitterest of ends. Later I thought some more, and took down ‘United 93’ from the shelf and watched that too. This time with a new perspective. As frantic calls from the doomed airliner were among the final acts of passengers as the airliner was being flown by a terrorist.

The events of September the eleventh 2001 changed the world as we knew it. We should ask ourselves what would lead men to commit such a vile act ? What they see in our western existence which causes so much revulsion ? Why their blind faith is so  overarching and blind to their own lives and the lives of others they destroy.

 The calls from the Towers were just a part of the jigsaw that makes up the tapestry of their downfall. The calls featured last night were made by people in their prime, people with busy, prosperous lives With futures to savour and look forward to with children to love and homes to return to. They were denied all of those things by people in their prime, who shared some of those feelings but were driven by a very different agenda which , in my experience has never been satisfactorily examined. If listening to these calls did anything for me they made me think some more about an event which for most now looms large but once a year, yet upon which the dust of history is reluctant to settle.

juggling blogs…

I’m told my holiday blogs make interesting reading for some folk.

So this evening I went to about half an hours worth of trouble to dig out an old one and add some photos – then I posted it in the wrong place.

This is what comes of having a couple of blogs on the same wordpress site – the other one is largely defunct though to be honest.

Anyway to get a long story shortly just click this link – thank you very much

www.t0boggan.wordpress.com

dead ringer…

Well, if one ignores the lowered suspension. I did 50,000 miles in one of these between ’69 and 71. Smashin !….As a Driver/Salesman (?) I was lookin’ for and truckin’  tyres for vulcanisation and repair. It was a time of giant earthmoving projects (M62 etc.) and sometimes one big tyre would be a full load!

  pick- up

nostalgia mode…

…much coverage of the Beatles on t’v’ this week has tranported me back to the late sixties when I was a confirmed Beatles ‘nut’ . Nostalgia is one of my favoured modes anyway and never far from the forefront of my mind – yours too I expect. When the present can be  a little mundane (save for certain highlights) and the future uncertain our minds are inevitably drawn back to a fund (if we’re lucky) of good and happy memories.

One such memory involves this iconic shape/image call it what you will. This one has seen better days too but the patina of age it radiates adds to the picture. When I was seventeen I’d dream of owning one of these. By the time I was eighteen, by an incredible fluke  the dream had almost come true. I was driving one daily, taking it home and using it as my own – with free petrol – what joy!

 

By the time I’d started to appreciate the  functional beauty of these vehicles VW had stopped making them. The newer variety with  a one piuece windscreen were called ‘bay-windows’ by afficionados. I went on to drive several of those but they never quite captured the imagination in the way of the split-screen icon. Do you like ‘em too? For some, they are just too German!

split-screen icon

jigsaw puzzle blues !

What a bloody to-doo…

…we had our g/daughter down for the day today, she’s back at school tomorrow and while she was up to her usual tricks of making a mess in the kitchen with all her baking stuff I decamped upstairs to do  a job I’ve been putting off for ages.

It’s years since I’ve done a jigsaw – possibly fifty years. I’m not very good at them, and being partially colour blind doesn’t help. Anyway  about five years ago I saw a puzzle I could not resist. It was a scene from Corfe Castle in Dorset. An old single decker bus is negotiating the tight bend in the village c.1955, the ‘Greyhound’ pub in the background, and the ruins of the Castle behind that. A quintissentially English scene. 

Now that tight bend and I go back  a bit. I used to deliver pop and confectionery to  a newsagents shop in Swanage. Nothing too dramatic there you might think but in summer the shop got busy, very busy indeed. So busy in fact that almost half of my 18 ton load – carried in a  17 ton truck pulling a similarly sized trailer – sixteen wheels and about 400 horses working hard.

The bend could be a nightmare if traffic was heavy. With  a big vehicle  sixty feet in length you simply have to claim about three quarters of the road to get around the thing, and the bend came at the top of a steep hill where you’d be down into crawler or very low gear. All good fun. Especially when tourists – their minds in neutral –  would suddenly realise thirty two tonnes of straining metal was impeding their progress.

I’d sweat buckets unloading the stuff in Swanage – unless I could merely dump the trailer and let the shop staff get on with it – as they sometimes did….I’d go back for it later when things had quietened down  a bit. The streets were always heaving with holidaymakers in the afternoon you see.

Back to the jigsaw. I’m not sure how it came about but I mentioned it to Stan, a mate of mine I used to work with. He knew all about Corfe Castle and Swanage as for years we’d shared the route on alternate weeks. He and his partner Jill liked jigsaws and he volunteered to do it for me.

Some months later – after  a bit of an ordeal apparently, they brought it around to our house. I placed it carefully intact  on top of Wallet’s wardrobe and frankly forgot all about it.

Lately though we’ve amassed so many dvd’s that we need to store some up there – kind of an improvised shelf. So I’ve been meaning to get the jigsaw down and put it in a clip frame.

Easier said that done.

The transfer was  more tortuous than taking that bloody bend in Corfe. Scores of pieces came adrift, and at one point it seprated entirely in half – debris in the shape of little chunks of cardboard flung hither and thither. I shouted. Swore in fact. G/D came bounding up the stairs to see what was up – followed  by Wallet. They both laughed….a lot !

What  a nightmare. I spent about an hour trying to get the thing back together and probably replaced about ten per cent of the displaced bits.

Tonight, I enlisted Wallets help – she of more patience – and the thing began to take shape. I reckon though it’s taken about four man hours to get the thing back together. Still, it’s worth it – it looks good.

The scene always reminds me of that old Allison Steadman play ‘Nuts in May’ and I’ll now never forget that bend in Corfe. One of these days I’ll manage a pint in the ‘Greyhound’ – ’cause in the past parking was always a problem! 

back in one piece