The Weakest Link

As I type these notes I am conscious that my intentions were to be enjoying a final solo cycle as our fina day dawns.  But it was not be.

For the final family fun run yesterday we decided to be kind, and to load the bikes on to the car and drive to a point suitably close to the chosen woodland trail.  One of the benefits of my longish solo runs is in identifying routes suitable for picnics and with interest other than in turning pedals.  It helps to keep the moanig down, sometimes.  Loading the bikes on the rack though is no simple process, requires major effort before and after, and is also a solo effort.

But we found ourselves in the woods, dappled shade from tall oaks, and peddaling away, intent on lunch on the outskirts of Helden, having started in Maasbree.  All went well, the Urchins’ bikes are meant for such tracks, and there were even sounds of enjoyment echoing through the trees, occasionally.

But the high point of such trips is always the picnic.  And someone forgot the bananas, and the mini salamis.  And it rained, quite heavily for a short while, after some rumblings overhead.  But we found shelter in the woods, a roof right over our heads, as the car stereo had been playing earlier, and we shared a shelter.  For two elderly Dutch couples had taken refuge before us.  And before long there were flasks and sandwiches all around, as the rain drilled down on that roof, and puddles formed on the trails.

But we were soon off again, treacherous though it was for anyone foolish enough to ride a recumbent on sodden tracks, for it was mighty unstable and I feared a return to base caked in drying mud.  We survived however, Urchin the Younger doing his best to get mud spraying up his own back, for the rear mud-guard had been removed to allow the seat to be a little lower; and he had puddles to aim for.

With the car being parked in town there was always the promise of dropping in on Mr Lidl, the grocer, ice cream to fetch, while the lackey was doing his chores in re-loading the bikes onto the the car.  And the lackey was cursing by then, so they were glad to wander away.  The lackey was cursing as he knew then that final solo run on the morrow was not going to be, which is why you find me hammering at the keys rather than the cranks as intended.  For with the car in sight, the final junction to ease from, did The Grasshopper not protest too much?  Chain snapped.

I had been worried for some days about the build up of muck and grease in the gear mechanisms, resorting to a bit of debris removal with a cotton bud stick.  But the sunshine after the rain – that one wasn’t playing in the car – had been too much, and it all jammed solid so that when those powerful thigh muscles got to work something had to give.  And so it was that I ended up sitting drenched in sweat looking like a grease monkey, slurping melting ice cream in a car park.  My eyes were screaming for contact lenses being removed, but those fingers were going nowhere close to an eye.  Tears, I couldn’t even muster moisture.  And the bike’s off the road, more angst to resolve on the homeward return.

And just to cap it all, when I should right now be enjoying the early hours on the roads, did the airbed not go and puncture as I was struggling to escape my sweaty pod in response to nocturnal urgings.  Naughty step tonight then.  But before that a final dip in the bell, the quiet hour when everyone else is at dinner.  The law of sod being what it is I’ll probably find it drained.  Holidays, don’t you just love them?

To America and Beyond

The Time and The Place

I’ve had a book on the shelf for some months now, waiting on the right moment, the right place.

And the endless plains of Eastern Netherlands seemed just the right place, and this week has been the perfect time.  For the book is about the Wild Places we’ve left behind, and the people on them.  I’d picked up the book after seeing it mentioned in Earthlines Magazine, for it was one of their Two Ravens Press catalogue and that in itself let me know that I’d find quality between the covers, and beautiful writing inside.  Even the name of one Robert Macfarlane, who had provided the introduction, was not needed to secure the sale.

The Wilder Vein is a collection of writings on landscape, the relationships between people and their places.  When I bought the book the name of the editor, who brought together 18 authors and samples of their work, was known to me only through Earthlines.  But my regular reader will have seen mention of Linda Cracknell in recent weeks, and she it is who gets all the credit for this marvellous book.  I’m inclined to give it a place on my list for this year.

I’d only read a couple of the authors before, and heard of few others.  But the writing is so good that, sitting here by the tent in these relatively feature-less acres, I can see again the mountains of Assynt, the skyline of Donegal and numerous others.  She takes me from Skokholm to St Kilda, Ardnamurchan too.  I hugely enjoyed trailing The Corpse Way with Lisa Samson, minding me of days on the Ross of Mull with old friends now gone.

Raja Shehadeh came all the way from Palestine to take a train from Edinburgh to Bridge of Orchy – trains being severed in 1948 back home – and from there gained a love of the Scottish hills.  And he sees in the landscape I know so well, too may similarities with the vastly different lands around his home in Ramallah.  For it’s not the lands that draw comparison, but the Clearances, from the Highland landowners to the Nakba; and from the highland midge to the Israeli soldiers, both keeping him confined indoors of an evening.    The only difference between the Clearances and the Nakba may be that the latter is yet withing living memory, raw and festering, whilst the former has passed into legend and become a source of pilgrimage for the descendants of the dispossessed.  I’ll make a note to find some more of Shehadeh’s works.

I’ve mentioned only a couple of contributors but one more, the last of the book, must also be mentioned.  For it’s Andrew Greig, and an extract from his sublime At The Loch of the Green Corrie.  Even fishing becomes interesting with Greig, and Norman MacCaig, as a guide.  And amongst all the other gems there are two separate connections with Scott’s ill-fated polar expedition, neither of which happen to be my own favourite polar legend,Tom Crean in the wilds of Anascaul.

I’d recommend The Wilder Vein to anyone with an interest in fine writing, and an interest in people and places.

And it seems it was meant to be, for in speaking to Linda a few weeks ago I discovered that she’d held the post of writer-in-residence at Brownsbank Cottage some years earlier.  Now that just happens to be in Biggar, the former home of Hugh McDiarmid; and Biggar is where I bought the book at the end of last year, on one of my excursions with The Urchins.  And I knew of Brownsbank for it was to the Biggar Writers Group that I submitted the first piece I wrote for the enjoyment of folk other than myself, a response to a competition for the county.  And they sent me a prize; the only one received in cash.

But that’s where it all started, and that early piece is available on the Writings page – Avondale, Through the Kitchen Window – I’d make it easy for you with a link, perhaps when I get back to base and a proper computer.

It seems the greater the contest the less the scope for financial rewards.  Other prizes run from being designated commended, to parcels of travel guides, inclusion in free copy and even fun on the wireless.  But if I had that tenner again from my friends down Biggar way, I might just invest in another copy of Linda Cracknell’s book, and insist that someone else read it too.

I Can’t Find My Shoes

….. came the voice from the back.  We’d been in the car nearly half an hour and turning back was not the first thought on my mind.  That was a mistake.

We’d only gone out to have a spell in the cool comfort of air conditioning, a wee jolly, and the prospect of lunch somewhere unknown.  Batteries for various appliances could also be charged.  Perhaps we’d find a little cafe on the banks of the Maas, or a shaded park to wander through.  But oh no, with Boy Urchin doing his Barefoot in the Park thing, which is exactly what he had been when he jumped into the car, we’d need to think a bit further.

The call came just as we approached the Belgian border, and as we travelled on it seemed that Belgium may be closed on Sundays.  In course we followed a sign for Leisure Valley, thinking of woodlands and outdoor lunch.  The road passed Decathlon, an outlet with which we are not strangers.  Open every Sunday read the sign, but that was a lie, and the shutters were firmly down.  There was traffic in both directions, and then we found out why.

For Leisure Valley turned out to be one of those designer retail parks, of the type that The Grasshopper would be denied entry on the grounds of taste, normally.  And the first shop we came to was a sports outlet, the one with the big whoosh and the marketing budget to pay for Mr Federer and Mr McIlroy, among others.  So Boy Urchin got a piggy-back, for the ground was painful to the touch, and in we went to air conditioned bliss hell.

They sold footwear and his feet were bare.  So trainers it was, and socks of course.  Then came the other call.  My trainers are getting too wee.  I suppose after a year or so and without any recognisable logos, the footwear from our friend Mr Decathlon had perhaps passed the value-for-money stage some time ago.  So two pairs of trainers it was.  The socks were multi-pack so one each, and one to spare.

But it did not end there for Mr Nike sold tennis shoes, and specifically clay court models.  Wrong size though.  Phew.

And onwards into the throngs.  Boy Urchin could at least walk.  Lunch taken; wandering endless designer labels most of which were unheard of to your rural peasant.  But there was more.  Perfume was browsed, though I got a lucky escape as we passed by the French cast iron cookware shop, the type that goes very well with the domestic Rayburn.  Must have been the wrong colour.

Then we found another sports shop, and those tennis shoes could be resisted no more.  The top of the range ones of course were the only ones that fitted with comfort, and they’d be fine too if the promised hard court replaced one of the red ash courts next year.  At least we didn’t see any racquets.

But borders, that’s really what I wanted to talk about.  We’d been in Germany a few days earlier, thanks to a delightful ferry across the Maas which was cheaper than driving to the next bridge, and a wander in naturpark through the woods, by the lake and the burn.  Then today Belgium.  The passports remained back at base in Netherlands.  There were no borders, just a sign at the roadside, and a change in petrol prices, sometimes speed limits.  It fair makes you wonder why those lovely folk behind Bitter Th’gither’s Project Fear seem to want to tell us about the string of watchtowers, dugs on chains, and endless queues from those lovely folk at the Borders Agency,that will need to be strung all the way from Carlisle to Berwick.  No need for it elsewhere, and haven’t we all got used to that.  Long may it continue.

The Appetiser

After a bit of trial and error, but no more getting lost, the ideal pre-breakfast run is programmed in.  It was two Australian lads, who cycled recumbents from Moscow to Beijing, who reinforced what it is about the ‘bent that makes it ideal for the type of trundling that The Grasshopper needs – it’s Thinking Time – the ability to lie back and turn your mind to all sorts of things, whilst still rolling along.

The early run now provides a good couple of hours worth of thinking and exercise, and gets me back to base while the breakfast things are still available, the coffee still to be made.  I’ve a 30km run which involves a woodland path while the early sun troubles only the canopy above, before nudging towards a couple of villages separated by a nature reserve.  And it’s pretty much all traffic free, just a few stretches on roads; but the roads here have demarcation lines, and the cars know their place.

By the time I get to the reserve I’m trundling along oak-lined avenues, the rising sun dappling the way.  The bell had to be used once – oh yes they’re compulsory here – but only to urge a family of geese to head back to the adjacent canal.  There is so much about transport on this side of the North Sea that just makes such good common sense – bells on bikes; warning triangles and high-viz jackets in every car; reduced speed limits in wet weather, lights on too – you can just hear the headlines screaming from the daily wail if we were compelled to adopt such practises.

Anyway, back to the fietsroutes.  So we’ve got canals and oak trees, geese and deer, and lots of scurrying in the undergrowth.  The heron wandered off haughtily, breakfasted,   There are bridges, lined with flowers, and in the villages the air carries the heady perfumes of petunias and begonias from hanging baskets and planters.

But when you come across picnic tables in the woods, by the still, green waters of the canal,and you think they don’t look much used, pedal on by.  For these are traps, and they’ve been laid by the woodland beasties, just waiting on sweat stained lardies stopping by.  Before you’ve even have time to find the repellent and drown the little terrors, they’ve had their fill and gone.  The gossamer skin of cycling shorts is no barrier either and it is not just exposed flesh that maps their route long after.  For after that first picnic in the woods there are weals and welt, and lumps and itchy and angry red blothes in places you can’t find with a dollop of cream on the finger.

So the next time someone says shade is required, ignore them, cycle on, for just another few minutes along the way something better will come along.  Now if anyone mentions another picnic run whilst the old asthmatic lungs are recovering from pre-brekkie outing, remind me about that morning nap.  For these legs are just too old for two runs in one day; the early one, when the air is cool and fresh, is quite sufficient thank you.

Dear Ella

At one stage we had the album of that name playing, Dee Dee Bridgewater doing some justice to Ms Fitzgerald; but there was a bit too much big band in it at the time, and something more soothing was needed, being a  bit sensitiv to noise as we sometimes are.

I turned to another Ella, Maillart, and her journey with Annemarie Schwarzenbach which I have mentioned before.  The Cruel Way was first published in 1947, but re-issued recently by Chicago University Press following the fresh interest sparked by the English translation of Schwarzenbach’s journey.  In the original format Maillart dedicated the book ‘To Christina, In Memoriam’.  For the troubled Annemarie, who had passed away before Maillart began to write, was then incognito.

Each time I opened the book I read a marvellous bon mot – “Good friend, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.”

The new edition comes with a splendid introduction from Jessa Crispin, and that alone gives the background to the events.  Our two travellers set off for Geneva, bound for Afghanistan, in a new Ford.  There are some of Maillart’s pictures, one of said Ford tied into the bow of a caique, and when I get back to base and have a scanner handy I might just treat you.  Another snapshot is described as ‘radiant manhood of a fair-eyed shepherd’.  I’ll keep you in suspense for that one.

From Crispin’s foreword we learn something of Annemarie’s ails.  Her health as not good; she was stick-thin and pale.  But her troubles ran much deeper than that.  She had been married to a diplomat, convenient for both, and visas were readily obtained.  ‘She drifted along, sometimes a writer, sometimes muse, sometimes archaelogist.  Sometimes boy, sometimes girl.

As with most journeys to be read about we have the physical travel and the inner road travelled.  Maillart was intent on saving her friend, hence the northern Afghan road avoiding cities where opium may be just too readily available for her friend to resist.  She had recognised writing talents, and the road to life.

And so two young female travellers, one Swiss and one German, set out less than three months before war ravaged Europe.  By the time the war was over even a period in what we would today call rehab, in New York, could not give new life to the ailing German.  Maillart writes of both journeys beautifully.  The physical is peppered with history from parts of the world overloaded with lore.  Through Istanbul to Trebizond, Armenia, past Ararat and through troubled Persia, we reach the Afghanistan we have heard so much about more recently.  We learn of Ghengis and Alexander and Timur the Lame, and we travel with the Polos amongst others.  Baptised Mongols convert to Islam, and imams an mosques guide our way.

And through it all we have care and concern, and dealing with policemen and customs; tents and caravanserais and driving a Ford over some brutal terrain.  It pretty much has everything you might look for in a travel book, but enriched today for Schwarzenbach’s account and with Crispin’s foreword.

And Maillart brings me words like ‘prognathous’.  I might need to note that down and use it sometime.  There’s a couple more of Ella Maillart’s works on the shelf.  Turkestan Solo was re-published a few years back by TPP and it’s certainly worth a second read.  I’ve an old copy too of The Forbidden Journey, which might just find a place on the bedside table before long.

And that little bon mot on my  bookmark?  Well those are the words of Mr Mark Twain, and the marker comes from a certain bookshop in Biggar.  It seems ideal for the outdoor life under the sun of Limburg; and it reminds me that the second volume of Twain’s autobiography will be available in a month or two.

There are times

……. when it’s just too tough.

Some may think I’ve been idle of late, a bit quiet; some may be grateful.  But idle I have not been.  The Grasshopper has been out and about and as a result I’ve discovered the merits of the morning nap.  Because after a rumble round the fietsroutes – oh yes we’re back in The Netherlands, Limburg this time, just along the road from North Brabant which we enjoyed so much last year – after the early run yesterday, a family outing was decreed, picnic packed, panniers filled.  So a morning nap was essential.

The morning run had been an outing of orientation, having a look at routes and areas that might just be suitable for such an event as was to take place imminently.  It was a pre-breakfast appetiser; an outing before it got too warm to cycle.

Mind you on the day before my first foray into a new area, intended as an hour’s loosener, and a return planned in time to get the coffee brewing, turned into a three hour slog.  For I got lost.

Now getting lost on a superbly marked and brilliantly mapped safe cycle network takes a bit of doing.  Every junction is numbered and has a map and clear and simple direction on to your next chosen number.  But it was early, and certain stresses may still have been withering in the background.  I missed a sign and ended up pootling around among traffic, through streets of towns whose names were unfamiliar, their orientation even more so.

I followed the sun, but had been out so long – ach you know what the sun does over a period of time.  However it was one way to get your bearings in the area, and to recognise which parts were best for picnics, panniers and Urchins on the pedals.  I found the routes again and plotted the way home, aghast at how far I had drifted, and how far needed to return.  I had set out with little company other than the early dog walkers.  But they had been pampered, owners survived the little rush hour and by now were probably on the second trip to the water cooler on the office gossip circuit.

I though was enjoying some fresh fields of asparagus and corn, potatoes too, ripening under the sun and being watered from sprinklers that just occasionally brought some light relief to the cycle paths.  By the time I caught sight of one man-made object rising above the trees I knew I was almost there.  But I think I’d rather glimpse a wind turbine than those bloody golden arches.  And so it was that I rolled up to one of the cycle crossings at a major road network.  Push the button, wait for the green bike, and just a few minutes more.

The button pushing was the easy bit.  But so exhausted was the old jockey that he forgot that smooth and well oiled, natural even, movement in stopping a recumbent – the one where you raise the upper torso and at the same time lower the feet, before coming to a halt.  So I lay there, finger on button; and bike and rider gracefully leaned over the full 90 degrees; to rest panting in the dirt.  All around there were hoots and shrieks from van drivers and lorries, the sounds of doors slamming as involuntarily pee stops were called upon.

So it’s not that I’ve been idle;  or perhaps it’s just that I’ve to wander away from the tent to pick up the wifi.  And at times I’m just too tired.

A Walk in the Gardens – Fife, part 2

Oh yes there’s more, from that day in the East Neuk.

Having opted for Linda Cracknell’s writing workshop I headed for the Morning Room, and introductions.  Linda’s name was not unknown, from Earthlines Magazine, and from The Wilder Vein which she edited and which sits patiently waiting to be packed for the tent.  I’m intrigued by her Following Our Fathers, just one of the nuggets on the wish list as I drove home, past the big sheds of grey, emblazoned with the logo of our favourite online retailer.

Mind you the books on my list might just be stocked down at Biggar – I can’t think of any other bookshop more likely to have them –  and The Urchins have been suggesting a return trip.  One day, between return from the Netherlands and Back to School, books and ice cream.  Let me think about that for a second.

We had a bit in common,  did Linda and I, through a love of books, of writing and more.  Ty Newydd cropped up in discussion, that room, and those friends came to mind, easily.  She knew it well, but not Cadwalader’s ice cream; not yet anyway.

But down to work, and a wander in the gardens and beyond.  She pulled distant memories from closed minds, just by looking at plants; and brought shudders of lessons on verbs and iambic pentameter, long forgotten.  And we remembered how to smell and to listen, to switch off the eyes.

And lessons may be learned.  I’ll think of syllables, work harder on verbs, and rhythm.  It’s perhaps unlikely that I’ll slip, accidentally, into the strange world of haiku, but if you spot any blame it on Linda.  And as I try, occasionally, to give an inanimate thing a voice, I might even cast my mind back to a certain statue in Lord Erskine’s garden, and wonder what was being said.

It was a fine end to a hot and sunny day in a grand setting.  I couldn’t wish to be tied up in mohair, in a sun-kissed garden, notebook and pen by my side, by anyone else.

The family gathered and the long road home beckoned.  Sustenance was required, demanded even.  Anstruther, that’s the place, perfect fish suppers.  Heaving they all were, queues tailing far out the doors, parking at a premium.  So on to Elie, and a brief stop for rock-pooling and a seemingly endless beach, bathed in evening sun.

We did eventually find supper, and, waiting, witnessed one of those moments – gonnae geez a ba’ered Mars Bar – you have to watch the glo’al stoap  with these things.  Made my day.  For a moment I thought I was back in the west.  Shirtless, bike at the door, bet his ancestors carried their scythe on Cambo’s fields too.

Next year I might just think of taking the tent, making a weekend of it.  A festival of music and words, spread over a wider community, and a day centred on one superb house filled with cases of books from yesteryear; a day focussing on nature writing – the term all the writers of the genre seem to loathe.  It was brilliant.

Time Marches On

One of the most stirring protest events, before my time but it grabbed me, was the Stone of Destiny’s first removal from Westminster.  So I was saddened to read of the death of Kay Matheson, one of the gang of four who had chutzpah by the bucketload.

I first read Ian Hamilton’s The Taking of the Stone of Destiny more than twenty years ago.  My original copy disappeared, one of the hard lessons of lending books, whether to family, friends or friends of friends.  If I remember correctly it might have been someone in doing some wallpapering.  There’s no wallpaper at all at Grasshopper Towers.

But I replaced that back, finding a good copy in a second-hand bookshop.  And I read it again.

Just a few months ago I saw the Stone itself, safe in Edinburgh Castle now.  I had seen it previously, in Westminster Abbey.  But I thought on this second viewing of Hamilton’s yarn, and his escapades with Kay Matheson and others.

By the time the book was published Ian Hamilton was an eminent QC, and one with a bit of a reputation, from a rich and varied life.  His book captured the occasion, those dark nights of entering the Abbey and getting away again.  And away they got, with a lump of rock, back on the long road to its homeland.

The stone was a mystery for a long time.  Where was it, who was behind it?

As it happened I had some indirect professional contact with one of the others involved, not in the trip itself but in the months of harbouring the Stone when the search was on.  But I was young then and knew not the importance of the event, and I missed the chance to talk about it.

And so Kay Matheson can tell her tale no more.  But I think I’ll read Hamilton’s book once again.  On the inside back cover the final words are He believes Scotland will be free.  I do too; it’s just a pity that Kay Matheson won’t be around next year, though it will have pleased her that at last we have the chance.

And So To Fife

Cambo Estate was the destination, the road long and winding.  But I’d forgotten what a beautiful corner the East Neuk is, especially when the sun shines.  It was a day that promised much; delivered far more.

You may remember that I mentioned the Littoral festival a few weeks back.  There had been events across the area for the previous few days, and a final flourish on the morrow, forever now known as MurrayDay.  But it was Cambo Day that drew me in, and as I drove through the gates and was marshalled, smilingly, through the policies to the car park, the house appearing in the trees, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were my ancestors that tended those grounds in years gone by.

Lord & Lady Erskine, having given over their home for the day, were on hand, but I think I’ll set The Genealogist a task or two first.  I know that my long line of farm servants spread out from their base around Kilrenny and Cellardyke, the farms of Ceres and Carnbee, towards the east coast.  And the parishes of Leuchars and Kingsbarns feature on the family tree.  So, time to dig a bit deeper, and perhaps to access the Cambo archives.  My blood may have ploughed or milked, or tended those magnificent gardens, even waited on those massive tables.

But it was my turn to wander, to sit and to listen.  The Urchins had a great day out, with the storytellers and the face-painting, beach foraging and nibbles of seaweed, wild garlic, and birds crafted from card and feathers.

My angst over which event to attend and which to miss was alleviated when I heard that Miriam Darlington was sadly unwell, and absent.  But her slot was filled by Sir John Lister-Kaye OBE, and who better to talk of Otter Country.  Still, there was a writing workshop to attend, new tricks, new exercises, and new friends.

I’d had the pleasure of John Lister-Kaye at his morning session, talking of his life and his books.  He read from several, and tales of his daughter, age 9, wandering off in the Kalahari as the lions roared all around, brought back forgotten passages of some wonderful writing.  He’s a new one coming out next year, as yet untitled, and he read from it, wonderfully.

It’s that authorial voice that makes the difference, brings a book event to life.  And when the words are as good as JLK’s, the tales as rich from his days with Maxwell to the magic of Aigas, then the voice spoke and the room hushed.  It’s the first time I’ve listened at a book event spread across a 19th century settee; but there was no chance of drifting off to sleep, for it was mesmerising.

I was back in the Drawing Room for Esther Woolfson and Conor Jameson, talking birds; his goshawks predating on her crows and magpies; and rich tales and fine words.

Authors love to talk about books, especially those written by others.  One book cropped up time and again.  I’d read J A Baker’s The Peregrine, on recommendation for another fine writer, Mark Charlton.  The Gold Standard it is, according to Lister-Kaye.  I couldn’t possibly disagree.

I’ve a fine list of books on the list now, written by, or talked about, by our hosts.  I blethered with David Robinson of The Scotsman’s recent folly, and browsed Lord Eskine’s bookcases with Gavin Francis.  Alexander Burnes appeared on the shelves, Cabool no less, and Arctic exploration that had young Dr Francis drooling.  He’s working on his Himalayan travels, another one to look for in a year or three.

And there’s more……