Scarecrow wedding

If we are to believe all that we read in the news and watch on television then every living human being should, at this moment, be getting themselves wildly excited about the wedding of two particular members of our species.

One would think, from all the fuss, that this is the first time that any member of our Royal Family has ever been married (perish the thought). So, resisting the urge to voice my own opinions regarding the event I shall limit myself to including this charming picture of one of the many entries for ‘Scarecrow Sunday’, an annual event which takes place down in Southend, the most southerly village on the Kintyre peninsula. The occasion is often used as an opportunity to pass comment on both local and national events, through the medium of the scarecrow, so to speak. The winning entry was a biting social statement on the state of the roads hereabouts (one of several on this theme), the scarecrow being dressed as a road worker but lying on a sun lounger beside the very road which, presumably, he should have been repairing.

Since arriving in Carradale we have experienced what everyone assures us is ‘very unusual weather’ - lots of sunshine and warmth with only the occasional drop of rain. Even the winds have been mostly light. As I write, every piece of vegetation is doing its best to burst into leaf or flower, emerging from the long winter. We walk about and keep getting bursts of scent from the masses of gorse which is now in full bloom (I have often wondered whether it is gorse that smells like coconut or the reverse) and everywhere we go there is colour where previously there was none.

Even up amongst the few remaining stones of Carradale’s strategically placed Aird’s Castle, overlooking Kilbrannan Sound, there are splashes of Scottish bluebells dotted about and bright yellow celandines too. Clearly the wild goats don’t get up here very often. We are still exploring around our village but recently we have discovered paths we never knew existed which meander their way around the back of the main street and give us a completely different view of the place. We now have our own ‘secret’ wooded route which leads down to the sea; we make a round trip so we can deposit glass in the recycling bins at the harbour and check on what yachts are sailing in the Sound. Only a few weeks ago we would be out and about almost alone and the few people we met were local residents. Now suddenly, it being holiday time, there is a new population in the village and many of the previously empty cottages are opened up. These second homes are occupied so their owners can frantically tidy and prune their gardens to get things back into shape for the season. The noise of lawnmowers and the buzzing of strimmers is all around us.

The sunshine even tempted us to dig out our bikes from their hiding places and pump the tyres for a ride along the single track road which runs north, roughly following the eastern shoreline of Kintyre. We rapidly discovered that there are only two modes of cycling hereabouts: flat out downhill barely in control and praying the brakes will slow you down enough to negotiate the next hairpin bend, or walking up hills too steep to ride. There is nothing that is flat – it just does not exist. Whoever built this road had some enormous challenges to overcome so I suppose we should expect this. The mountainous spine of the peninsula lies close to the eastern shore and is cut by deep valleys which means the road has to descend to sea level every so often to bridge one of the many burns which flow into the Sound. On the way back we stopped for a long chat with Tony and Margaret, the only full time residents in the settlement of four houses that is Grogport, where the River Sunadale makes its way into the sea. They have forged a productive garden out of the wilderness to make themselves completely self-sufficient in fruit and vegetables – the Good Life. Later we took to the forest roads, constructed for lorry traffic and rather more level but rough on the bikes, and our bottoms. In drainage channels alongside the track there were clouds of tadpoles, despite the fully grown newts who share the same pool and prey on them. Such abundance of life is inspiring. From our living room window now I gaze up at buzzards high above the ridge engaging in courting acrobatics when a much larger bird appears, soaring lower over the trees on enormous wings. Can this really be a Golden Eagle?

Spring is here

One of the consequences of moving house is that it forces us to pack up our belongings into boxes, packaging everything we own for removal. What perhaps we don’t realise when we are doing this is that very often those things will stay packaged up, maybe forever. This happens because we are poorly equipped as a species when it comes to discarding that which we no longer have a use for. Over time, therefore, a house will inevitably become cluttered with its own past. We have to containerise everything for transportation and on arrival at the destination there is an alarming but very human temptation to see convenient packages that can be tucked away permanently in an attic or basement. What is the point, we think, of unpacking that which we will never use. We avoid, therefore, the need to make decisions on what to discard, to throw away, by hiding it from sight, for good.

This behaviour might have been of no consequence to us at this juncture but for the tendency when packing to leave part-filled boxes lying about the place, open and waiting for that last item so that the lid can be closed on a full box, which is then sealed with tape. One of the natural laws of packing states that in this situation someone will always come along innocently clutching a much needed piece of kitchen equipment, an egg cup or the cheese grater, and pop it inside the part-filled box before it is sealed up, little realising that this box is one of those destined for hiding away in a darkened room once it has reached its destination. These two apparently unconnected quirks of human behaviour must give rise to more wasted hours, cause more anguish and frustration, raise more blood pressure than any other part of the moving house experience. To say nothing of the cost of the new cheese grater reluctantly bought in the end when we all know that the act of buying a new one will precisely trigger the finding of the one that has been lost.

For us it was not the cheese grater (thank goodness) but the bread knife. Many days after our arrival in Carradale we were still struggling to make toast using rough-edged slabs of bread that barely fit in the toaster slots and it was really only our location on Kintyre, so inconveniently placed for shopping, that saved us from duplicating that which we already had, but had temporarily lost. Who would have thought to look deep down amongst that old curtain material stored away years ago, for something to slice bread. And when the offending item did finally emerge into the light of day it was difficult to avoid the enquiry, nay inquest, into how and who and why our old curtains came to be a hiding place for such a vital item of kitchen hardware.

We might just as well not have bothered, of course, since if we had been able to recall what might have led to the knife being hidden there in the first place, it would never have been lost at all.

Ignoring such hardships, we are trying hard to pace ourselves with the ‘jobs that need doing’ in the house, not wanting to be thought of as dull stay-at-homes who have nothing else to do with their lives but decorating, making our mark on the house. But having spent the last six months focused entirely on refurbishment of another house it is not easy, when presented with an unpainted ceiling or, for example, a stair handrail painted pink, to ignore this and spend the day out enjoying the countryside. At least it wouldn’t be anywhere else. Fortunately we have plenty to tempt us out - forest walks, shoreline strolls, exhausting blasts up the hillside - and as soon as the sun pops out our walking shoes go on and we are away. The net effect is that our cheeks are losing some of their winter pallor at last.

We found one excuse to get out by offering to help our friends Jim and Celia on board their fine yacht down in Campbeltown. They live in a beautiful house perched above the shore over Torrisdale, just a brief stroll south of us, and being members of Campbeltown Sailing Club this gives us the opportunity to join up, another essential part of us getting into the community. Cirrus Cat still rests way down in Cornwall but we have plans to sail her north later in the year and keep her berthed somewhere close to hand. Roll on Summer. By April in each of the previous two years we were sailing and living on board so we find ourselves missing being on the water, especially as suddenly the sun is out, the clouds have evaporated and the temperature is soaring as high pressure moves the Spring in.

Alien things are sprouting in the hedgerows, emerging from their winter cover. Once this strange looking thing has unrolled itself it will become bracken, green and luxurious and ready to unload a dripping wet shower onto legs that pass by. The swallows have also returned, a sign that their food, insects, are also more plentiful. While going the other way, to the north, are flocks of geese, their honking echoing off the hills.

Trees now are speckled with green, leaves replacing the swollen buds, although these are still like scrunched paper, the veins still pumping to ensure everything reaches its pre-ordained shape. Colour is everywhere, in everything, even the most unexpected places. This moss needs the crack for its roots while the lichen is happy to use the bare rock as an anchor. Both, though, are exposed to salt spray as they live close to the shore where we follow an ancient raised shoreline to get out to Carradale Point.

Close though it is, it takes us nearly an hour of hard walking to get to this place. We step carefully from one rough boulder to the next, by-passing pools, some deep and salty with marine life, others fresh and filled with pond life. Then avoiding a marshy area where the water oozes black over our boots we clamber over massive rounded boulders, sea-eroded in another age when the tide was some eight metres higher than it is today, to arrive at our destination. To sit. To admire the quiet and watch the swirling.

Davaar

The lump of rock that is Davaar Island is neatly placed in the entrance to Campbeltown Loch, some fifteen miles to the south of Carradale, creating a natural harbour within the Loch itself, something the Admiralty has not been slow to take advantage of.

The island’s shape has been likened to a large wave on the sea, steep on one side and sloping on the other, but its origins are in fact volcanic. There are many former volcanoes like this in the Highlands, where all that is left is the solidified core, surrounding material having eroded away leaving a convenient plug which serves to prevent the innards of the earth escaping.

Naturally enough Davaar island now has its own website, maintained in part to promote the delights of three holiday cottages tucked away just out of sight around the corner on the left of this picture. During the summer months the island’s resident population of two may even swell into double figures when these cottages are occupied. When it comes to visitors, however, since 1887 Davaar has had an attraction many a resort would die for for this was when a local art teacher at Campbeltown Grammar School painted the image of Christ on the cross which later became so famous.

When we visited the damp cave in which it lies the low sun was streaming in casting a yellow light on the green algae covering the walls, giving the image an ethereal quality. Since 1935 when the artist died it seems to have been within the job description of the Head of Art at Campbeltown Grammar School to maintain the work, and if necessary repaint the rock entirely so that the island loses none of its visitor appeal. Hardly surprisingly the whole community was enraged when in 2006 the painting was vandalised, the body being covered with the image of Che Guevara but thankfully the skills of the art department put things back as they should be again.

Most people visiting the island do so via a narrow causeway which allows access several hours either side of low water, feet pleasantly dry. With Kate insisting on us taking a short cut across the sand our feet were far from dry for our visit but we know enough about walking in Scotland not to ever expect dry socks for very long. And having viewed the cave, most people will then return the same way, re-crossing the tidal boulders to reach the causeway before it becomes submerged. This is, of course, the sensible thing to do. To set off on a circumnavigation of the island, clambering over loose boulders which in a matter of hours would be once again beneath the sea would never be the recommended thing to do, so naturally this is what we felt inspired to do.

Was it worth it? Most definitely yes for it gave us views of the island few will ever get to appreciate. Davaar’s eastern shore is best known to the goats which inhabit the cliffs, the otters (which we just missed seeing) and to seabirds like the peregrine falcon which hunts for prey from high above the cliffs. Having gained the safety of the lighthouse cottages we met the caretaker who, in his own words, has “the job of looking after the place for the summer – can’t be bad eh?”, before setting off along the causeway again for the mainland. The tide was rushing in but enough of the stony ridge was still exposed so we could return safely, even stopping en route to pick up some shells on the way.

Back in Campbeltown the sailing club was having its annual launching extravaganza, yachts on trailers arriving on the harbour wall to be craned up and placed back in their natural element, the sea. Having recently bumped into Jim, an incomer like us and a sailor too, at Carradale’s doctor’s surgery, at the harbour Kate and I were both introduced to the club’s leading lights, names being showered on us like confetti. They are clearly a friendly lot, these sailors, who we hope will forgive us for not remembering everybody we met there.

A guide to Carradale

It was a wild and windy day, another one, when I drove into Campbeltown to return the carpet cleaning machine we had hired to deal with our rather noxious stair carpet. It may be some days before we know whether the unwanted scent of dogginess has been completely removed from the house but it was certainly the most urgent of the jobs confronting us when we moved in here. Several others have since emerged, like the small leak through the flat roof over our dormer windows and some poor quality plumbing work which needs to be corrected. But these are minor issues and no different from those occurring in other houses we have lived in. They do not detract from our enjoyment of the house and its situation.

The fifteen mile drive into town can be quite a challenge in bad weather, so I discovered, although the views out to sea en route will never lose their dramatic charm. What did surprise me was to see a lone yacht escaping through the narrow passage out of Campbeltown Loch, sailing past Davaar Island heading for open water and into the teeth of a full gale. If there were prizes for boldness this crew was certainly earning them as when I looked again the yacht had a second sail set and was charging along like an express train, headed out past the southern end of Arran, if I am not mistaken.

That was late morning. By midday the rain had eased and during the next hour the clouds scudded away to the east and the sun’s warmth transformed everything. I then realised that the decision to sail was either lucky or quite a clever one as with the veering wind, the yacht would now be sailing free in clear air and brilliant sunshine. I almost envied them now.

The rapid changes in weather will be an inevitable feature here, something we must acclimatise to and which we intend to take full advantage of. The moment the sky clears and the sun blasts in through our front window we feel the urge to get outside, to explore some of the paths and tracks which lead off everywhere. One foray took us to the beach at Carradale Bay, a long, gently curving strand of sand. At one end of this lies a line of cottages known as Waterfoot and it is here that the river Carra escapes into the sea, the entrance being narrow and sandbank ridden. The holiday season is still some months away so not surprisingly the beach was deserted, apart from the random pebbles left behind by the tide (which we scoured for ‘pretties’ to add to our collection at home) and a single tractor tyre, now almost lost to view.

Just inland from the beach another sign led us to ancient stepping stones which, were the river not so swollen, might just be a viable route from one side to the other.

My guess is that this is rarely a safe crossing for the path to the river’s edge was not well worn.

By exploring in short bursts, often initiated by warm sunshine, we are slowly getting to grips with the layout of our scattered village. The main settlement, in which our house lies, is the largest but there are outliers such as that at Waterfoot, and another in the Glen at Carradale West where the fire and police stations lie just across the road from our village’s second post office (they each open to a schedule which allows no overlap). The petrol station here closed recently but there is still a store, inside which we have yet to venture because our part of the village has its own shop, which is also the bakery. Both east and west Carradales have a large enough population to sustain their own bars and there are several residential hotels too, a caravan site and numerous private establishments offering holiday accommodation. Here at Carradale East, however, we can boast something really special – our very own bank.

But if there was to be a list of Carradale curiosities, for me this would be somewhere near the top because the solid looking, substantial building, sited just at the top of the descent to the harbour, opens its doors only once a week, for one hour. Nevertheless it is still a bank and it even has its own sort code - 831627.01 – although this would be difficult to enter on most paying-in slips I have seen.

Kate has just returned home with a piece of news, hot off the grapevine, from one of our neighbours. Contrary to what I have written above, and indeed since writing it, we now only have one bar in the village. It seems that the owners of the Glen Bar and Restaurant, who have been trying to sell the place for some time, can no longer afford to keep the place open. They have had to let their staff go. I am aware that this piece of news is likely to be of little interest to those who do not live on the east shore of the Kintyre peninsula but never let it be said that what we write here is not bang up to date.

Carradale

Our first week in Carradale was a quiet one, weather-wise, with plenty of sunshine, light winds and almost no rain.

This, we realise, is far from the norm for this place. Just one week in and we get our first taster of what the weather can do when it wants to. Overnight we heard the rain pattering against our bedroom window and in the morning we peered from our back window up at where the slopes of Cnoc nan Gabhar disappeared into a swirling mist. Clearly there was a strong wind blowing although we realised, for the first time, how sheltered our house is from the main force of a westerly blast. By late morning the rain had eased and the sun was peeking through for my drive into Campbeltown to stock up with provisions. For the drive home I had full sunshine from a cloudless sky although by now the wind was powerful enough to sway our little car about and to pick up the sea in Kilbrannan Sound and throw it out towards Arran, some three miles away. This little blow was just a teaser though, something to excite us but not to scare us off. We are well aware of what the weather in the west of Scotland can do.

Through all this, our acquaintance with the people of the village continues at some pace, faster than I can easily commit names to memory. We went to register at the doctor’s surgery and our names were passed around the waiting room to those who had not already met us, like we were some sort of celebrities. “Oh you are the couple who have sailed around Britain and you had the hernia, didn’t you?” We have to remember to keep our stories straight – any discrepancies are bound to be picked up on. Most of the Carradalians (?) to whom we speak ask us where we are staying (the Scots use this expression as the English might use ‘living’) but often those who have lived here for many years cannot place us easily from our address alone. We have to tell them who we bought the house from before all becomes clear,

“Oh I know where you are now… next door to Pat.” The people here are far more important than the houses they live in. We are even getting acquainted with some of the dogs who we meet on our rambles along the local forest tracks. Ailsa and Jess here seemed quite happy with us as we walked along chatting to their owners.

All of this welcoming warmth we sort of expected, or at least hoped for, even though we had no idea it would happen so quickly. Friendships we have made in little more than one week we expected would take many months to develop. And there is another population who seems to like us being here as well. As soon as our bird feeders were unpacked we hung them up in the back garden just to see what would happen, knowing that it can take many days before the birds ‘find’ them and start to feed. How wrong we were. Hardly had we closed the back door when the first chaffinches arrived, swiftly followed by blue tits and a robin. Now they arrive in their hoards and in no less than eleven different varieties, surely something worthy of a list:

Chaffinch; Bullfinch; Greenfinch; Great tit; Blue tit; Coal tit; Robin; Siskin; Blackbird; Thrush; Sparrow.

They flit from perch to perch at amazing speed, sometimes three different types of bird on a feeder at the same time, jostling for space, fighting for dominance. Only the coal tits, of which we have already seen three at once, know their place. They will lurk about watching for the moment when every other bird flies off so they can zoom in for their feed. Quick as a flash they dart in, head down for a mouthful then eyes swivelling about checking for competition before taking another nibble. Our garden has become a circus ring, full of acrobatics and flashing wings, but always with the safety of the cover provided by the shrubbery on the forestry land just beyond our back fence. The birds here seem to have little fear of humans, possibly because there is a greater threat which glides around the sky, something we hear before we see, a high-pitched screech that echoes across the land as the buzzard calls to its mate.