The Best Laid Plans

Never mind ‘gang aft agley’, as a better scribe than I once said, but around here they lie in tatters.  The plan was that at this moment, we leave York and take the road for Brecon, two weeks under canvas ahead, tired after a day wandering either the Family History Fair or the Railway Museum.  Alas it was not to be as the car failed to make it out of the driveway, the dodgy alternator failing at the wrong time.  So for now we are stranded at home, one car down, depressed, disappointed, and rueing wasted money on an unused hotel room and an unused flight from Bristol to Inverness.  The funeral should still be attended by The Genealogist, using the wee car, and leaving the rest of us stranded in our rural idyll without transport.  The car repair should proceed, with a replacement part to be delivered early in the week, no thanks to our local dealership who quoted a price that seemed to be for an alternator plated in gold.  Once it does arrive though, sourced from further afield at an acceptable price, we have the problem of finding a garage to fit it, and of getting an immobile vehicle to said garage.  We might get on the road south by Thursday, for an abbreviated version of our planned holiday.

Today though, as the rain spatters the windows, we are to head east, for a day at the Royal Highland Show, a day out we have often considered since our last visit around 15 years ago.  Usually we are on holiday, but enough of that.  It promises to be an extravagance, and one that digs deeply into the sparse holiday funds, with entrance tickets alone costing £25 per head, before parking, food etc.  However we will try and bring some cheer to a disappointed troop with dreams of elsewhere.

On the bedside table right now is a deep historical tome, Simon Sebag Montefiore’s Jerusalem – The Biography.  A weighty read it may provide much thought for a cynical old aetheist; one who just the other day was invited to attend a writing weekend in Jerusalem.  What with the holiday disaster it is something I may consider a bit closer, though I know it is not the easiest or cheapest destination to reach.  There are perhaps only two flight options, and Manchester may be preferable to London, if times can fit in with the course.  We shall see.

Despite the gloom I did have a marvellous read yesterday.  Robert Rodi’s Seven Seasons in Siena took me back to holidays that went to plan, to the warm sun of Tuscany and The Palio of July 2009.  There I had nurtured an interest in the Noble Contrada of Bruco, the Caterpillar, though Bruco did not take part in my palio.  Rodi was there though, when Bruco won it’s first race in decades, and went back time and again to find out about the inner workings of the contrada, and the strategies and rivalries which make The Palio such a marvellous event, a magnet for tourists, but so much more for those directly involved.  The book took me right back to those cobbled streets, to that palazzo, and to my day at the races.  Whether it would hold such an interest for those who have not been to Siena, witnessed The Palio, far less had an interest in Bruco, is another story, but for this voyeur it was truly joyful, particularly through the despair of yesterday.

Today though, it’s along the road to join the queues and the throngs at Ingliston; tomorrow who knows what awaits us all, cases still packed, car loaded and broken, dreams shattered.

Chasing the Dragon

No silly, not that dragon, we’re off to Wales tomorrow – it’s holiday time!  Actually first stop is a bit away from the valleys, it’s York, where The Genealogist goes to the Family History Fair and The Grasshopper cleans up in the brownie points department.  To keep The Urchins entertained for the day I’ve two options in mind – either vikings or steam trains.  Whoo whoooo.

Today it’s the final day at school for the little cherubs, their last day in P1 and P2 respectively.  Then they’re under my feet for weeks on end, meaning that The Grasshopper has to have outings at silly o’clock; shopping, banking and trips to the post all have to be accompanied by whining and arguments.  Oh the joys of the school holidays.

Also this week The First Born has finally been able to get an interview in the IT sector, just a couple of years post graduation.  If nothing else it’s a good experience, and an occasion to remember how to put a tien on.

Then finally on Sunday we should arrive at Brecon, car permitting as a very concerning battery light has been intermittently displayed of late.  The suspicion is alternator problems; the local motor factor has quoted almost £200, and neither he nor his supplier has stock but would have to order from the factory.  So we’ll head off anyway, with fingers crossed and AA card in the pocket.

Sadly our first week will be interrupted as The Genealogist has to take a couple of days out  and catch a flight to Inverness for the funeral of a dear friend.  Sadness descends, and we have to hope that the car survives until we find the way to Bristol airport.

The tone will lighten and by week two, suitably worn out from the bookshops at Hay on Wye, we head for the coast, near Aberystwyth.  Will the car hold out?  Will we get the tent up, and down and up again?  What will the weather throw at us and will the tent and the tempers stand up to it?

Before we go it’s time for another little rant.  The BBC and their take on politics in Scotland again come top of the list.  After brief signs of a sudden acceptance that the SNP are in government and deserve to be, having earned their majority through sheer good performance in the face of four years of adversity, Brian Taylor blogged something that may have been seen as supportive, certainly not hostile.  Then we have another FMQs and from that comes the usual skewed reportage, villain in chief these days seeming to be Raymond Buchanan.  Balance?  Impartiality?  Not a chance, that handbook hasn’t been handed over yet, if it even exists.

The government is commendably introducing legislation to try and deal with our sectarian problem, particularly in and around football stadia, and perhaps more importantly, on the on-line forums.  It was evident that time was too short to have working processes in place for the start of the football season so in a very eloquent and persuasive response to questions the First Minsiter confirmed he would extend the debating period to obtain cross party support, notwithstanding the majority he could have used to bludgeon it through, until the end of the year, the start of the foorball season being relatively unimportant in relation to the greater good.  I will gloss over the jibes from Elmer Fudd in putting his question.  He never did know when to take Yes for an answer.  But the BBC’s bulletins report it all as a u-turn; an admission that Salmond was right when proclaiming not to have a monopoly on wisdom etc etc.  I prefer to take the view that good decisions have been made for all the right reason.  Statesmanlike, that was the performance I witnessed at FMQs yesterday; and childish the reporting by the state-funded public service broadcaster.

Another rant is aimed at the offices and procedures of RBS, another state-owned operation these days.  Ordinarily I keep all business matters well away from these utterances but so wound up am I by this giant of banking  that I cannot keep my own counsel on this one.  Twice in recent months I have been frustrated by requests from this monolith, the bank that was at the heart of the country’s ruin.  Each time I am reminded of the largesse of the bankers as they vie with the parliamentarians in trying to oust lawyers from the bottom rung of the ladder.  As a taxpayer I am part of the body of people with a stake to the tune of 86% of the ownership in this organisation that uses our money to pay obscene bonuses to those that brought the organisation to ruin, whilst at the same time keeps the economy floundering with very restrictive lending of our money back to businesses and homeowners.  I am old enough to remember the former chief executive when he was just an accountant trampling his way up the ladder of success within the profession, before banking became his speciality after the liquidation of BCCI 20 years ago.  The liquidation bit must have stuck.

Anyway I have had to deal with requests for information on the part of clients to deal with money laundering compliance, taking some three months to grasp the relationship between trustees and settlor, the latter deceased.  Now I have had to deal with requests for references, finally requested, a week or more later, formally on letterhead after word comes back from higher up dictating that the informalities of email are insufficient for that purpose.  So why go down the informal email process in the firat place I wonder, thinking all of the time of the esteem which this organisation is quickly pouring down the stank?  Utterly frustrating, time consuming, and very disrespectful, particularly for the poor clients stuck in the middle, the ones that many firms of accountants would not hesitate to bill heavily for time pent on such matters.

While we’re at the ranting thin what about the joys of rural life.  Of late around these parts we’ve had thefts from 3 of the 5 properties along this stretch of road.  Strangers wander around, citing ‘right to roam’ as they cross you’re fields, knuckles dragging, with aggressive wee dugs or ferrets terrorising any rabbit or hare that crosses their path.  They bring their moto-X bikes to bombard your ears for hours on end; churn up all the muck they can find taking their mud-pluggers off road; quad bikes roam around like hornets.  The peace of the coutryside is beyond the resources of the police, shattered by neds and delinquents, and they all believe they have the ‘right’ to do whatsoever they please.  That’ll be the same rights that the UK Supreme Court is inflicting on Scots Law.

Ah, but the sun shines and if I take the bike for a wee run I might cross paths with the odd horse and rider, and most are odd, or stop and listen to the skylarks twittering away, and all the problems quickly disappear.

Rant over, steam escaping from ears.  Calm descends, slowly.

Now, where’s that dragon, boyo?

Garden Birds

There are times when it seems a small fortune is spent in keeping our feathered friends fed.  But we have come to enjoy the sights and sounds around the garden.  House martins are busy feeding at the moment but the tits and finches have been absent in the last week or two.  Primarily this is due to the absence of supplies of seed and nuts, our feeders having been victims of recent gales which saw them both fall from the tree to be broken on the ground.  I’ve finally got round to replacing them and last night enjoyed watching a couple of greenfinches enjoy fresh supplies.

This morning, fairly early, as I was on my way to get The Grasshopper out for a short run, I was dismayed to find empty branches where the feeders should have been hanging.  Down below, lid opened, lay one empty seed feeder.  The nut feeder, also opened and empty, lay some 20 feet away.

I refilled and reattached to the tree.  The greenfinch returned.  Three hours later the nut feeder again lay empty on the ground.  Both feeders are attached to the tree using strong metal clips, not simply hung over branches.  It was a mystery that had troubled the mind as I exercised the lycra-clad legs in the crisp morning air.  I had tried to secure the re-filled feeders more firmly, but something out there was opeing the clips with more strength than I was closing them.

The laburnum tree on which the feeders hang is pretty much in full bloom, just on the wane.  Birds in the branches are not easily seen.  There is an adjacent larger tree, a bit more sparse, species unidentified, and surrounding that part of the garden is a maple hedge and a conifer hedge, each now approaching a dozen feet in height, and each containing nesting birds.

As I walked round to collect the egg, there is only one chicken at the moment, from the chicken hut, I was aware of a shadow passing overhead, cawing, or was it laughing.  We often have crows in and around the chimney and judging by the incessant noises echoing around the pot I guess they are feeding youngsters.  I think the crows have discovered a taste for peanuts, though if they are extracting them whole from an opened feeder they may be doing more harm than good.

If my theory is right it might be interesting to try and set up a motion-sensitive camera, to try and catch them at it.  I alwys knew the corbie to be an intelligent creature but hadn’t heard of this type of behaviour.  They are adept at opening shells by dropping them from great heights, but removing feeders from trees?  Perhaps it will have to be cable ties next time.

Old and Stiff

My body tells me it has been a tough weekend.  That and the dreich and damp air begs me to leave The Grasshopper garaged, though two runs on the double-loop circuit at the weekend may be contributing to the aches and pains.  They were though good runs, in sunshine and without the scourge of the wind.  In fact they led me to putting the winter-weight lycra into storage for a while, hopefully a few months but you just never know with the weather in these parts.

Aside from the cycling it was a very busy weekend.  The highlight of course was the Gala Day parade, with an early start to get all those finishing touches done, before dressing the schoolchildren and assorted parents before The Judges began their rounds.  Alarm bells began to ring when two of the judges asked what our theme was.  Now pardon me but I would have a thought monstrous castle built onto a trailer was evidence itself, before they saw the knights, the armour, the shields, swords and staves, far less the princesses.  Perhaps they had a script to work from.

In any event it became apparent that we had failed to impress said judges.  The criteria for awards remains a mystery but clearly it does not involve the extent of the work done, the size of the community involved in the project or the age of those who had done a pile of work at the tiny school.  Again we remained unrecognised by those that thought they mattered.  Plenty people with less influence though also queried the judging.  Let’s see what the local papers make of it, and hopefully have some photographs published on the community website to preserve our efforst for eternity.

The rain kept her distance for the duration of the parade, then let loose, so that the events in the park became a bit of a washout.  By then though the body was flagging.

Flagging continued on the following day, again post cycle, when the mower had to be walked and then the jungle attacked with the brushcutter, a task which remains to be completed.  We managed to erect the new tent, and more importantly to get it re-packed, so at least we won’t be in entirely unknown territory when we get to our first campsite in a couple of weeks.  Then we had to help Madge with her birthday.  Tractor Jim was more than generous with his dram juice, a fine Glenfarclas 10yo.  They too had enjoyed their weekend, involved for the first time with the parade after allowing us use of their sheds for building work.  It is a great pity that this forage into the wider community for them, thanks to grandchildren, comes just as they are about to depart for pastures new.  It was bedlam in the birthday house, eight urchins on the rampage, from our very own Urchin the Elder at the grand old age of six, down to the youngster still shy of his half-birthday.

I’ll spare the political rants, but note with interest that the BBC, and Brian Taylor, do perhaps take note of comments posted to the Scottish political blog, the title of the latest having been changed following posted comments, or one at least from The Grasshopper, to the effect that Strategies to Deal with Salmond may have been confrontational and less than impartial, theough the amended version, Taking on Salmond, is only marginally less so.

Little Delights

And what a nice surprise it was to waken today with the warming rays of the sun through the windows, to glance outside and see the trees basking in the calm stillness of a fine morning.  So with no scope for excuses The Grasshopper had to take to the roads after a fortnight of inactivity, a test to see what remants of man-flu hampered the muscles and the airways.

What little breeze ruffled the air was unsurpassed by any wind created by pedal power.  It was slow progress but the muscles eased me round my short route, and the need for exercise and fresh air was stirred once again.  It can only aid the fight against the remaining germs in the sinuses and lungs.

But cycling was not the highlight of late.  Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending The Urchins’ school, for the occasion of ‘the showcase’ of a term’s work on knights and castles, a theme which will continue into the Gala Day parade on the morrow.  Astonishing; the work these youngsters have done, and we are talking primaries 1-3 here, fair gasted my flabber.  In the presentation event I was surprised to see Urchin the Younger given the lead role, as the prince, all crown and ermine robes, acting out the rescue of the damsel in distress entrapped in the woodland, attacking the trees with his mighty cleaver from his trusty charger, to live happily ever after.  His very entrance to the hall raised a titter amongst the watching minions, though he managed to laugh off his slip and slide on his erse, a victim of wet gym shoes after crossing the wet playground.  Proud parent and grand-parents witnessed every move and every word.  And Urchin the Elder was not to be outdone, her words expressed loudly and clearly and with never a hesitation.

It is heartening to see the great strides made in modern education, with children as young as five given the confidence to learn lines, to sing and dance and to perform in front of audiences.  It would never have happened in my day, and there are few shrinking violets coming through the schools now.  Confidence, and ability, fantastic.

Then we went on to to the IT room, where these little cherubs had been making films and showcased their computer skills.  To top it all the classroom itself was a veritable medieaval kingdom, decorated by talented teachers and children fully engaged in the topic at hand.  It all gives you faith in the future, of the country at large, and your own offspring in particular.

And so in the interests of good moods and looking forward to the efforts the children and parents will make with the castle theme on the tractor and trailer in the great parade tomorrow, I’m going to stay away from politics, from yesterday’s FMQs, from the Secretary of State and his referendums muddle, from Westminster’s scorn for Holyrood, and from the BBC.  I’m going to smile, think about The Urchins, their school friends and the local community – for a while anyway.

Ducks and Midges

We took a run into town last night en famille.  Gala Week is well under way and Monday night always sees the annual Duck Race.  There’s a fine wee burn meanders through the park, under several bridges, and on into town, under the main road and through the Green whereby the clothes poles of days of old remain, and on under the historic humped back bridge.  Every year 1,000 or so yellow plastic ducks are released to find their way downstream, each sponsored by a member of the public.

For much of this past year or two it seems, the burn has been threatening to burst its banks, water levels rising by several feet in places and up the bridge arches.  On duck race night water levels were down to a trckle, a mere few inches burbling over the rocks and boulders, and through the detritus of fallen branches after the recent gales.  So it does drain quickly does our wee burn, for this last spring has been wetter than normal, about 25% so according to the record-keepers.  And yet the ducks got stuck in their masses, and the race was brought to halt before they reached the shallows, with a net across to ensnare the winner and swallow up the following golden horde.

But the park was thronged with people intent on witnessing this bizarre event.  It is neither exciting nor entertaining, but young and old line the banks and follow the progress downstream, and there are times, when the midges are inflicting their wrath, that one does wonder why.  However it does mark the small country town from the schemes of urban life.  It is community, and it is one of those things that brings the community together.  All week there will be football matches played in every age group; swimmers will compete in the pool;  cars will scour the lanes on a hunt for treasure; most shop windows in town will have visitors looking for the oddity in their displays.  There will be events of every sort, culminating with Gala Day itself.  A feast of entertainment in the park, sparked off by the parade of floats leading to the coronation; and then those line-dancers.

Gala week glues the community, and it’s the children that drive it.  As we sat by the burn last night, smiting midges from any bare flesh, there was another part of the community out working hard.  In recent years the town has been making real progress in annual entries to the Scotland in Bloom awards.  Half a dozen volunteers were out last night, busy planting up tubs and beds, bringing colour to railings and roadsides.  Their efforts have been such that the town would be annually drab without them; yet too many of us appreciate and expect, and too few join in.  There is another venture in town, doing some wonderful work for the community in the name of one of the town’s great characters who sadly died too soon.  Adam’s Community Trust has garnered the mood and, driven by another group of volunteers, raised the bar in improving major projects for the town, such as floodlighting, playpark facilities etc.

So in this tiny corner of a newly proud Scotland there is a real sense of community and a strive to something better.  Then along comes the Secretary of State for Scotland to try and put a dampener on the entire nation, sounding off about no new powers in the Scotland Bill, and the need for a second referendum in the event that we collectively decide that we want  to end the union with Westminster.  Just as our wee town can stand up and be proud, every school doing their part with pupils in competitions or floats in the parade, so too can the nation be proud, finding its lost identity and standing up once more, despite what Michael Moore may say.  Methinks it will not be his name that goes down in history.

Gala Day

There is something wonderful about Gala Days.  Though perhaps they have to be in small communities and it helps if you have some direct involvement.  That said if the throngs tha will line the streets of our wee town next Saturday are anything to go by, everyone comes out, regardless of the weather, to line the streets waiting for the parade of floats to go by, showering all and sundry with silly string as they wend their way to the park for the afternoon festivities.  The Gala Queen will be crowned after her Court has led the procession, prizes will be awarded, and the line dancers will take to the stage.  I suppose every Gala Day has its downside and ours is undoubtedly those women in those costumes and that music, every year, in those cowboy boots.  It brings tears to your achy-breaky heart.

For us though the focus is all about the entry in the parade of a float to represent The Urchins’ school.  The parent council are busily painting and sawing and hammering; costumes are being thought about and sewing machines will be getting oiled, as will the wimmenfolk as they meet up for a costume preparing night.

This year we are trying to turn a tractor and trailer into a castle, to showcase our little knights and princesses.  The Grasshopper will get out his Jester’s hat, and a damsel’s favour from Siena’s Palio, probably matched up with  a high-viz jacket as he doubles as a marshall to accompany the float on its rounds.

With only a week to go though there’s much to be done on the painting front; grey stone walls, mortar lines, mosses and growths; then some colour in the form of heraldic shields and the like.  It could be a long week as willing hands tend to be sporadic, with only our chairman having access to the back of the fag packet on which his design may be scribbled if it is anywhere other than in his head.  He is also the only one with the tools and knowledge to be creative in turning sheets of 8by4 plywood into a mediaeval battlement, on the back of a trailer hauled by a five year old New Holland.  We had hoped for a 50 year old Fordson Major, but Tractor Jim seems a tad reluctant to let the hordes of the town loose on his shiny paintwork with unlimited aerosoles of silly string, either that or he doesn’t want the hassle of driving the whole thing round himself, or is worried that it might break down in the process.  Not to worry Jim, we are hugely grateful for the use of your sheds, your family, and of course the wee New Holland.

No painting today though, for it’s football, and The Urchins will come too, as The Genealogist is on duty at a family history fair.  Not just any old football, but a cup final, and not just any old cup final, but one againts our arch rivals fae Borrheid, at our ground.  Looking forward to it immensely.  The scarf is out, and Urchin the Younger has his black & white top at the ready.  Actually it’s a Siena football shirt but it’ll do all the same, bringing a touch of Italian style to the terraces of the Camp New, as we call our little acre of paradise.  A good one to win.

The Anticipation, then the Aftermath

Politics first today.  We had the first FMQs of the new parliament yesterday, eagerly awaited in this brave new world.  It is of course a parliament with a majority government.  New faces grace the tiered ranks, and old ones watch at home on television, some missed more than others.  In substance it was a calm start, with some discussion of serious issues, primarily care for the elderly and the growing brohaha over the role that the UK Supreme Court has in Scots Law and its procedures, all over-ridden by Human Rights and European legislation.

However we are back to the old bugbear of our state-funded broadcaster.  Yes to listen to the BBC and its Scottish political correspondents you would think that nothing had changed, we were still back in the old days pre 2007 with Labour in charge, north and south, and a bit of Nat-Bashing as our daily sport.  The soundbites in the bulletins are of Elmer Fudd, as usual, so free of the weight of leadership and so relaxed that he forgot to ask his preliminary question about the FMs movements, the one that allows him to follow up with supplementaries on the topics of his choosing.  Gray droned as usual, and as usual the BBC skews its output, and in the aftermath takes its usual stance of sneering and sniding undertones, a bit like the reports from Moscow of yesteryear when we were all supposed to have a laugh at the uncivilised and backward ways of the rebels.

Wake up BBC.  Scotland has spoken; the world has changed and will change significantly more in the year ahead.  Alex Salmond is the man this nation wants as her leader.  And in time there will be a new broadcaster in Scotland.

On a more positive note there is a welcome return to the sun today, and genuine warmth, no wind.  Ideal cycling weather in fact.  However The Grasshopper remains garaged and the erstwhile jockey chained to desk.  Man Flu – such a debilitating affliction.  Once again the legs have little strength after a week of hacking cough and hacked phlegm.  Thus far my main concern has been to protect the chest and to hope that the quack’s ventilators are improving the battle against the bugs.  I remain unconvinced that antibiotics may not be necessary, but have fingers crossed that lycra may be stretched before long.  Bound to be, as the weather is due to return to normal over the weekend – cold, wet and windy that is.

It’s a fine day for The Urchins though.  The school sports had been put back after last week’s torrents and gales.  Couldn’t be better today and most of the school had a fun practice at the community sports last night.  Urchin the Younger exceeded all expectations last year, returning home with medal, shield and trophy, as best in his group and best boy overall.  Not so this year, stepping up to compete with older rather than younger kids.  But he took part and enjoyed, without any sign of the tantrum that defeat on the Wii would bring.  And Urchin the Elder did her bit too, until discovering that rolling down grassy hills was more fun and that wandering to the far boundaries of the field with a couple of other girlies was a greater adventure.

The sun shone and so faces were lit up with smiles.  And the midgies returned.

Over the Seas

It was the cuckoo that led the morning chorus, for hours; and dawn had been a little after four of the clock.  Not unexpectedly I did not manage an all-nighter, never do these days, but pitching the tent within earshot of the gurgling burn made that a certainty.  It was more important to find level ground that wasn’t pooling with water and to have some shelter from the gusting wind.  My early trip to the pee-hoose was done unaided by spectacles in the murky light pre-cuckoo.  It was all a bit vague, apart from the on-set of raging man-flu that is.

We made it to Arran on the early ferry, after celebrating a 30th birthday in a barn on a cold and often wet afternoon and evening.  We did not stay late and I restricted my Dalwhinnie intake to a mere hip flask, medicinal of course.  Having had little sleep for a couple of nights, as the throat infection multiplied and expanded, I had hoped that sheer exhaustion would help in the buffeted tent.  And so it did, to some extent.  By morning though the energy levels were pretty low and the activity for the day ahead looked to be restricted to driving and dozing.

As always Arran’s wildlife was evident.  A red squirrel scampered across the road; The Urchins and their mama had seen an eagle soaring on the thermals, or perhaps just being blown by the wind, on a pre-sleeping bag wander the previous evening as I caught some early sleep.  Then one of the tame red deer hinds, that wander into the campsite for early pickings, let them get close, grazing happily as they raised little paws to her muzzle and her flanks.  No signs of either seal or porpoise offshore.

We stopped for some rock-pooling at Pirnmill, and again at Blackwaterfoot then Whiting Bay on the following morn.  I dipped a cask of Amarone finish at the distillery, but the flu remained.  On the shores the pale lemon of the potentilla fluttered amongst the brambles, and The Urchins returned with wellies overflowing with sea water and pockets with shells.

Somehow we failed to find the standing stones at Machrie, though it was all I could do to stay alive at the wheel.  A riding lesson passed the harbour at Blackwaterfoot, three of the four on a lead rein, with a large bay gelding bringing up the rear.  Swallows darted above the sands, though whether they were after nesting or feeding material I was not quick enough to tell.

It was far too many years since we had visited the island, the hills of which we can see from home, and for the first time we took a visit to the museum at Brodick.  Arran has quite a history, most of it unknown to me.  Wartime activities in the bays were captured in photographs, school records were preserved, farming well documented with plenty of old machinery and tractors enough to keep even Jim happy; but the genealogy room was closed or we may have missed our return ferry.

It was a succesful wee trip, and all enjoyed the tent, setting us up for the proposed trip to the valleys which is now less than four weeks away and funds too scarce to think about.  The island seem even more of a haven for walkers and cyclists than it always was, though personally I think it is a bit too hilly, and with more cars around, than the type of cycling I’m keen to get on with, when this damned flu eventually subsides.  I may have to get the quack to intervene, watching nervously as I do the effects on my dodgy airwaves and the remedies of the inhalers.