Winter on the west coast of Scotland (and elsewhere)

We live near the coast. And looking back it strikes me that this statement applies to almost everywhere we have lived. What is different now is that for the first time in our lives we actually live within sight of the sea. It may not be the open ocean that many might expect but it is still the sea - salt water that rises and falls with the tides. In a way this is hardly surprising given that almost every other Argyll inhabitant also lives close to the sea. Scotland's west coast is deeply indented by waterways, some penetrating inland for tens of miles. Elsewhere these might be called fjords but in Scotland we call them lochs and the same word is used for any large body of water, salty or not. Our home looks out over the longest sea loch in Scotland, Loch Fyne, the name meaning vine or wine, although there is no evidence that grapes were ever grown here.

Like most other sea lochs on the west coast Loch Fyne was formed thousands of years ago by the action of thousands of tons of ice scraping away as it slowly slid down from higher ground. The weight and thickness of the ice caused it to make grooves in the ground beneath it, so deep that the water that now fills the loch is over one hundred and fifty metres deep in places This is a feature that is hard to imagine when we look out of our window across to the hills on the opposite side of the loch just a few miles away. But because it is a sea loch, connected to and sharing its water with the Atlantic Ocean, it brings with it a milder climate than one might expect at our latitude and one of the effects of this is that our winters are largely ice free. When snow does fall on the hills around us it will generally melt away quickly as it is replaced by rain. Sure, there have been days when a layer of ice has covered our pond but so far this winter it has lasted no more than two days before melting.

This mild climate does not mean we can live without some form of heat in the home. Some years ago we spent the whole winter in a small village in a mountainous area of northern Italy Here too we experienced very little snow, perhaps largely because we were much closer to the equator and the mountains themselves were not far from the sea. We befriended a local man (who spoke fluent French, which made it easier for us) who once proclaimed that firewood warms you up at least five times. So let us see if I can remember the steps...

To start (1) a tree is felled and cut into pieces so that they can be moved. These are then loaded onto a wheeled vehicle - in his case a trailer towed behind his strange two-wheeled tractor - and then unloaded nearer to home (2). Processing the wood happens in two stages. First it is cut into 'rounds' then these are split along the grain to make logs which can fit inside a stove once they are dry (3). The logs are stored, usually beneath the house in a purpose built cellar where moisture within the wood gradually dries out. From here, however, they must be carried up flights of narrow stone stairs, these being a feature of the houses built in this part of Italy (4). We were living in an apartment on the top floor of the building and I clearly recall the effort involved in this particular part of the process. Finally (5) the wood is burnt on the fire and as we bask in the warmth we temporarily forget the effort it has taken to get here.

To date we have not had to cut down any trees to make into firewood for use in our multi-fuel stove but we did clear some branches from the trees growing beyond our boundary, overgrowth that was threatening to fall into our garden, and once cut up these spent more than six months or more resting in our wood store before we began to use them as fuel indoors. More recently we were given some demolished wooden fencing pieces that again have been cut up ready for use and just recently, our efforts helping our friends move house have resulted in some lengths of wood from demolishing a set of bunk beds coming our way. These need little work apart from removing as many screws as possible but just as in Italy, there are always a few steps involved before wood is ready for the fire.

As I write we are recovering from the latest storm, two days of fierce winds with gusts exceeding sixty miles an hour, this being followed by days of absolute calm where the damp air hangs over our village from dawn till dusk. We venture outside to see what damage might have occurred and are pleased to find very little. One of the compost bins has lost its lid, this being returned by a kind neighbour who was also doing a garden inspection, and the refuse bins which we keep beside the road, each one securely tied down with a short length of rope, had clearly been straining at their leashes but thankfully no worse. One of the lids on these had flipped open allowing rain water to collect inside but this was soon emptied out. We still have a roof on the house, no sign of lost tiles, and our polytunnel and the garden sheds have also stood their ground. The exposed position of our home gives us fine views but it also means it takes a battering from time to time and we are ever grateful to the builders who made it so strong.  

As part of the garden inspection I venture beyond our boundary fence to see what the heavy rain has done to the burn that runs there. Surprisingly little water is flowing down it, which makes me think that the dense vegetation must absorb most of it, releasing it again in small amounts. 

Some of that water will be contained within these tiny fungii which have emerged from beneath a leaning tree trunk, a small burst of colour in the otherwise dull, dank world beneath the rhododendrons and the gorse.

As Christmas approaches the damp weather continues. The view from the living room window has deteriorated somewhat - a wall of white mistiness hides the opposite side of the loch from us - and outdoors everything drips. There is little to tempt us out there but at least the wind has moderated for a while. Our garden has a large puddle - localised flooding - at the lowest point and even our friendly pheasant has deserted us.

'Phil', as we know him, had been spending his days with us, pecking at the ground beneath our bird feeders and when the rain came on heavy he sheltered beneath the mahonia bush. We felt honoured to have him with us and delighted to offer him sanctuary from those that might have had other ideas for him at this time of year.

Technology

I gave up using a PC (personal computer) at home some time ago when I got fed up with having to sit at a desk and then wait for the thing to boot up each time I wanted to do the simplest thing. A large box with its whirring fans inside had been a part of both my working and home life for many years, such that I was familiar with the many foibles. I knew what I could and what I couldn't plug into the variety of sockets in both front and back of the machine to give it extra functions and to allow it to talk to other things. I had also become familiar with much of the language associated with it; I can distinguish between a gigabyte and snakebite and could bore anyone to death talking about the alphabet of different USB plugs. The PC had been quite useful to me for video editing, using two large TV monitors, but I had not done much of this for a while so the decision was made that this machine had outlived its usefulness.

Of course these days we have smartphones, which are now far more powerful than the PC I had been using and they can certainly do most things I'd ever want to do (even the video editing!). The limiting factor on the phone is its screen size. It is fine if all you want is to read a WhatsApp message or to look at someone's comments on Facebook but should you ever want to type a lengthy blog entry (like this) or compose a letter (remember these?) to a distant relative listing all the things you have done since you last saw them then suddenly the phone becomes rather inadequate and difficult to use. (Of course it does retain one function that beats all others - using it as an actual phone.)

So I decided to bid farewell to the mouse and upgrade my life... I bought a 'tablet'.

This is not the thing you get on prescription from your doctor then wash down your throat with a glass of water. Instead it is the name we now give to something which in effect is just a large phone. It will likely have the same operating system and computing power, an identical set of 'apps', the same controls (taps, finger swipes, etc.), in fact everything the phone has except for the ability to make phone calls (although even this can be an option). After much due diligence online I went for a tablet with a screen a little over three times the size of that on my phone, something portable enough to carry anywhere in the house without too much risk of dropping it but big enough to read things comfortably when placed on my lap. I went for one that might be considered small by some and it is certainly not superfast by modern standards. It is, however, perfectly adequate for my needs.

Once extracted from its box, the very first things to do were to attach a screen protector (a rather stressful process with almost no help from the instructions) then try to follow the forty two pages of user guidance once I had discovered how to download these from the Internet. There seems to be a view amongst those that design our modern electronic gadgets that the user will be expected to know how to use it and also be someone who will accept every provided feature without question. User guidance, once you find it, might be aimed at those (like me) who fiddle, those who like to change the standard settings, but such people should not be unduly encouraged.  One of the first things I noticed was that the tablet came loaded with software (apps) that children might use - colourful games - so my guess is that I am a non-typical user, which might explain why there is so little help available.

In one respect, however, the process of acquiring and setting up any size of phone or tablet is made very simple as it is based on the assumption that you have bought new to replace old. This being the case you will obviously want everything that is on the old device to be moved onto the new one so there will be no learning process at all. Getting this to work is effortless. As soon as the new gadget is switched on you are prompted to turn on the old phone and place it close by. After a few presses of an on-screen button both devices begin talking to each another, data flying invisibly through the air between them in a way that is hard for the human brain to understand. On the one hand I am impressed by such cleverness but the other side of the coin is the assumption that you are replacing a perfectly functioning device with something more modern that will be doing exactly the same job. This sounds very much like a symptom of a throwaway world and the thought that someone might be replacing a PC with a tablet does not seem to have been considered at all.

If someone like me is neither overwhelmed nor particularly impressed by the cleverness of today's technologies then I can imagine that someone younger than me must take them completely for granted. Growing up with a device that fits in the hand and which is always capable of communicating with other humans, no matter where they are on the planet, is something that was unthinkable in my youth. Beyond this, to think that this same tiny gadget could give one access to all the world's accumulated knowledge, almost instantly, would have been totally beyond belief. For me, growing up, the world beyond my home and my country, was hidden from me other than by listening to news broadcasts from the BBC, something I cannot recall ever choosing to do anyway. Youths of today might be equally disinterested in world affairs but they will be aware that it is not hidden from them should they want to know. More likely they will choose for themselves what they want to know, again something not possible for me in my youth. The resources of the whole world are now at our fingertips, all accessible through one tiny chunk of technology we have in our pocket. And all this we now take for granted. Worse still we suffer anxiety when we are separated from such devices. They have almost become more essential to us than the food we eat. Such is the modern world.

Random stuff

Lessons learnt in three days....

    - We are not as young as we thought.

    - Some things are too heavy to lift.

    - Muscles will hurt if subjected to misuse.

    - Too many steps make for unhappy legs.

What could possibly have given rise to these startling observations? What have we been doing that we perhaps shouldn't? The answer to these questions lies in us wanting to help some friends in their house move, something they had decided to do themselves by hiring a van and filling this with their furniture and other belongings then emptying this at the new home, filling it up again, then emptying again, and so on in endless succession for three days on end. Then as if this this wasn't enough, there was the small matter of bringing all this stuff up the stairs into the new property, a first and second floor maisonette in a magnificently old building just off the main street in Lochgilphead. By the end of day three we had a ranking order for the most difficult items, those I will never again be tempted to try to move. Top of the list is the sofabed. This is a solid wooden upholstered frame inside which is a folded steel structure which is designed to be unfolded to create a double bed. The whole thing is massively heavy and so awkward in shape that it can only be fitted through a doorway on its side. There is also nothing on it to grab hold of to make this job easier and should it drop to the ground then feet and toes are dangerously vulnerable. My advice...leave it behind...but nobody listens to me.

The friends, moving to the first home they have ever owned themselves, consisted of a family of six, two of whom were too young to contribute their own efforts (they were at school) but all six beds needed to be moved in one day so they could all sleep in the same house. My electric screwdriver came into its own and somehow I managed to lose not a single screw or bolt in the process of dismantling then reassembling them in their appropriate bedrooms, something which I can look back on with some pride. Again on the positive side the weather was quite kind to us too, mostly dry, and the cold air means nothing when you are physically active.

The second flight of stairs in the new house had a little surprise which caught us all out at first, the first step being three inches higher than the rest. This is something the family will adjust to in time, perhaps after a few nose dives, but generally they were delighted to be making this move onto the housing ladder. The solid stone construction of the property is reassuring and although there is much they will no doubt want to change, they know that any improvements they make will not be wasted money. It is more than simply a roof over their heads. It is home.

Ramps and other things

I first started to write this particular instalment in mid October when it appeared that something had gone wrong with our weather. Rain we are used to - it comes and goes all the time - and in between the rainy bits we get the sun, maybe peering around the clouds at us but at least we can usually tell where it is. The wind comes and goes too, more often than not it is bending the branches of the trees and throwing the rain at our windows. But back in October we were experiencing a few weeks of exceptional weather; no serious wind for days on end, low lying clouds covering the top of the hills around our village and dimming the daylight, drizzly rain falling continuously, the intensity varying from slightly damp to a real soaker. We seemed to be stuck in a weather system which was diverting our normally constantly variable weather away from our shores, far away to the north, so that our days were filled with a damp dreariness, something to which we are not adapted. It seems that there was a high pressure system, giving someone somewhere some scorching sunshine [that's a lot of s's], an end of year 'Indian Summer', but missing us entirely. The only thing we could hope for was that the earth might spin a bit faster so the dreary dampness could come to an end. To cheer ourselves up, of course, there was no better time to start another project.

To be fair though, this particular one did actually begin last year. To explain, when we moved into our house some two years ago we found a number of unexpected objects lying about in the garden. I believe I have already mentioned the large blue Jewsons bags, some of which had been around so long that the grass had grown over them and they were only discovered when we began to explore the garden at the back of the house. But I may not have mentioned the stack of large paving stones lying in our front garden. These were still lashed together as if they had just been unloaded off a lorry so clearly they were purchased by the previous owner with some project in mind, something that never came to fruition. They were just left there waiting for us when we moved in. We have used them in various ways, putting some down to create a pavement (sidewalk) beside the road at the front, then more recently we used some more of them to extend the paved ramp which runs up towards the house from road level.

This might not look much but take it from me, moving these things into position took a lot of effort. These serious lumps of concrete are massively heavy and dangerously awkward things to move about, especially uphill on sloping uneven ground. We loaded them one at a time onto our two-wheeled trolley which, had we lost our grip on its handles, would have shot off downhill at speed and likely ended up crashing into the garage across the road. But this didn't happen, thankfully, and by laying each one carefully we created a new path leading up the side of the house. The objective here was to create a ramp, something that is easier to walk up than the twisting odd sized steps, and also a solution to help us bring up a loaded shopping trolley with much greater ease.  This has proved to be the case but at the top of the ramp we still still had three more awkward steps over which the shopping trolley had to pass.

By this time our stack of leftover pavers had been reduced until we had just three left. It took a while before it occurred to us that this was the perfect number to lay over those last three steps, so as to extend the ramp right up to the top making a continuous route up this side of the house. It needed a name so this is how 'Project Top Ramp' came into being. What was clear from the start, however, was that it would not be a simple matter of laying the slabs over soft ground. The top steps that we were seeking to cover are made of solid concrete with courses of bricks at each side. They are sloping and are of unequal height and length. Each of the pavers would have to cover just one step in such a way that it was supported at each end and could not move. It would also mean that any gaps would need to be filled with cement to provide a continuous sloping surface.

We soon realised, however, that our pavers, although massively heavy, had no internal reinforcement and as a result are actually quite fragile, brittle enough so that if only supported at each end then a heavy footfall might easily crack them. With only three left we certainly did not want this to happen. In the end we strategically placed some old bricks (something else we have discovered in quantity in our garden) beneath each one so that they were supported. Only time will tell whether this works.

The final shape of the ramp is odd as it has to twist around some existing groundworks so it does rather look as if it was not part of the original plan for the house...which of course it wasn't...but we don't care. It will serve a function and meet our needs.

At this point I have to announce that the final evolution of Project Top Ramp is on hold. Cement goes through a chemical reaction when it is mixed with sand or other materials and this process starts to go wrong below ten degrees centigrade. Beginning the project in the persistent damp weather we were getting in October was risky enough - too much rain might have washed away the cement - but shortly after November arrived the forecasters started predicting a dramatic temperature drop within the space of a few days. At least this was more 'normal' than the constant drizzle we had been living with for so long. The rain was now heavier, showers hammering noisily on our conservatory roof, and the sun was doing its peeping out thing again. Winter has dropped in to visit and the ramp will likely now stay unfinished until Spring arrives. Such is life.

Spikes in our Garden

We are now past the second anniversary of moving into our current house, an appropriate time perhaps to look back over what we have done in that time, what changes we have made to both the house and the surrounding land. But then as I look back over previous blog entries I realise that I have spent the whole period doing exactly that! I also note that I have mentioned some of the garden plants we inherited with the house and moaned on various occasions about the spiky nature of so many of them. We have gorse, bramble, mahonia, wild roses, strawberries, holly...the list goes on. But did I mention, I wonder, the most tenacious plant of all, one that has spikes that all the others must be insanely jealous of, one that has stems that resist all human efforts to snap, one that has strong roots which spread out from each bush to emerge nearby with innocent looking green shoots, only later becoming spike ridden? I am, of course, referring to prunus spinosa, the blackthorn.

Some might be thinking now of the fruit of this shrub, the sloe. The tough skin and the single seed within means that this is a drupe, not a berry, and it has a sharp, astringent flavour if you are ever foolish enough to try to eat it. (I did also read that the seed inside contains cyanide!) Not that this is particularly relevant to us since the bushes living in our garden have yet to produce a single fruit. What they do have though, in spades, is the most incredibly tough thorny spikes that you will ever meet. These things stick out randomly from every stem in such a way that they soon become entangled with the adjacent stems and the whole plant becomes one large ball of flesh-tearing horribleness should anyone get too close. Each smooth surfaced thorny spike is long and straight, black in colour with remarkably strong sinews inside, such that it cannot be snapped from the branch from which it has emerged; no matter how it is bent it will simply spring back into shape. This same strength is present throughout the whole plant and remains even after it has been dug up and ripped from the soil. Because of this the plants have long had a practical use - fencing in cattle to prevent them from roaming.

Fortunately we are not completely overrun with blackthorn although it has found a home in one corner of our garden in particular and has spread its roots pretty thoroughly there. We tried to ignore this for nearly two years, during which time we were focussed on tackling the many other thorny plants, but eventually the time came when we decided we could not let the blackthorn spread any further. So on went the body protection - thick leather gloves, boots and a tough jacket - and we gathered together the appropriate garden tools to tackle the job. The nature of the plant, which can grow up to six metres tall, is to produce a tangle of branches within which other less well armed plants can hide. Removing these unwelcome plants (many would refer to these as weeds) is almost impossible without serious injury so tackling each shrub is a major gardening enterprise. 

In order to gain access to the base of the shrub to cut any of the stems the surrounding low level branches must first be removed. These are, of course, riddled with thorns so a pair of long handled loppers is maneuvered in past these, with some difficulty as the spikes are tough enough to push back even this gardener's weapon of choice. The cut must be made straight across the stem - too much of an angle and the stringy sinews will remain connected - and once a branch is cut it must be pulled free from the bush. This is the dangerous part since every part of the cut stem has thorns and these are tangled up with the rest of the plant so that considerable force is required to rip it free. It is at this point that the quality of those thick leather gloves will be tested fully and any weakness exploited by the thorns as they resist being separated from their home plant. I should have mentioned here that summer, when the blackthorn's own leaves hide everything from view, is not the time to tackle the plant, although in winter a cut branch once removed should not be left lying nearby in case it is trodden on.

The thorns can penetrate the soles of rubber boots and even tough shoes can fall victim to these weapons. I extracted the tip of one particular little beast (and no, it was not a nail) from the sole of one of my gardening shoes. It was firmly embedded and stabbing my big toe.

Despite all these hazards we do eventually manage to cut each bush down to ground level. Getting the roots up would be nice but so long as we cut off each new shoot as it emerges in the Spring we hope that eventually the last signs of life from these plants will disappear. At this point, after applying the relevant first aid to all our scratches, we now have a heap of spiky branches and twigs to deal with. These we cut into smaller pieces and squash, carefully, into our garden incinerator, an old and rather rusty dustbin shaped thing with a chimney in the lid which fits on top. It is at this point that I can reveal the inherent weakness of the blackthorn bush; it burns remarkably well. Getting the fire started wasn't easy, I admit. A small amount of liquid accelerant poured over the tangle of twigs inside the incinerator was needed to get things going but then, suddenly, the flames shot skywards and I stepped back as the heat built up. The surrounding damp grass was soon alight and after no more than thirty minutes the whole blackthorn tangle inside the incinerator was gone, every last spike had been reduced to a small pile of white ash and we could relax in the knowledge that we had at last defeated the beast.

How such a plant as this evolved is hard to believe. I can only imagine millions of years of being attacked from all sides by creatures with sharp teeth, beasts with such a passionate appetite for those berries that they were willing to sustain endless injury to their bodies in order to get at them.

Sailing again

Anyone old (or sad) enough to have been following this blog from its infancy back in 2008, when we were just a short way away from retiring from jobs we had worked at for the previous forty years, will know that boats, and particularly those with sails, have been a part of our lives for many years. We have owned a succession of them, large and small, and although there have been short periods when ownership of our own boat did not suit us, they have never been far away from our lives.

Eun na Mara, our little 'Cornish Shrimper', came into our lives in 2016, her beautiful tan coloured sails delighting us and attracting smiles from anyone who happened to glance out to sea as we sailed by. But a question has arisen recently as to whether owning our own boat still has a place in our lives. We have changed the location of our home, introduced electric bicycles into our lives, and we are now getting involved in other activities, which is why the boat is not getting used as much as she used to. It is a big decision for us to make but yes, we have decided the time has come to let Eun na Mara go. We can no longer justify keeping and maintaining a boat of our own when we are getting so little use out of her. Having made this momentous decision we begin to realise, however, that finding a buyer might not be quite so simple as we would hope. She is as sturdy and strong as when she was first built, but selling such a vessel from the fairly remote corner of Scotland where we live, at a time of year when most sailors are hanging up their sea boots for winter, could well take some time.

So we'll just store her away under her winter cover and await developments.

But why not move on and talk about sailing itself as an activity. Not owning our own boat does not necessarily mean the end of sailing as an activity since we do live beside the sea and our village does have an active sailing club. We watch the activity from our house every Friday evening when an enthusiastic group of youngsters take to the water in Toppers, Lasers, Optimists and even the odd Enterprise. [For the uninitiated, these are all types of sailing dinghy.] Then one day we joined a local 'Beach Clean', another bit of volunteering, an event organised by a group of locals who, like us, are concerned about the amount of litter that the sea throws up onto our shores. It was here that I began chatting with a man called Angus who was full of enthusiasm about adults making use of the sailing club dinghies for a couple of hours on a Sunday morning, something that had not happened before. Was I interested? Well yes.

My first short outing with them was on board a 'Topper', a single sail dinghy more suited to small children than a clumsy, fully grown adult. I was delighted to find that despite the wind blowing at about fifteen knots I was able to keep the boat upright and zoom to and fro across the harbour entrance for a couple of hours. The borrowed wetsuit I had struggled into kept me warm enough although the spray coming over the bow as my little boat crashed into the waves soaked everything I had on, bringing me to the obvious conclusion that I needed to rethink my clothing if this was to be a regular activity. Getting the suit on had been hard enough but the difficulty I had removing the wetsuit after we came ashore left me exhausted and out of breath, ramming home the same message even harder. So after a bit of research online and a small investment my own wetsuit arrived, but sadly after trying to pull the thing on I had to admit that it was too small and needing to be exchanged for a larger size.

A few more Sunday mornings have now passed, the first of which gave us complete calm, not a ripple of breeze on the water and no enthusiasm from anyone for sailing. My new larger wetsuit has arrived and as I squeeze myself into it to see whether it does actually fit I am beginning to wonder whether this is the right time of year to be starting a new hobby. The winter months have always been a sailing-free period for us, a time when routine boat maintenance and other postponed jobs get to be done so that we are ready for the following year's sailing season. Another Sunday morning arrived as a sunny day, mild for the time of year, but with a large shadow hanging over the day. The Met Office have issued an 'Amber Warning of Wind', predicting gusts of over seventy miles an hour in our area, something which was hard to believe at first but as the day progressed, each hour brought stronger and stronger winds. The storm even has a name, Ashley, a strange modern practice introduced to make them sound more cuddly and friendly. I peer out across the harbour to see whether there are any dinghies being launched, having already made my own decision...all is quiet at the sailing club...so my new wetsuit stays dry indoors. More weekends come and go. It was always unlikely that small dinghy sailing would feature much as winter progressed and with the strange weather we have been having of late things are not looking good. I stand ready should the right weather happen to arrive.

Families

'Who'd have 'em.'

But we all do. We may not have any choice in selecting them as individuals but they are there for us all. Sometimes, however, we can also have friends who we regard in the same way as if they were actually part of our family, long term friends who have always been there and we have known them as they have grown older in the same way that we and our real family have. We don't really have a name for those who fall into this category - 'good friends' somehow doesn't quite seem to fit the bill.

Many years ago, long before this blog began, back when we had a young family, we sailed across the North Sea to Holland in a rather small sailing boat called Noggin the Nog. In hindsight this now seems like a crazy thing to have done with three small children on board but the outcome of this trip was that we met for the first time a Dutch family with whom we have remained friends ever since.  

This picture shows both dads, one British and one Dutch, rowing their similarly aged children around a harbour in Holland. We enjoyed each other's company in a way we could not have predicted, something that was greatly assisted by their command of our English language (we have since realised is common to many of their compatriots). But it did not end there. We returned a second time (in a slightly larger boat) and since then this family has sailed across the North Sea to visit us at one or other of our homes on several occasions.

The children, two girls, have also remained friends with us through the years as they have grown taller (Dutch people are the tallest nation on earth) and Maartje, the youngest, has come to stay with us on various occasions, even staying with us when we spent a winter in northern Italy many years ago.

So it seemed perfectly natural when she contacted us recently and announced that once again she was planning a trip to Scotland and would like to visit us. On this occasion, however, she would travelling by bike and would be accompanied by Leo, her recently acquired boyfriend. The idea of cycling across the country from their port of arrival, Newcastle, to the West of Scotland did seem rather ambitious at first but we know her from old as a very determined lady and anyway the bicycle is the natural way to travel in her home country so why should it not be possible somewhere else. After a little research we discovered that there are cycle routes mapped out running both north and south and across Britain which largely avoid roads, particularly busy ones, so we assumed that they would be using these when they could. Sadly, however, the weather did not play ball entirely and this must have taken the edge off some of their plans. Whilst both are keen cyclists - indeed Leo works as a cycle mechanic for a living - after camping for a few nights they made the sensible decision to book into a B&B and then took a train from Edinburgh for another part of their journey.

In their few days spent with us we took them for local walks and tried to give them a flavour of our world before they continued their tour. Their plans seemed to change rapidly each time we spoke but finally we carried both them and their bikes to the Cloanaig ferry terminal to save them a rather brutal hill crossing then waved them off as they boarded for the short crossing to the Isle of Arran.

Quite unexpectedly these few delightful days spent with our 'Dutch Daughter', as we like to call her, have triggered the arrival of some thoughts into our heads that did not exist before. If they could come across the sea to us with just their bikes, carrying everything they need, and survive happily in the mix of weather that has been thrown at them, might we be able to do something similar in Holland, a country so much more cycling-friendly? So we do some research.

We soon discover that there is an app you can have on your phone (of course there is!) produced by Nederland Fietsland which provides detailed information about a whole series of cycling routes across and around Holland. As well as avoiding busy roads these routes seem to follow paths specifically designed just for cycling where they can. The maps provided can also be enhanced to show cafes, campsites and potential overnight accomodation in bunkhouses too, all of which seems just too good to be true. Our bikes, being electric, might need recharging overnight and to avoid carrying too much luggage we would avoid camping but the possibility that we might be able to take a holiday in this way is quite exciting. Once again we are completely overawed by the different world that awaits us just across the North Sea, a world so much more cycle friendly that we might be able to step into and explore without many of the burdens that we would be faced with here at home. Added to this, naturally, is the fact that Holland is flat and we have found that we can pedal our bikes quite easily on flat roads here without using any electric power at all. To have a whole country at our disposal seems just amazing.

We must be realistic, of course. Winter is never going to be the right time for us to do something like this. We are not in our first flush of youth so we must chose a time when we have the best chance of better weather whilst also avoiding the height of the tourist season. Roll on Spring then.

Blackbeards

For reasons best known to our son Ben, some years ago his music career took him into a leading position in an exciting band called Blackbeard's Tea Party.

Sadly for us, however, our opportunities to hear them playing their riotous brand of folk rock music in a live setting are limited since they have yet to cross the border into Scotland for one of their gigs. Which means, of course, that we must travel south in order to see them perform live. We are grateful for the fact that the north of England is often a preferred area for them to play so the travelling is less than it might have been but even so, we face a lengthy drive into a foreign country (as it often feels) to meet up with them.

The chosen venue on this occasion is Reeth, a tiny village in Swaledale, on the edge of the North Yorkshire National Park, a place that seemed able to offer us some quieter roads on which to cycle plus some energetic walking routes. So rather than make the long drive just for the gig, why not take a short vacation and spend several days there. This, then, is a summary of our trip, or holiday as we like to think of it, which culminated in the Blackbeard's gig.

The process of taking a holiday always takes a certain amount of pre-planning, preparing and modifying lists of things we must not forget for this activity or that possible contingency. If cycling is on the todo list then this involves a whole new set of 'forgetables', any one of which might completely scupper the adventure. We have a cycle rack which clamps on the back of the van and by some mysterious piece of magic this is capable of carrying two bikes without them falling off, despite them being shaken about as we bounce over the many lumps and bumps in the road. Fitting the rack requires a spanner and a key, both of which need to be kept safely to hand should we want to remove the rack on arrival. Also, being electric, each bike has its own key but in addition we like to carry a strong cable lock so we can secure the bikes somewhere if needs be when we are out and about. So this means another key. When the bikes are loaded behind the van we have a waterproof cover for them which itself has a stowage bag for when it is not in use. Then, of course, there are our cycle helmets, gloves, hi-viz jackets and waterproofs for when we are riding, all of which need to be stored conveniently ready for use. We have discovered that once the bike rack is attached we can no longer open the rear door of the van, another point to be considered if there is anything we need to store there. When riding we must also carry enough basic tools to enable us to fix punctures and carry out repairs. What at first thought might seem simple has suddenly become considerably more complex.

None of this puts us off, however. We are experienced travellers and are used to having many things to think of before going away. Our campervan has a fresh water tank, which needs to be filled. Bedding, toothbrushes and washing things must be on board and we must stock up with food, enough for several days at least. Finally, the truth is that we will always forget something; we just have to hope that whatever it is is not essential.

We divided the long drive south into two so we could do some shopping in Glasgow on the way then parked up for our first night at Gretna, just inches away from Scotland's border with England. For the following day we planned a route which avoided main roads (not our favourite places) and as a result we soon found ourselves driving on narrow lanes which snaked across the moors, diving down low every so often in order to cross a river then shooting up steeply again.

The sun shone all the way, the clear air giving us spectacular views until eventually we descended into Reeth and navigated our way onto the campsite where we parked up close by, but not underneath, an apple tree which was clearly shedding its load. We had arrived early enough to go off for a walk so on went the boots and out came the map. After crossing the river Swale on a wobbly footbridge we found the planned return route, a river crossing on stepping stones, to be impassable due to the height of the water so we took to the fields, climbing up high past flocks of sheep to reach a designated cycle route along the valley. This eventually brought us back to Reeth, although the walk proved much longer than we had planned, so a visit to the Buck Inn for a curry and a pint was needed in the evening.

As day two dawned the pheasants wandering around the orchard woke us so we were able to prepare early for the cycling day ahead. Once again the sun shone brightly and having now gained some local experience we decided that we could safely assume that the village of Keld, some distance up the valley, was bound to have a place to eat so we could avoid carrying food with us. In this respect we were correct although the first few miles of 'level' roads turned out to be nothing but. Instead there was a constant series of short ups, each of which required a boost of electric power from our bike motors to surmount, followed by short downs. We were prepared and had been warned about the last section, a very steep rise into the tiny village which hung on the side of the hill. We were soon there and after a decent snack and a chat with some fellow tourists we broke every speed limit on the return journey (bikes can go scarily fast downhill if you don't use the brakes) although our legs were getting pretty wobbly by the time we made it back to camp.

Finally day three, the day of the Blackbeard's gig, arrived. We decided to make this another walking day and chose a circular route towards the ruins of Marrick Abbey. From here the 'Nun's Steps' section suddenly made us realise that our legs were on their third day of exercise and perhaps we might have over-reached ourselves. But after a lunch stop - we had our own food this time - we continued across yet more sheep and cattle-filled fields and made it back in plenty of time to meet up with the band as they were setting up for the gig.

And what a gig! 

The village hall filled to capacity, everyone stomping their feet or leaping about at the front, cheering and clapping madly. The tiny stage forced the band to restrain their usual leaping and jumping performance but this detracted nothing from our enjoyment. We take immense pride in seeing our son playing

and the support from the appreciative audience was just terrific.

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So to summarise. What are our impressions of the North York Moors, an area I was previously totally unfamiliar with?

On first sight the views are quite startling, rolling hills divided up by the dry stone walls, these alone being remarkable pieces of architecture on their own right.

Mature trees are dotted about everywhere in the lower valley, each one forming part of a field boundary, but these trees are all quite old and very seldom did we see the next generation of trees growing. The stone walls contained countless fields of sheep, far more sheep than humans despite the area catering for holidaymakers in large numbers. Then above the valley, the stone walls stopped and the moor began although it was clear that this was managed for a different purpose. The sound of gunfire, shooting, could be heard all through the day and on our last day a muirburn (a Scottish word) was being carried out, smoke drifting right across the valley, blotting out the light. Despite appearances this is not wild country - every inch is managed for one reason or another - and realising this takes away some of the pleasure for me. It is a land managed for the farming of sheep, an animal that leaves a landscape devoid of trees or other wildlife and for me, much of the visual pleasure is diminished by this.