On The Doorstep

A quiet day brought the opportunity to change lunch habits, from al-desco to al-fresco.  So armed with camera and binoculars, fortified with a flask of hot haggis and a peppercorn sauce, off I went, for a wander in the hours before the school bus was due to return.

For more than 30 years the Baron’s Haugh lands, that were originally part of Dalzell Estate on the other side of the Clyde, have been managed by the RSPB.  Today there are wetlands and bird hides, the Clyde Walkway which runs from Glasgow to Lanark, and all the old gems from the estate, including the Japanese Garden and the Arboretum.

On the path heading for the Phoenix Hide a cyclist stopped, looking for directions.  But it was unknown territory for both of us.  Despite living minutes away for longer than there had been public access I had never set foot in the reserve.  A first exploratory walk confirmed it would not be my last visit.  The walkway along the north bank of the river is one of those places that Urchins should be cycling, and will be, soon.

My own aim though, aside from a bit of fresh air and relaxation, was to exercise an injured knee, and to walk off the effects of that haggis.  A fox crossed the path, and I knew I was in for a treat.  The river was still, murky and dank in places.  But on a bend the water rippled, a stramash.  Below the surface a torpedo locked on its target.  A merganser emerged, dinner locked in the bill.

The hide opened out across the wetlands.  Reeds and rushes were overgrown, and several of the hides now stand some distance from open water.  A line of ducks stretched the length of a mudflat, sleepy heads tucked under wings.  The heron took to the wing, stretching those hefty black tips lazily, after a lunch that may have sat as heavy as the haggis.

He emerged again, as I turned back to the river, teasing, back and forth, disappearing only when the lens cap was finally removed.  A wood pigeon, of all things, flew down to the water.  It perched on a branch of dead tree emerging from the deep, dipping his beak to the surface.  Far to the left something disturbed the flock, and they rose as one.

Leaving the waters and the walkway behind, for another day when wheels might be turning, I headed up the glen, past the well and the temple, the mausoleum too.  Chestnuts ripened and the conker season might just be one excuse to get the babes in the wood.  Down below burbled the burn, anxious to join the river that I’d left behind.  There is much to see hidden in the woods, and much to hear.

As the ground rose, so too did the canopy above, until I found the arboretum in front of the old house.  The Japanese Garden has had some work of late, and the emerging sun picked out the colours of the acer.  I recall a school project last year, a model garden on the hearth.  They might be interested.

Some of the life is not as wild as others.

But there is much more to discover, and I’ll be back at Baron’s Haugh time and again, sometimes alone, sometimes not.  I’ll look forward to it all.

Miles and Miles

Those wheels have been turning.  It’s been a long wait, but at last the sun has been shining, and the wind has taken itself off to pester others.  Even The Genealogist has taken to the roads of late, venturing a little further round some of my routes.

But my routes are nothing, not even my long one for when there is breath in the lungs, energy in the legs, and the days still and calm.  Nothing that it is in comparison to the 500 or so who took on the challenge of the Round Strathaven 50 at the weekend.  And what a day that was.

The tables at the feeding stations groaned with home-baked goodies from across the area.  Junctions were manned, signs were out, numbers issued and registrations complete.  A huge amount of work by a small group of people had allowed the serious cyclists to mass at the start, on-board computers primed to record speeds and climbs and those miles.  Dr Lisa Cameron, our newly elected MP, had some kind and encouraging words, and the tape was broken.

It was one of those days that don’t come along often.  Overhead buzzards squealed; in the fields horses whinnied and nuzzled.  Even the traffic kept away.  And the verges had been cut.  From the airfield a bi-plane took to the skies, looping the loop, taking the delights of the day in his own way.

As well as the serious side of the bike run, we had a little run too, for the family outings.  I say little, but it was a full 15 miles, with some long and steep climbs.  But as I stood at my own junction, five miles from the finish, down the hill they came, all smiles and worries as little terrors raced on ahead, fearless of the corner round which they must go, care-free, tiny wheels turning as they headed for the finish.

Many will benefit from their efforts, locally and abroad.  Our Scouts and Guides were the original drivers for the event a dozen or so years ago.  This year they may get involved as we extend the goodwill to Nepal, and the kids over there, schools destroyed earlier in the year.

It was a cracking day, and standing on duty, at junctions or parking, brought no pain at all, as I soaked up the atmosphere of hundreds of happy and well fed cyclists in the sun, having a tremendous day and raising money for others as they did.  Our old chum the Queen of Hearts was out there, with her knave, pedalling this year instead of running.  Oh yes, once again the local running club shared the route with us, pounding the roads for fun, all fifty miles of them.

In the days following, the signs all gathered and stored for next year, the roads were still carrying the fun of the day, as the regulars on the route stopped and blethered, waved and smiled.  Perhaps they had all been reading the fantastic feedback from those who took part.  It really does make it all the effort worthwhile.

My own favourite tale of the day comes from a rider, hammering along, five miles to go.  He was there a good 20 minutes before expected, surely not possible.

Late start, trying to catch the ride, he gasped over his shoulder.

You’re going the wrong way then…

He stopped, turned and we had a blether.  A quick check on the computer confirmed 20 miles under his belt, but he’d come from the wrong direction; wrong turn early, perhaps as some of the signs have to be changed for the home leg.

Anyway, he’d been on time, bike in back of car, everything in place.  Then he realised he’d managed to leave his front wheel at home.  Back he went.  And that’s why he started late, with a hangover, no water on board.  So I pointed him in another direction, gave him my map and some water and suggested a way getting a fifty mile ride to savour.  He’ll be back next year, with both wheels.  The sun may even shine.

The Buzzard & The Stoat, and The Grasshopper

It was not easy, putting down that book, with only 40 pages or so to go.  But I had a growing awareness of something strange in the air, drawing me, begging.

From behind the bedroom curtains there was only silence.  No rain battered the window; no wind rustled through the leaves to find gaps in the window sealant.  There was a clarity to the light, unhindered by cloud.  So for the first time in many a long month I had to answer the call of The Grasshopper.  Few things can beat an early morning ride, as they say.  Such has been the paucity of good riding this year that I realised that I have yet to take to the roads in anything as daring as short sleeves.  Another day like this and we might even have to invest in sun-block.

As I pottered round the roads, realising what I had been missing, it dawned on me that the days of excuses were coming to an end.  Within a week or so The Urchins will be back at school and my time will be my own once again.  And even this weekend there is no excuse, for they head off to The Northern Wastes, leaving only an aching silence; that and a list of chores.

Wagtails danced on the road ahead, bouncing away from the onrushing beast – rushing is used by licence here – and on the hedgerows the chaffinches danced together.  Swallows gathered on overhead wires, travel plans to discuss.  The buzzard was out too, rising slowly from the reeds, breakfast swinging from his beak.  Poor wee moose.

And on we went, familiar roads, with legs unused to the toil.  I paused after the climb to the Uncut Gem, views to take in, water to slurp.  It has a hard walk up that hill, pushing a heavy bike.  Ahead the wind turbines massed, like Ents on the march, turning languidly in the softest of air.  Homewards another cluster stood still, as if that Man of La Mancha had them at last, and I heard Rosinante whinny across the still valley.  In reality they await testing and commissioning, but on still and calm days the mind wanders…

The downhill came at last and there was the stoat, out-running the grasshopper, diving for cover in the undergrowth.  It is August.  The roadside verges have yet to be cut.  Grasses and nettles are at full growth, heavy with seed-heads, and blocking the lines of visibility on every bend, every dip.  The roads close in, yet tractors and lorries are the same size, and The Grasshopper cowers.

Pink blossom confirms ripening hips amongst the hawthorn.  And those hedges grow wild, unkempt, half a metre and more of new growth in this fertile and damp season.  I am minded of two things.  Firstly that the flail will be along one day, and the roads then carpeted in thorns.  Puncture season approaches.  And there is a hawthorn hedge back at The Towers too, also unkempt.  It will feature on that list for the weekend; and it rises ten feet and more.  Dwarfed it is though, by the maple hedge which too demands attention.  The hedge-trimmer needs used every bit as much as the back-to-school hair clippers.

And all too soon it is home again, that stiff climb to the gates.  That was quick.  A voice emerges from the back of the car, half-packed.  Short, is perhaps a better description, one gasped.

Next weekend the roads will be thronged, for it is the annual Round Strathaven 50.  I can promise that The Grasshopper will not be holding up any real cyclists, for I’m committed to a high-viz vest for the day, stewarding, and a few tray-bakes for the feeding stations.  Time yet to get your place amongst the 500, but not a lot.  And when you get to the feeding stations there will be fuel a-plenty, tables groaning, to take you on to the next leg.  The sun might even shine, again.

 

 

The Corncrake and The…

… Grasshopper!  Oh, yes the wheels have finally been turning again after an absence due in part to all of injury, ill-health, apathy and weather, but mainly age.  Anyway, what better way to explore a new island than by bike.  And in the process The Urchins too re-discovered their zest for pedal power.

Our return could barely have been more of a contrast to the arrival, with a journey in howling gales and torrents of the wet stuff.  But the memories are all of the first sights, and the ferry putting distance between us and the mainland.  White puffs pecked at the pinnacles of Jura’s Paps, just as Mull’s hills recede.  Then Colonsay appears.  There is a beach, at Balnahard, as the ferry draws closer.  We walk there, later.

Firstly there is another beach.  Kiloran Bay is often described as the best in the land, and it is spectacular, especially viewed from the higher ground around.  I’m not sure it can surpass Luskentyre, but it is has much that Harris doesn’t have.  And the children loved it, as they walked the length, getting splashed ever higher as they warmed to the gentle surf.

Then there comes The Strand, the tidal access over to Oronsay, where the centuries old Celtic grave carvings await a later visit.  On the way we passed some of the wild goats, but stopped often to hear the rasp of the elusive corncrake.  Hooded crows frolic on the heights of the rocks and down on the shore, tormenting whatever takes their collective fancy.  The machair is cropped by sheep, though we didn’t get to sample the local mutton, which is another marker laid down for next time.

Give me a week on the island and the neglected biking muscles will be attuned to the rise and fall of the land.  But there is work to do on that front; much in fact to stop the glee of Boy Urchin racing past on the uphills.  But I got him on the run down to Oronsay, which is all to do with mass and gravity, as The Grasshopper bounced and ran with the wind.

And so to Balnahard, the final day, cottage vacated, a race before the arrival of the tempest.  Three mile walk the guide said, each way of course.  With a brief stop for toes to be dipped in the icy water on arrival the round trip was getting on for half a day.  Rugged and chiselled, soft and gentle, no not I, but the terrain, and wind, rising.  It is all off road, challenging for 4-by-4s, though three family saloons passed by, somehow.

 

That man Balfour appeared again, Kidnapped in reverse, for there to the north, on Mull’s tip and hiding Iona, lay Erraid, another tidal strand, and another walk for another day.  The Treshnish Isles and Stevenson’s light at Dhu Hartach peppered the horizon.  The lie of the land is similar to Iona, but bigger, more rugged, and without the scourge of the day trippers.

Our time on Colonsay was short.  It was a trip we’d thought of making for some years, though ferry schedules make a long weekend difficult.  There was agreement all around that more time would be welcome.  We ate well, fuelling our bursts of energy by foot or by bike, and enjoyed a cottage with more space than home.  I miss the cats, was heard several times.  But they were fine.

Clouds like bruises

… rolling in from the west, chased by a rising wind.  Across the fields a group are gathered, mud-pluggers circled like wagons.  The wind carries the pop-pop of shotguns.  Maybe they’re pulling clays; maybe not.

Beforehand the sun shone, brightly, sky like eyes of innocence.  Chores done, soup ready and waiting for the return, it was time.  First cycle of the year, wheels turning, knees complaining.  Layered up against the chill, wary of the road conditions.  An hour, just give me an hour.  Route planned, climbing high, descending fast, before the clouds come in.

And off we went, light of heart, mind ready to wander.  It didn’t last.  Too many places where the sun didn’t shine; shaded still.  Too many places with run-off from the fields.  Too much ice.

The pace was slow, wary.  One blurry eye, contact lens not properly bedded, didn’t help.  And then the inevitable.  A wobble, a slide, man and machine gliding as one, Bolero as an ear-worm.  So we picked ourselves up and away we went; slower yet.  Watch for the icy stretches; off and walk.  Even that was treacherous and to the safety of the grass verge we slithered.

Route plans changed, trying to avoid the shady slopes.  Back home early, slowly, straight into the glare as the sun bounced off the wet tarmac, hiding what may be frozen beneath the surface.  It is the time of year when the sun doesn’t get close to the yardarm, rising only as far as the helmet mirror, just to blind you front and back.

Home just in time, the skies changed, blackening; the wind threatening.  And that’s when I realise there’s a pair of winter-weight bib-tights beyond repair.  For ice and lycra are not a good mix.  And the bruising on the arse is becoming the colour of the sky.  I’ll spare you the photos.

But it was good to get out again, almost.  Time perhaps to succumb to the misery of static cycling, the view of the garage walls.  I hate January, for a number of reasons.

Biking in the Buff

We’ve been doing a bit of it lately, possibly because of, rather than despite, the cold.  Bare with me, so to speak.

I am deeply aware that we are at a time of year when, certainly in recent times, there can be precious little Saturday afternoon football to watch, at least for those of us who do it in the raw, without under pitch heating, floodlights or any technology whatsoever.  Last year it was flooded pitches, before that snow, ice, deep-frozen for months.  Doing it in the raw, he’s at it again, I hear you say.

But this year the weather has been kind, so far.  Not only is the football not at risk, yet, but the old Grasshopper is doing the rounds quite regularly.  And that means, by definition, that there are days when the wind or the rain, preferably both, are merely threatening.

Today was no exception; though as I returned under skies turning quickly to sealskin as the cairns and the blades that top the hills began to hide behind lowering clouds, I did begin to wonder.  Whilst the roads are on the manky side, especially where the tractor wheels have been spinning debris from the fields, the air has been crisp.  Indeed grateful we are that the roads are yet to be coated in grit and salt to corrode the lowest slung bum – mind you precious few of the roads on the usual circuits are troubled by the gritter these days, but I digress.

In The Buff, that was the topic.  Ah yes, the crisp air, the asthmatic chest.  Just as I need to protect myself from humidity and other people’s central heating, so too must I ensure that the winter air is warmed before ingested.  At the footie a scarf is needed, especially at Boy Urchin’s Friday night training which goes on for ages; goes on till they can be too tired for a match kick off just 12 hours later.  Anyway, it’s the breathing.

So just as I need to breathe through a scarf when the days are cold, so The Buff does the trick on the bike.  It’s one of those multi-purpose, often multi-coloured, tubes of cloth that can be worn on the head, piratical if you like, round the neck, or as an ear warmer.  But for the asthmatic cyclist the answer is to cover the mouth, the nose too at times, and have warmed up air hitting the lungs.

And of course on the hills in these parts, when the legs burn on the rise, or the lorry is met on the bend at the fastest part of the descent, deep inhalations through the cloth come regularly.  But the outcome, and one to note for cyclists with asthma, is that the recovery is quicker, the need for medication negated, and the enjoyment of the buzzard circling above, or the finches in the hedges, can be all you need to worry about.  Them and the tractors coming round the bend.

So the cycling’s good even yet, whilst the weather holds.

And you thought I was going to talk about Fiona Fullarton in Why Not Bangkok.  Honestly some minds.  If I remember correctly Ms Fullarton’s bike had no saddle.  Another reason to enjoy the Grasshopper.  Go on, do it in the buff.

The Morning After

The night had been grim.  A slight shift in wind direction brought the relentless gales of the day onto the bedroom window, ‘neath which the bed rests.  And of course they found the gaps in the sealant, whistling joyfully, battering us from a rare quarter; all night long, it seemed.

Dawn brought low clouds, and mizzle.  But no wind.  And gradually the skies began to brighten.  So out went The Grasshopper once again – a gap in the diary on a day free of wind cannot be ignored.

Mackerel skies; you hear about them, see them, and yearn for some sun.  We had both, for there were shoals of the damn things, building from the south west, chasing into the clear lagoon on the opposite horizon.  Off we went, an early climb to waken the muscles.

Along a road usually bereft of anything at all, the helmet mirror was brought into use, constantly.  No fewer than eleven cars wanted to squeeze past, and duly did.  All of them were respectful, waiting for a little extra space.  But eleven cars, on that road, at the same time.  Something’s up.

Anyway my route took me on a different path, higher ground to gain.  In places the going was not easy.  Nothing to do with the gradient and unfit legs; and all to do with the debris from the night just gone.  Every dip trapped water; every hill sluiced with the running stuff; and everywhere there was a soggy morass of leaf-litter and mush.  It’s slippy stuff on an unstable machine, and no place for a low down bum.

But we survived; no mishaps.  A buzzard rose and led the way from pole to copse, flying low, watching.  On the other side of the hedges the sheep squelched, and that wet-wool smell was never far away.  The hawthorns had been flayed on this route too, though much of the debris had been washed away, I hoped.  But the sweet smell of hawthorn-after-the-rain, is one to have me breathing long and deep.  Even though short and rasping is the usual grasshopper-induced rhythm.

Above, the shoals drew nearer.  Blue became grey.  There was a smir.  And as always I was at the furthest point from home.  For warmer times there are waterproof shorts in the saddle bag, when the weather turns.  But they’d become a bit tight recently; shrunk in the wet or the wash probably.  And in their place, I’d forgotten, was a very natty pair of what is called ‘commuter leg coverings’.  These are a bit like chaps, as worn by John Wayne and other serious horsie folk.  But not quite as wide, and with Velcro to fasten round, just above the knee.  They’re also in the highest high-vis possible.  I feared the worst.

But the rain stayed away, and the leg coverings remained bagged.  And I swam against the shoals all the way home.

A parking sign, down the hill from the kirk, confirmed my fears from the earlier convoy.  So it’s as well I travel only at a funereal pace.  Home, and Sri Lankan chicken soup.  No mackerel.

When you can’t refuse

There are times, usually when the wind is driving, even without the rain, when taking the bike out the shed is something you just can’t find the time to do; too many other priorities; things that can’t wait.  On the other hand there are, very occasionally, days when those other things must give way; when not taking the bike out may be a sign of losing one’s mind, or the relentless creep of age.

Today was one of the latter.  Chores can wait; the postie brought little demanding attention.  Even taking an hour and a half to put a cheque in the bank could be put off.  For that time must be better spent enjoying a rare day when cycling was a demand.

As I set out that ragged ridge of Goat Fell was limned in the rising sun.  Footsteps to the shed compressed the moss, the morning frost stamped in deep.  The car was just beginning to lose the morning rime, to glisten and to drip.

So with that distant peak as a target off we rolled.  I say target very loosely.  For I had no intention of even trying to reach the coast, far less boarding a ferry and heading for the hills.  It was simply a feature that grabbed the eye, on the horizon, above the nearer tree line.  Time I could manipulate, but not to that extent.

All was quiet, all still.  Not a breath stirred the air.  As always seems to be the case these days I had to avoid a stray coo, and chase a couple of sheep along the road.  Chasing sheep cannot be avoided at times; they run, it happens.  Let’s not even think why they’re on the road, again.  And it’s one of the few occasions, when they eventually stop in a verge, that the loudest wheezing comes not from the old git on the bike.  But I digress.

After crossing the main road, completely absent of traffic just to match this rare day of joy, a buzzing rose from behind a hilltop cottage.  It was a day too for the micro-light, irresistible.  Up, up and away he went, round that big lump of rock, and off, rising, wing struts shimmering in the sun.  Afore long the buzzing was gone.  But that only allowed me to hear more.  Har, har, har, haarrr.

I saw nothing.  From deep within a tall pine something was laughing.  The tree stood majestic in the sun.  Festooned it was, with cones, those long and thin ones, pendulous, like the weights on a grandfather clock.  And deep inside he laughed again.

But that was where I had to leave him and begin to work.  For the first real climb beckoned.  Summits attained -it’s very much a twin peaks section of the route – I noted a new sign.  Battlefield Bakery, whose produce I’d sampled a week or two ago down at The Cook School’s monthly market.  The pistachio & cranberry loaf did not last long in this house.  But better than that it gave me back my knead once again.

Bread-making had been neglected for some time, save for high days and holidays.  But we’ve been pummelling away, with flour & oil, seeds & grains.  There’s a very good eight grain mix available in Aldi just now, which produces a tasty loaf.  And we’ve been experimenting with Man’oushe, a staple flat-bread from Lebanon, drizzled with olive oil, and lemon, crusted with onions and thyme.  Just a little recipe I found over at Wanderlust.  Methinks I’ll be exploring the art of the Lebanese bakehouse a bit further.

Downhill, twisting, rising, falling.  It’s always a fun stretch.  Brakes on today though, breathe in, for the mannie in the tractor has his eyes on the hedges he’s cutting, oblivious to a low down grasshopper hurtling onwards.  We squeeze past, just.

Hedge-cutting.  As always there’s more hawthorn than beech lining the road.  We carried on downhill, a trifle slower, trying to pick a safe route through the debris scattered across the road.  I was minded that since fitting Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyres around four years ago I’d succumbed to a puncture but once; and that I was at the furthest point from home.

The horizon by now took my eyes far to the south, Tinto Hill, rising gently.  It was one of those days, with visibility huge, untainted by cloud.  Even the turbines were at rest.  In fact it was a rarer day than that, for I opted to remain on the main road such was the mood that could not be dampened.  It’s a smooth surface these days, and side roads would mean more bumps, more climbs.  Only seven artics breezed past; one even slowed down, air brakes hissing behind me as the light disappeared from the helmet mirror.  Still at least he didn’t try to squeeze past.

What looked from a distance to be a burn glistened, arrowing the route home where I knew no burn existed, all the way to the Towers, miles way.  Across the fields a conveyor takes the sand from the quarry, and under the sun it marked out the direct route.  I stuck to the road, and picked up the line of the conveyor again later.  It’s a recent addition to the landscape, with eerie green lights after dark.  Even the growing junkyard, with truckloads of tyres, and rusting machinery, couldn’t take the gloss from a day like this.  Mind you the final climb back to Grasshopper Towers tried very hard; nearly won.

Sometimes it’s good just to put things off.  Like the molehills; manana.

 

Reflections

A precipice of slate shimmered as the mirrored surface rippled, circling out to every corner after the stone broke the surface.  Deep in the reflection was the pinnacle, stretching far above.  And far below lay who knows what.  Sixty feet deep said the board, diving club only.  Just one of the hidden crannies around the slate museum.  It seems a long time ago.  The copper mine too, for it is hard to remember that wet morning, those dripping caverns.

For two weeks are all but gone; time to reflect, to pack up the memories with the rest of the detritus that has to fit into the car.  Dalgellau, there was another hidden gem, found by accident.  Sure we parked the car by the stone circle and had taken the first path out of town.  But we were late back, after a second trip, facing arrival back at Base Camp as night was beginning to hide the peaks and ridges of the horizon, the colours leached away after another day in the sun.

So instead of taking the high road we found a parking place, and some pizza, chips too.  And that was when we began to look around, to wander streets not built for motorised transport.  If I’d come across Dalgellau on a Tuscan hilltop, with carafes of Chianti Classico on every table, it would not have been out of place.  But instead it was in the heart of  Welsh hill country, and pretty good it looked there too.

We had indeed returned to Barmouth, by bike, on that track.  Having spent most of the day we might be allowed now to use the other name, for I like Abermaw.  That maw lies as the estuary of the Afon Mawddach runs beneath the viaduct and mingles with the salted water.  Like its women, apparently, are the rivers of Wales, being short and turbulent, exceedingly beautiful, especially in their youth.  Two otters drifted as the current met the rising tide that day, taking to the far bank, several miles up river.  But we didn’t manage to get to the other side of Cadair Idris, to the waters of the Afon Dyfi, just to make sure.  And that’s a pity.

For I’d like to have called in to Machynlleth, which we’ve passed through before, or indeed stopped at Mold as we’ve done before.  I never did find a pint of Brains Black, but if I’d made those stops I reckon one or two kind folk could have pointed me in the right direction.  We did get to Angelsey, and as I lay on a beach, expiring in the sun, I read, in Marine Quarterly, that the word yacht, a strange word yacht, comes from the Dutch, jaghte.  And I thought of another from those magic days in that library, and wished I’d been better organised.

Przewalskis horses, there was another of those moments, and instantly I was 500 miles to the north, and The Prodigal, with Wolfie.  But they don’t have snow leopards in the highlands, as they do at Colwyn Bay, or chimps with those views from the top of their pole out to sea – there will be some shots to back up these claims, soon.  The only other attraction at the Bay, at least until the waterfront works are done and that old pier made safe, was the Bay Bookshop, which is a common theme in these parts.  Beaumaris drew me in, as did Barmouth.  I only managed one at Colwyn Bay, but really every town should have a secondhand bookshop, which is why packing the car may be just that bit harder.

The beaches had their moments too.  Just outside Moefle I watched as hebridean islands materialised above, long chain, occasionally linked, deep sea lochs, and my mind wandered as The Urchins played at the distant water’s edge whilst wisps of cloud drifted slowly, shape-changing.  Just offshore a lighthouse stood erect on an isle, looking strangely bereft of the usual white coat.  Back at Abermaw it was a scene from Ice Cold in Alex, that long trudge across endless sands, frazzled.  But it was at Dinas Dinnle that we found the best swimming, just enough slope to create some small waves in the calm, enough for the pebbles to call out as they turned.  Lie back and float, oh it’s hard work watching Boy Urchin practise his butterfly, then he too mastered the art of the float, spread-eagled.

The final away day was the choice of The Urchins, both in agreement, after nagging incessantly for a visit to one of those woodland parks with activities, in, ahem, Bethel.  So they built dens, shot arrows, pedalled karts and had hair braided, well one or other did.  There was a rollercoaster and mama went too, a river ride and a barefoot walk.  There may have been ice cream.  Take a book, urged the guide book.  Who am I to disagree?

Aside from the trams and trains and the easy way to gain height, we walked too, on the Miners’ Track from Mallorys, finding a spot on the mountain off that well-beaten path, and views down below, and far beyond, and up to that ragged edge, and the peak where there will ever be a queue like Lenin’s tomb, or Lourdes; once round and out.

Barmouth won again, the ice cream competition this time.  Knickerbockers’, pistachio, beat the rest, and we tried hard, we really did, sampling here, there and most places, sometime back again just to make sure.  It’s tough you know, keeping your cool when the mercury rises high.

Base Camp may not have had the atmosphere of our usual continental sites, or any atmosphere at all at times, though it did have an indoor pool, with variable rules.  But outside on the hills and on the beaches, on the bike trails and in the book shops, we could have been anywhere.  For alien languages were all around, and smiles too, and if the Dyfi lives up to the Mawddach, whoever met the women to match the rivers was absolutely right.

They come in pairs

Beaches and pianists; first one then the other.

Two days, vastly different in the little planning that went into them, yet both end up with beaches and pianists.

Latterly it was Ibrahim Abdullah driving us home with a forceful beat.  On the previous evening it had been the gentle rhythms of Ahmad Jamal, accompanying us through the high hedges of the Llyn peninsula.  The day had started very wet and we headed indoors; or at least not open to the skies.  For between us and the rain rose 850ft of rock.  Synug Copper Mine closed more than a century ago.  Lately some of the caverns that contained rich mineral veins have been opened up, and we can learn of the working conditions that were endured back then – typically a six day, ten hours each, working week, in cramped and dripping darkness.

Synug is quite an experience, surpassing the trip down the lead mines at Leadhills and even the tin mines of Cornwall.  And I was reminded very much of Cornwall as we took the steep, winding roads back to base across the Llyn, even though the roads were a bit wider than the Cornish versions.  Setting out across the Llyn was unscripted.  For no reason at all we ended up at the much-vaunted beach resort of Abersoch.  There is no doubt it has a fabulous beach, long and horseshoe sands, lined with yachts and looked over by layers of beach huts. They came many and varied; from the corrugated iron outside privy of the slate museum, to the concrete bin house, and to the upper layers, with windaes and deckchairs.  But it was a resort that seemed strangely lacking.

In atmosphere, or at least the type usually associated with sand havens.  Sure the beer gardens were thronged; parking hard to find; beach access obscure.  The most contented man we saw sat alone in his wood-panelled porch rammed full of memorabilia, alone with his memories; and his hubble-bubble.  He may have arrived in the 60s, and had yet to find the reason or the road out.  Whatever was brewing on his coals provided peace, man

But where were the children, the sand-castles, the fun?

Well we found them, and more, at another beach, another day.  And what a beach that was; we may well return.  Our time on the sands, resting against the marram and sea-buckthorn coated dunes, was short.  The buckthorn was just turning to purple, pale shades of grey-blue and green, sharp jagged points.  We saw the same on the way home, mirrored in the hillsides as the valleys disappeared endlessly into the distance.  In the foreground were wooded, green slopes, and at the furthest mere silhouettes, shades and ridges, buckthorn again, in colour and in form.

It was a bike ride that had taken us there; a brilliant ride, for it was flat, and it was scenic, alive, busy.  The Mawddach Trail follows the line of a railway that ran for 100 years until 1965, that man Beeching again.  It ends with a stunning 900yd viaduct across the estuary and into Barmouth, where the river empties into Cardigan Bay, 10 miles down the track from our start by the stone circle on the boundary of the cricket club in Dolgellau.  It was old country, and the trail took us down the river, through salt marshes and reed beds, peat bogs and coastal fens; and it did so under a canopy of mixed woodland as the sun mottled the way.  Silver birches stood tall, and oak and alder stretched over to link limbs where once the steam burst through.

A return visit is a must, if only to spend more time seeking the elusive otters on one of the most concentrated breeding grounds of Europe, or following the red legs and pointed bills of wading and dipping birds, listening; or with head bobbing up and down following the red rump of the redstart flitting along the hedges.&nbsp.

But at Barmouth we rested, and we picnicked from the paniers, cold juice, eggy pie, and the remnants of the christmas cake, Angelsey ice cream.  And then the walk, the prom, the sand where The Urchins played in the shallows and the sun.  Then back over that bridge, on the trail again, as swan necks emerged deep in the reeds, and cows squelched knee deep in the mud that hosts the grasses of the estuary.

A brief stop found us at what was once a signal box, and now hosts the RSPB in their efforts to look after what is a SSSI.  From the boardwalk aside the current railway line over the bridge – the 90p toll for walkers and cyclists ended a year ago – to the water skiers down below, to the canoes being paddled up stream there is always something happening.  The end of the trail came too soon, Boy Urchin leading the charge, rising from his saddle, spraying mud from the rare puddles to the old git trying in vain to catch up.  Next time there will be long stops, rests, and binoculars.

And there will be a next time, for it is a stonking little trail, much more to it than getting to the other end.  And again we have The Sleepy Sparrow to thank for pointing us in the direction.  If you want any information about North Wales, on cycling, or birds or hosts of tiny details just head over there, and enjoy.  We have. Don’t forget the pianist.