Hebridean adventure 3

Although being somewhat disappointed at not making good use of the bikes strapped on the back of our van we had gradually become reconciled to the fact that the constant wind and the random heavy showers that came along with it might mean that the bikes would go home without ever being used. The distances between our overnight stops were not great, maybe only an hour or so of driving, so in some ways we felt we were cheating ourselves by moving on too quickly. Not that we were unimpressed by the landscape, the scenery, the incredible views and the challenges the roads themselves introduced us to. But nevertheless after consulting our maps we decided at this point that we would drive to Leverburgh, the departure point for ferries to North Uist, the next island in the chain. We did not, however, choose the most direct route there. Instead we had noticed a tiny single track coastal route down the east coast of Harris, with a 'seal watching point' along the way which seemed a reasonable place to stop for lunch. It was, in fact, a cliff top overlooking a sheltered bay which contained a small island used by the local seals for hauling themselves out. We were too far away to photograph them but through binoculars the large lumps of seal could be clearly seen.

Onward then to Leverburgh where we stocked up with food in the local shop before parking for the night in a spot right by the ferry terminal. We had booked a crossing for early the next morning, one of only three a day, but treated ourselves to a meal out before turning in for the night. Having a van in which we are self sufficient in everything does mean that we can stay almost anywhere.

The parking spot we had chosen was quite exposed so once again our van was buffeted about all night by the wind although after a quick downpour the rain did hold off for most of the night. We had an early start for the ferry and thankfully by this time the wind had reduced a little.

The crossing to Berneray is far from direct, reminding us a little of the narrow roads we had been driving on, bumpy but with many twists and turns. The changes of direction in this case were necessary due to the small islands and rocks that fill the Sound of Harris, many of these being hidden from view beneath the water.

Our ferry dodged from left to right following a chain of green and red navigation buoys until about an hour later we were approaching Berneray harbour under a clear blue sky. This is a very small island and almost immediately after driving off the ferry we crossed the long man-made causeway onto North Uist, three islands in one day... something of a record?

Once again we had chosen a campsite to aim for which was off the beaten track on a tiny promontory facing the Sound of Monach (named after the small cluster of off-lying islands) where there was a small bird sanctuary close to the shore. The wind was our constant companion as usual but this did not prevent us setting off on a three mile walk around the protected area. 

The coastline here is wild and beautiful although quite featureless, unless you count the heaps of large round pebbles and the piles of kelp ripped up from the seabed by recent storms. The smell from these was amazing. We were about half way along our walk when the rain started. It came in gradually, shooting at us sideways on with the strength of the wind and we had no choice but to battle on when the path turned straight into it. We were a little unprepared but our clothes soaked up the moisture nicely and when the going got tough our bodies generated their own warmth. We also had the comfort of knowing that the campsite had a drying room once we made it safely back. The walk is not something we would willingly repeat in such conditions but it refreshed us and left us with quite a buzz. And given that the reserve was a bird sanctuary, did we see many birds? We might have expected birds we normally associate with living by the sea but instead there were flocks of starlings, wheeling about in formation, as they do. They are in fact quite common here.

Hebridean adventure 2

Something of a strategy seemed to be needed as to where we might spend the coming night although at this point in our travels we barely had a plan beyond this. Somewhere, some time in the future we would arrive on Barra, the southernmost of the Hebridean islands, from where we would take a ferry back to the mainland, but we had nothing booked and no urgent need to be home at any point in the next few weeks. We had discovered that we enjoyed visiting remote beaches and most of these seemed to be located at the end of tiny single track roads, so after studying the map for a while we decided to head for the tiny crofting village of Cnip, simply because it met these requirements.

The beach here gave us even more delight, some amazing patterns across the sand caused by dark grains carried there in runoff from the surrounding land, although by this time the wind had arrived which, together with the odd shower of rain, meant we were spending less time outdoors than before. This turned out to be a memorable place and I refer back now to the earlier blog here where I explain why this particular place will always hold a particular good memory for me.

On our journey to this campsite we paused to inspect the standing stones at Callanish, a place where there are multiple stone rings, leading to immense speculation as to the purpose they served and the justification for the effort in raising them back in the days before humans had the mechanical devices we have today. The assumption that they are evidence of religious worship of some kind does not sit well with me but without their creators on hand to ask we will never be sure.

The Hebridean islands are known for their exposure to winds arriving from the west along with depressions which have crossed the North Atlantic pushed along by the jet stream. An easterly breeze is unusual and winds coming up from the south are also less common but they do bring warmth to this northerly outpost. What we now experienced were stronger and stronger winds coming from a south easterly direction. A run of such days followed, with the van being rattled and shaken during the night. The bikes stayed on their rack (although their rain cover needed re-securing many times) and our walks often ended with wet clothes and shoes when we were caught out by sudden downpours. Our strategy of driving to remote beaches continued, however, one of which, at a place called Hushinish (or Huisinis in Gaelic) took us along fourteen miles of a single track road barely wide enough for our van's wheels. Not that our van is particularly wide. Nothing like as wide as some of the many enormous motorhomes that were constantly passing us. It seemed to make little sense to bring such a vehicle here.

Sheep seemed to prefer grazing on the grass bordering the road whilst standing on it, as did several herds of Highland cattle, the ones with those enormous horns sticking out sideways just above their eyes. A tarmac road will absorb heat from the sun, which is perhaps why these animals behave this way, but they clearly are very used to big motorhomes passing by and will make little effort to move when they approach. This is an unexpected challenge to exploring in the Hebridean islands, but not one to be bragged about in case the tourists are discouraged from coming.

By this time the stock of food we carried with us was beginning to get a bit low so the community shop in the township of Tarbert seemed a good place to head for. We soon discovered, however, that Sunday closing is observed faithfully on both Lewis and Harris so instead we pressed on southwards until we reached the turnoff to Luskentyre (Losgaintir in Gaelic), another narrow single track road leading to yet another glorious beach. If ever there was a tourist hotspot then this might be it. The narrow road was littered with overnight parking spots and the road ended at an unmanaged parkup/campsite with very basic toilet facilities.

The beach here is bordered by massive boulders of Lewisian gneiss, rocks formed over three billion years ago and one of the oldest rocks still visible on the surface of the earth today. Such rocks underlie much of these islands and are quite stunning to see dotted about although I would guess that few visitors are motivated to come here for that reason.

Hebridean adventure 1

Like many of the things we do, very little planning had gone into this adventure apart from deciding on a date for departure and buying the ferry tickets. This left us with a vague plan for how we might get to Ullapool for the ferry crossing to Stornoway, a long drive from home, and with a 10:30 am ferry departure we knew we would need to stay the night somewhere close by in the town. But that was it. Once we had loaded the campervan, lashed the bikes onto the back, added a stock of food and water to keep us going for a few days, why not just hit the road northwards.

Glencoe seemed a reasonable place to stop for the first night, a campsite known as the Red Squirrel that we have used many times before. Heavy rain showers drummed on the van roof at intervals throughout the night but we slept well after a meal in the Clachaig Inn then carried on the next day to our Ullapool campground.

That evening we were treated to a magnificent sunset followed by a calm and peaceful night and the forecast for the next day was for light winds, something quite rare in these parts. As it turned out the ferry crossing was uneventful, across a calm sea and by the time we docked in Stornoway we had a plan, of sorts, for our first night in the Hebridean islands.

Our choice of camp spot was dictated by its distance from the Butt of Lewis, the northernmost point of the northernmost island which has a reputation for violent storms and crashing waves. A five mile bike ride seemed about right for us and what little wind there was blew us along quite easily. The return was also a piece of cake, thankfully, and a good chat with a local crofter ended the day nicely. The fact that the tiny site we had chosen offered nothing except an electric hook-up, which we didn't need, mattered little.

What we did get was perfect peace, not another vehicle in sight, and an interesting morning walk to the nearby beach. The only thing missing was the wind, something for which Lewis is famous, and we knew that we could not expect this to last forever.

Dawn came on day two, still with only gentle breezes, so we decided to explore another beach, this one being on the northern tip of the island of Great Bernera. The drive there gave us our first taste of minor roads here, twisty strips of tarmac which rose and fell with the landscape, although as yet we had not met any serious hills.

Once again we found a remarkable sandy beach, so good that Kate was tempted in for a swim, only to be greeted by a curious seal who was also looking for a bit of fun. Two days on the island with plenty of sunshine and light winds. It could not last, of course, and sure enough the forecast showed we could expect fresh winds coming up from the south for the next few days at least.

Hebridean adventure 0

The beach at Cnip (Kneep in English) stretches far away, pure clean sand with ripples left by the retreating sea and small puncture marks left by raindrops which fell earlier in the day. The ever present wind sweeps across the landscape keeping us cool but never too cold as it arrives from a southerly direction where a warmer climate rules.

We are on Lewis, the northernmost of the Outer Hebridean islands, camped for the second night of our latest holiday/adventure. The campsite lies amongst the dunes behind this vast beach and on arrival we find a notice in the window of the facilities building giving instructions to new arrivals. We call the telephone number provided and speak to a man whose name we later discover is Fin Morrison, this being a local name. His accent is strange to us, faintly Irish to our ears, but he tells us where to find an empty pitch for our campervan saying he'll be by later to collect payment. The site is quite spread out, grass covered sand with markers to ensure adequate spacing between pitches, and it is far from level so it takes us a while to find a spot where the van is not leaning too much.

We settle in and cook ourselves a meal as the wind whistles through the dunes then, just as we are tidying away, we notice a black saloon car has driven up close to us and an elderly gentleman emerges. His face is lined with age and his beard in need of a good trim but I guess (correctly) that he is Fin who I spoke with earlier. We open the door for him and begin to answer his questions as he writes out a receipt for the twenty pound overnight fee.

"Where are you from?" he asks. His reaction when we simply say "Argyll" is one of sadness for it is a place where the Gaelic language is rarely spoken, something that is clearly very important to him. We comment that we try to embrace the culture associated with the Gaelic language and I mention that I play in a band.

"Do you play fiddle?" he asks, so I confess to playing a concertina.  At this his eyes lit up and his interest seemed to spike. He wants to know more.

"What Scottish tunes do you play? Do you play waltzes?" He names a tune, which I don't recognise so I ask him to sing it for me. In hindsight this was a rather cheeky request but without hesitation he begins to sing the tune for me. Unfortunately I have to confess that I don't recognise it so he tries again, this time asking if I know Leaving Lismore. This one I know, of course, as it is part of the repertoire of the Fyne Thyme band.

At this point something amazing happens. We are parked on a remote windy campsite on the west coast of Lewis and suddenly I am singing a tune I know along with a local man who has come to our door to collect camping dues. Once started he continues singing, as do I, both parts of the tune, in perfect time and pitch until we reach the end. To him this is clearly better use of his time than collecting camping dues and for me I am filled with emotion as we come to an end. I thank him and he departs quickly, finally remembering what he came to do. I can only hope the song we shared has meant as much to him as it did to me. To think that I can join together with a local man and provide him with pleasure in this way leaves me thrilled and buzzing inside, a feeling that I take away with me on the rest of our journey through the islands.

Think like a bird

Sometimes a new idea just pops into one's head and it sits there brooding for a while until it is difficult to recall what prompted its arrival in the first place. So where did the idea of having a bird bath in our garden come from? On reflection it may have been something the AI algorithms on YouTube came up with and threw at us after we had been watching something completely different. Someone had set up a camera beside a shallow concrete bowl supported above the ground on a short pillar. The video and its associated commentary described the variety of behavioural traits demonstrated by our feathered friends which left us with the impression that a bird bath is a must have.

A little research gave us a set of requirements. The bath must be shallow, the water must be changed frequently to avoid spreading diseases, and ideally it should be kept cool, away from direct sunlight. Our garden pond is mostly too deep to meet these requirements - it is unlikely to serve the needs of a blackbird let alone a tiny bluetit. Many people would have rushed out immediately and bought a tailor-made bird bath and indeed once you start searching online it appears as if the world is full of them. But this is not our way of doing things. We like to think first about how we might construct something ourselves using stuff we have lying around that might satisfy the size, depth and strength requirements. This is called re-purposing.

Which led us to consider one of the first requirements, changing the water. At present we have a garden water butt which is filled automatically with rainwater diverted from the gutters of our shed roof. The butt itself has never needed topping up from elsewhere (rain is one of the features of our climate here) and any overflow is diverted again into a watering can placed on the ground below - convenient for use on the tomatoes in our polytunnel. So might this water follow a more tortuous route via a shallow bowl placed such that its surplus water flows into the watering can as before? This arrangement would ensure that the water in the bowl, our bird bath, would change each time it rained, which is quite often here. So there we have it, the beginnings of a design concept. Now we just have the small matter of  finding a suitable shallow but watertight container.

This is a moment for thinking outside the box. Too much research into bird baths gives us fixed ideas so instead we search high and low with our requirements in mind. An old steel dustbin lid comes to mind - right shape, size, everything - but today we all have plastic wheelie bins with hinged lids. Think again. What we do have are a number of storage boxes, many of which have shallow lids. Is there one tucked away somewhere that is not serving a useful purpose? It turns out that we do have such a thing, in reasonable condition and watertight. All it needs is a supporting post and some old bits of scrap wood to keep the lid at the correct angle. To divert the water butt overflow into this required some old guttering pieces and I already knew I had some of these lying about. A bit of thumping and banging and we had our bird bath.

So how do we tell the birds what it is for? Are they clever enough to seize the chance of a good clean up? Probably not, and being quite close to the back of the house they are likely to be cautious. So to encourage them to visit the area we add a little snack bar - a place for some tempting bird seeds.

This involved a few scraps of old wood and a some screws. Here is the finished article.

So where are the birds? We normally see them everywhere but suddenly they are gone, nowhere to be seen. We realise that a bird would think anything new is scary so it will take time, days or even weeks, before our latest assemblage of parts is going to be put to use. Rather than stand around all day waiting for the action to start we decide to fix up an old security camera so we can watch the action remotely. We now get notified whenever a spider crawls across the camera lens...but it's a start.

Nearly a week goes by before our patience is rewarded. A small but interested robin flies in for a peep, triggers the camera briefly before flying off again. Although curious he is far too cautious to feed, let alone bathe, but he does seem to be thinking about it.

A few more days pass with nothing on the camera except rain drops so I add a single fat ball to the feeder tray. Then suddenly, at around five in the morning, the big guys arrive. 

The gull takes a quick sip of water then jumps forward and grabs the fat ball which he carries back onto the steps so he can break it up and eat it. Close by, but keeping their distance, are two crows who lack the initiative to use the feeder themselves but they reckon that the gull will drop what he has if they pester him enough. Sadly for them this is not what happens. The gull stands his ground, breaking up the fat ball until he can swallow the last remaining lump. Then off he flies. The same gull returns later for some seed but is clearly unimpressed with the bath idea.

A few days later though and our Robin is back, the one bird who can out-think the whole bird community, storing away the location of food in his memory bank then seizing the moment to grab a snack when nobody is looking. As for the diverted water bird bath this is tested to its limit by torrential rain showers and we are pleased to see the structure still in place after Storm Floris lands on us. We are intrigued to see who will be the first to bathe there.

A Fine Time

A while ago I wrote here about my interest in playing music and how this had come about. Since moving from Carradale into a (slightly) bigger Scottish village I have teamed up with other players who share my enthusiasm and with whom I feel encouraged and emboldened to squeeze away at my concertina more often. This has taken part of my life in a new direction so I thought maybe it was time to record here where things have gone and what doors it has opened for me.

OK, so we are not talking here about fame and fortune working as a musician. But in Scotland we have a thing called a ceilidh (pronounced KAY-lee) which is a traditional social gathering, a lively event where people come together to celebrate, often with traditional Scottish folk music and dancing. Ideally the music comes live from musicians in a band playing together but this does not necessarily imply a professional performance of music and in the case of myself and those who I team up with this is certainly not the case. Our objective is simply to produce something which is sufficiently listenable to and rhythmic so as to generate enough enthusiasm for those in the room who might like to dance. There are a number of traditional set dances which are well known enough and these have tunes which are associated with them such that so long as we can play those particular melodies then there is a good chance that someone will rise from their seat and give it a go. If they are joined on their feet by the requisite number to make a 'set' then that is all we need. All the musicians have to do is to keep playing long enough at the right sort of speed until the dancers feel they have completed the dance. Some dances have a regular sequence of moves to be followed but other than this it is simply a matter of guesswork and intuition, the tunes being repeated to extend the dances if necessary. This might sound quite straightforward, and it is, although keeping time is not as easy as one might think as we have to listen to each other's playing at the same time as playing our own instruments. 

After one dance is finished it might be important to allow the dancers to have a rest (particularly if there is a more senior age profile) so the band might follow on with a slow number, something melodic with a nice harmony or perhaps a song, to fill in until the next dance. This gives us the chance to show off in a different way, to demonstrate musicianship on our own instruments with different arrangements of lesser known tunes. The band in which I now play, The Fyne Thyme Ceilidh Band, has fiddlers (some might call them violinists but when playing traditional music they become fiddlers), guitarists, a keyboard player, a drummer and, of course, my concertina. The noise we make when playing together is sufficient for a small venue although we do use some amplification to help us balance the sound better if there is likely to be a large crowd. And there is one other thing that our band tries to do and that is to invite younger players to join us, either to play along with us or to contribute their own music if they can. We hope that this is of benefit to them such that their confidence will grow and music will become an important part of their lives.

We all have favourite tunes - melodies that touch something hidden inside us that makes us feel good - and to a musician if a tune also falls easily to the fingers then this is an added bonus. But not too easy, or else the challenge of playing that tune is lost and the satisfaction of adding emphasis or 'feeling' becomes too simple.

Just recently our band's repertoire has spread slightly as we play some tunes from another part of the Celtic world, Brittany. The harmonies and the minor keys are interestingly different and it feels satisfying to diversify in this way. We discovered a french website devoted to those learning the diatonic accordion, something we might call a melodeon, but with two different notes on each button, much like my own instrument.

On the same website is a detailed explanation (in french) of how it is possible to know when and where to place one's fingers on a musical instrument without consciously thinking about it. All musicians need this trick, particularly when playing fast, so that the conscious thought process can get on with doing what it does best, putting expression into the music. It is all about constructing connections in the brain between hearing a particular sound and the placement of one's fingers to make that sound. Then if you are reading from written music, there is a further connection involving sight where the dots on the page are associated with particular notes and sequences thereof. All these sensations are reinforced by repetition until they are wired into memory and can be called upon quickly with no conscious thought. Some might think of this as 'finger memory' but it is really our brains that are doing it and in reality it is probably no different from riding a bike or learning to walk on two legs without having to think consciously about avoiding falling over.

Aside from memorising a set of tunes, playing with other musicians requires patience as well as being able to listen to and watch those alongside you. Clues taken from each other's body language is what makes us into a 'band' rather than simply a few people playing instruments at the same time. If I were to inadvertently speed up midway through tune I would need to be brought back into line with a glance from someone else or by seeing their foot stamping on the floor and I must also be prepared to make similar signs myself at times.

All of which needs to be ready for our next gig, coming up in a few weeks time, an eightieth birthday party for a local man. We have a mix of tunes on our set list, ones that are within our musical capabilities and which we have practiced together to improve our confidence. Will I be nervous? Of course I shall, but hopefully my brain will feed my fingers the right instructions without me having to worry about anything.

More about Volunteering

I am dressed protectively in my overalls and thick gloves as I work to scrape away the thick layer of moss and ivy growing on a low sloping roof at the back of a building that has been purchased by our village community with the intention of using it as a meeting space or a work area for the benefit of local residents and businesses. Meanwhile work also continues on the renovation of the inside of the building - wall and ceiling refurbishment with new electrics and plumbing to make the building more usable. With the help of another volunteer, I find myself pulling years of vegetation growth to the ground so that in due course the roof can be repaired. The moss is a living carpet and within it are thick bodied worms the size of small snakes along with human detritus such as tea lights and drink cans that have been thrown there and are now trapped and completely submerged under the layers of living material. Once removed, everything is bagged up and carted away, the vegetable matter ending up in our compost bins at home where we hope it will rot down so it can be used in the garden. It has been an exhausting job but it is quite satisfying to see the end result of the efforts of a morning's work on the roof, which is now exposed to the daylight for the first time in many years. Somehow, participating in these work parties has become a regular Saturday morning feature of my life, a time when I am always doing something different and never working alone. The muscle aches that follow this are always in different places, which makes it interesting, and the company of others who are similarly motivated is very satisfying. A week or so later I was working inside the same building patching holes in the plasterboard walls whilst others were fitting a new suspended ceiling and threading cables for the new electrical system. After a couple of hours work we all sat around for a natter whilst drinking tea and eating cake or biscuits, an important part of the day.

To my way of thinking this is simply spending time doing things to occupy my day, things that are within my capabilities, either physical or mental, and which place demands upon me that I seem to be able to cope with and which give me some satisfaction, even pleasure. I receive an email message asking whether I am available to assist in the running of the Scottish Series, an annual yacht racing event that has been based in the harbour of our coastal village for many years and for which I have previously offered my services. My own experience on boats has been useful to the organisers and has seen me going out on the water during the racing when support boats are needed to lay the race buoys and otherwise assist wherever help is needed. Which is how I found myself as crew on a rigid inflatable boat (RIB) doing this once again not long after we had returned from our cycling tour of Holland. This year, however, would turn out to be a tough one as there would be strong winds and some vicious rain squalls associated with these, not a time when I would normally choose to be out in a small boat.

Day one, after loading the race buoys on board our boat and lashing them down so they wouldn't fly off whilst we were motoring out to sea, we joined the race committee boat as they anchored at the downwind end of the race course and for the rest of the day took instructions from them when needed. The race buoys used now are automatic, battery powered things with small propellers beneath a watertight box supported by an inflatable floating collar. The clever electronics enables them to be controlled remotely and kept in place or moved about to cope with wind shifts. Our role then, once they are launched and the races are underway, is to be on hand as a safety boat, something that was needed quite early on when one of the sailing boats broke its mast. We zoomed down the course to help and soon had a tow line rigged to bring the boat back into port. Plenty of sunshine gave us a warmish first day and although there was still a lot of physical stuff for us to do, like collecting up the buoys again after the last race, the day went well.

Day two was a different animal. Rain showers and stronger winds which meant a tough day for us bobbing around in an open boat. Day three brought even stronger winds, forecasted to rise to over forty knots at times, and our race fleet made the decision not to race. This simply meant that the role for our RIB changed and we became support boat for another fleet of larger yachts who were sailing a much longer course. We motored downwind at speed to a place where the seas were unpleasantly rough, a place where the waves were constantly throwing water at us as we followed the fleet tailenders back up the course. Added to this the rain squalls kept coming, spitting water into our faces with maximum energy. This was a tough day and quite a scary experience. I do not profess to have the best sea legs and quite how I survived such a bashing about I do not know. My body had reached its limit by the end of each day but somehow it recovered enough to be back on the water for the last day, with slightly less wind and smoother seas. This was volunteering at its limit, something that perhaps I should consider leaving to those with youth on their side but again overcoming these challenges is rewarding and enjoyable.

Venturing out to sea might be too extreme but we both find ourselves volunteering to help on a beach close to home where the winter storms have thrown up more rubbish than anyone would have thought possible. This is an organised event with a keen group of litter pickers. Everything we find here has spent some time in the sea but the waves will often throw smaller bits up into the trees growing close to the shore from where it droops down like brightly coloured rags. Just about everything we pick up is one sort of plastic or another, broken into tiny pieces and scattered about everywhere you look. Although we do sometimes find something unexpected, like a silver spoon or a toilet bowl, by far the majority of what we are picking up is from ropes or nets used by the fishing industry around these parts, a rather depressing thought which keeps us company as we work.

Our village of Tarbert is known for having a castle in which Robert the Bruce, once king of Scotland, resided from time to time.

He was responsible for some of the renovations and improvements to the castle structure although, sadly, during a later period of abandonment much of the stone structure was removed and used elsewhere in the village for house construction. The stones that remain standing today do not do justice to the man himself but the castle and its grounds are still a very popular visitor attraction, maintained by volunteers from the community and this again provides a regular outlet for my surplus energy. This might involve cutting away unwanted vegetation from the footpaths or ripping out brambles from amongst the trees in the community orchard but those involved in this are always eager to help and the atmosphere is always warm and welcoming. Who knows what else we might get involved in.

Waves of heat

Suddenly these phenomena are all over the news. Every day we read about somewhere that is getting record breaking temperatures and the effect it is having on people's lives there. Not just people either. A whole sea, the Mediterranean, is now experiencing temperatures way in excess of what we might expect in our local swimming pool and this can only be having a negative impact on the creatures that normally live within it. As usual, of course, there is something of a disconnect between the negative health impacts that this brings and the advertisements encouraging those that can afford it to take holidays in these places. Surely one would never deliberately travel to a place which is experiencing temperatures exceeding forty degrees Celsius... but many do. We are bonded into a way of life where a holiday in the sun is a desirable and this enables us to ignore anything negative about the place we would be travelling to.

So what is this thing, the heatwave. It turns out that this depends upon where you are. The definition starts by setting a baseline maximum temperature for every part of a country and when this is exceeded on three consecutive days then that is a 'heatwave'. Here in Scotland the threshold is a mere twenty five degrees whereas people living in London must endure twenty eight degrees for three days before they can call it a heatwave. None of these are anywhere close to the forty degree heat that Spain has been getting but then each of us has our own threshold and ours is quite enough for us to live with.

When we first moved to the west coast of Scotland we sort of knew what we were going to be letting ourselves in for in terms of weather. That it is a good place to erect a wind turbine or two is a clue to one of the main weather features common to the area we now live in. There is an ocean lying to the west of us, the Atlantic, with no land to slow down the wind before it reaches us so we are used to feeling its strength, our houses being built to cope with this. The air it brings our way is moist and relatively warm, coming as it does from the south west, so our climate is less extreme, both in summer and winter, than one might expect at our latitude. Rain is a constant friend, in quantities which might cause floods elsewhere, but here the steep wooded hills absorb much of it as well as providing a short runoff into the sea. We have had long dry periods of late which makes the vegetation vulnerable to fire but beneath the ground the moisture stays captured so the recovery time is always short. Our clean air, freshly scrubbed after its journey across the Atlantic Ocean, means the sun can be fiercely strong when it shines on us but the breeze is rarely absent so we would normally miss the extremes of heat that others might get.

It turns out, however, that this natural pattern of weather can go wrong. As I write the sky is completely cloud free in all directions, of itself quite unusual here, and the breeze has almost deserted us. What there is of it arrives from a south easterly direction, having crossed a land which is already scorchingly hot, so the cooling benefit is lost completely. We hide indoors, curtains closed to shut the sun out, and keep ourselves topped up with fluids as per the heatwave guidance. This is not normal for us and we know something has gone wrong when yet another day follows the same pattern of exceptional heat. We cannot complain, of course, since these temperatures are far from what others have to contend with when they arrive at their Spanish holiday destination but being locked into such a static weather pattern even for just a few days is rare here so it brings home to us how the world is changing, even for us.

Then suddenly everything changes. Our last day of scorching sun is accompanied by a cooling breeze, the first indication that a change might soon arrive. And so it does. Two days later you wouldn't know there had ever been a heatwave. It is cool enough outside to need a coat and the rain comes down in bucketfuls, drenching the ground, refilling the pond and watering the apple trees which were starting to whinge about having too few leaves to shade their (few, tiny) apples. The constant exhaustion we have been feeling gradually diminishes and we can start planning more energetic activities instead of staring at the TV in a living room darkened by the drawn curtains. Out of the blue I get an invitation from a friend to go sailing in his Mirror dinghy, something that sounds quite attractive now I know I won't get heatstroke any more.

Gardening

We have a killer in our garden pond! Over the course of the last few summers we have spotted both damsel and dragonflies around the pond without really thinking much more about it. Sure, the dragons are impressive beasts, almost the size of a small bird, and their ability to manoeuvre so quickly in mid air is hard to believe unless you see it close up. They have quite short lives as adults so it is easy to ignore the question of where they come from and how they grew to be such beauties. But spend time sitting next to a healthy garden pond in the early months of Summer and you may get to see exactly where they come from, where they have indeed spent most of their lives before taking to the air. During the course of sitting at my observation seat by our pond I had already spotted the tail of what I originally thought might be a newt beneath the water but the absence of any tadpoles earlier in the year eventually led me to the conclusion that I was looking at a nymph, the young form, of either a damsel or a dragonfly.

The time is right, so thinks the nymph, as he crawls up the stem of an overhanging plant or a reed until he is far enough from the water to begin his transformation. What squeezes out of the nymph's body is something far bigger, with a long black and yellow body and clear inflatable wings which are initially kept close by the body. This creature climbs a short distance away leaving the nymph carcass, a brown unattractive thing, dried out and hanging. The new creature's wings are pumped up using fluids from its body until they can be spread out at right angles to catch the sun which helps them dry out and solidify. This all takes a while but already he has learnt the skill of hanging on when the stem wobbles about in the wind. Soon he or she will fly off, maybe grabbing a bite to eat on the wing, before seeking out a mate who is equally attracted to the pond and willing to begin another generation of dragons.

Despite the surface of our pond being almost covered by a layer of algae, which is certainly not the most attractive look to human eyes, when seen through the eyes of an insect it is clearly a healthy environment, suitable for some breeding and also providing food for the youngsters. The nymphs are underwater killers and they can live for years in that form before emerging, so there must be a supply of food for them during that period. We can only imagine what triggers their emergence from the water but as I write there are at least three nymph bodies that can be seen and two fully grown dragonflies are hanging near them preparing themselves for their first ever lift off. What has happened, without any human intervention, is that nature has created a dragonfly breeding ground, right in our garden.

As for the algae, I must confess to having introduced a 'walk' of five Ramshorn snails (note the collective noun) with a view to controlling this. Yes, you can buy them online and they arrive in a bag ready to go. 

The first order got lost somewhere and never arrived; we are saddened to think of their ultimate fate. Perhaps the 'Live Creatures' sign was a bit too scary or maybe they were taken to a zoo somewhere. A second order arrived safely and they seemed happy when released into the pond and disappeared quickly beneath the algae. If they survive, something I may never know, then perhaps either they or their offspring might one day run out of algae to eat, giving me a clear view of the bottom of the pond again. [Update: Snail just spotted alive and well.]

On to the next project. Looking back at an estate agent's picture of the back of our house there is a length of solid looking decking surrounded by a wooden railing. One can only guess that this was created as a 'sitting out' area, a place where the owners could catch the evening sun before it disappears behind the hill. But we have never used it as such, perhaps largely because we are discouraged by the healthy midge population that live close by and come out for a feed whenever the wind drops sufficiently for them to fly. In any event there was clear evidence of rot in the decking timbers which rendered it rather unsafe to walk on. So we thought let's rip it up.

We soon discover, however, that this will be a major physical exercise since it is largely held together with long screws that are too rusted to extract. Instead we have to slice the decking up into pieces using a powerful circular saw then wrench each section free from the supporting posts. These are lengths of a reclaimed BT telegraph pole, impregnated with stinky creosote, and have been concreted into deep holes in the ground. It is hot and smelly work but gradually, section by section the decking disappears so it can be carted away to the local tip.

To do this means that each section has to be small enough to fit into our small trailer without overloading it too much then the pieces lashed down so they don't fall out on the journey to the local recycling centre. The wood is sodden, much of it crumbling into dust, and it takes five loads in total before the job is done. We no longer have decking we don't use and all we are left with is the decision about what to do with the space beside the house which is seeing the light of day for the first time in years.

The Next Project

I like a good project, although I must stress here that I am not using this word as an American might use it, to describe something we would call a 'job'. For me a 'project' is something bigger, more complex, and which involves multiple skills and a mix of different resources. Perhaps a better title for this one might be the 'Last Project' because on this occasion we are going to decorate the only room in the house that we have yet to tackle. It is small, thankfully, indeed it is the smallest room in our house (which means that it is rather difficult to photograph).

We refer to this room as the 'En Suite' since it is only accessible from one of our bedrooms but despite it being a feature of that room it remained untouched when we re-papered and carpeted the room itself.

So here is the 'before' picture, taken just before I turned off the water supply to the house so that I could fit shut-off valves to the pipes that feed some of  the plumbing bits, these being things that were to be replaced. Failure to do this would have resulted in water spraying everywhere so it seemed like a good idea. The plan was to change both the toilet and the sink so without any further delay, they are ripped out.

Why are we doing this, you might ask. In all honesty it comes down to the weather which has been exceptionally wet of late, an unpredictable mixture of sunshine and rain that makes outdoor projects unpleasant. Then there were the tiny beetles we saw flying about which made us think 'woodworm'. And indeed there was some slight evidence beneath the toilet of the tiny holes made by these insects when they transition from worm to flight mode and emerge into daylight. But thankfully nothing too serious.

So having made the decision and having begun the ripping apart, next comes the covering up phase, the ceiling, walls and the floor.

Painting a room, in my view, should start at the top, the ceiling, so this gets a new coat of paint after sanding off some of the uneven lumps and bumps. The room is a confined space so once the toilet and sink have gone things become a little easier and balancing on a set of steps is less fraught with danger. We need to make some decisions about the walls, what will best cover up their unevenness and will breathe new life into the tiny room but I have some leftover flooring from our kitchen project, easily enough to cover this tiny space, so I get down on my knees and start laying the stuff.

Buying big things like a new toilet and a sink/vanity unit has to be done 'sight unseen' as we live many miles away from the nearest store and even if we did fancy a day in Glasgow to look at toilets, many places do not carry much stock in store. So we are forced into online shopping, a process that restricts us to the limited number of suppliers who do not add on ridiculously high delivery charges for large items. When the first large box arrives, a small basin and the cabinet it will sit on, it is carried up to the house by the postman (sorry mate) and we stagger inside with it, anxious to see inside.

We rapidly unpack and are quite pleased with what we have bought unseen although it does require a little modification. It needs chunks cut out of the rear, so that the water and waste pipes can be connected,  these coming up through the floor from beneath the house. Any refurbishment project will almost certainly have problems that need to be solved, things that have to be worked out to make things fit or look nice. And then there is always an ideal sequence of tasks that must be followed to avoid fitting something then having to take it all apart again. I do not pretend to be an expert so I have a mighty feeling of relief when the plumbing is reconnected and the water turned on again with no leaks showing up.

Next comes the walls, probably the most important part of the room visually. Having decided upon wallpaper we order a couple of rolls then we agree that a line of white tiles (again leftover from our kitchen project) would look nice around the base of the walls. Our local hardware shop provides some tile adhesive, in tubes, which must have been on their shelves for ages as it was impossible to squeeze anything out without slicing the top off of the tube. But it did the job and this enables us to tick something else off the job list.

The project then goes on pause whilst we await the next exciting delivery package, a new toilet. Fitting this will be something of a challenge for me - it is a job I have always previously left to the plumbers and avoided doing myself for fear that mistakes can be rather smelly. But then we get a message saying that the toilet was delivered yesterday... except it wasn't. This leads to a frustrating sequence of exchanges through the supplier's 'chat' feature as we try to establish where it has gone and wonder whether it is sitting on someone else's doorstep, perhaps blocking their exit from home. But no, it turns out that the message was wrong and should not have been sent so we sit back and wait. Such complications are simply a factor of the world of instant communication that we live in and the confusion this can lead to when a wrong button is pressed resulting in the wrong message going out. How did we manage before internet based trading became the order of the day and communication with chatbots became an everyday experience.

But all this is forgotten as the wallpaper has finally arrived. We have chosen a 'Beach Hut' look and the paper has some rather nice glittery bits to add a touch of glamour when someone is using the loo. And the nice thing about this paper is that it does not require any pattern matching, the joins just disappear into the randomness of the fake wooden strips.

Sticking this onto the wall takes only a few hours but these are somewhat stressful as inevitably one is working to a timeline when putting up wallpaper. Once the paste is mixed then the clock starts ticking as the adhesive setting process has begun and each second that passes the paste will get thicker. However in this case we think the stress is justified and the transformation of our smallest room is just what we hoped for. One more job is ticked off the project list. Now we just need that toilet to arrive, as if by magic, on our doorstep.

And then it does. Just like that, without any warning and carried up the steps to our house by another muscle-bound delivery driver.  Which just leaves, of course, the small matter of fitting it and connecting it up so water can flow in and out as nature intended. This is a first for me, and perhaps also a last, so I start by reading the instructions thoroughly. These soon lead me to the conclusion that they do not accurately show how all the various bits fit inside the cistern because what we have bought is smaller than the manual assumes it is. So can I change things around and fit them differently and if so, will it still work?

I soon realise that there is a very precise sequence in which everything has to be fitted and connected up as access to the rear of the toilet is limited and the watertight seal between the cistern and the toilet underneath must be perfect as mistakes cannot be rectified later. There is nothing in the instructions that explains this. It is a 'work it out for yourself' thing. I have an additional problem to deal with as the water supply has to be fed from right to left behind the toilet which means bonus bits of pipework, again not something the manual deals with. Somehow or other the job gets done and once again there is an immense sense of satisfaction that comes when there are no leaks... from anywhere. So does it work? The first flush takes place and everything seems to go rather well. Water slushes away (somewhere) and more water gushes in ready for another go. I think we can call that job done.

All that remains is the project video. Enjoy.

Holland by bike - arrival home

Arriving back home from a holiday like the one we have just had; one might think it would be a time for relaxation and reflection. For us, however, it felt odd being back and we found it difficult to slip back into our old routine or even remember what it was. We had become used to a different way of life, one full of uncertainty: Where would we be sleeping the next night? How would our physical limits manage on the next day of riding? What was our route for the next day? Would it be another hot day and was there rain coming? What would happen if we had a puncture, a bike chain snapped or we broke down for some other reason? These questions were what we had accepted as part of our everyday lives and it would take time for the routine and stability of home life to become normal again, much longer than we might have expected.

Before any of that could start, however, we faced a list of chores - unpacking, emptying our panniers completely, washing the dirty clothes we had been carrying around with us, cleaning the accumulated dust and grime from the bikes. Then there were the domestic chores waiting for us. Everything in the garden had grown bigger or had come into flower during our time away. The grass in the garden was waste high, hiding the paths we generally keep clear to walk around on, so some strimming was needed. The water level in our pond was lower than we had ever seen it, an indicator of the long period of dry weather that had prevailed in our absence although the forecast for the days to come showed that this would all soon change.

We needed food, having run down our supplies before we left home, so shopping was a priority. It was only then that we discovered our local Co-op had empty shelves due to the organisation having been hacked, a news story we had missed whilst away. The friends and neighbours we had missed for so long wanted to know where we had been and what we had been doing. This needed a full explanation which took time as they seemed to find it hard to believe what they were hearing. We had returned from doing something they would never consider for themselves and which was something even we never really expect to repeat. Pushing our bodies to such limits over such a long period seems unreal, on reflection.

The hot dry weather we had experienced in Holland continued for a short while after our arrival home, which made us even more aware of how lucky we had been with the weather on our tour. We had gone away prepared for a mix of wet and dry, hot and cold, but instead were given just one day of heavy rain in four weeks of cycling, almost beyond belief. The first week had been cool, more or less what we expected, but then as it became warmer more of our clothes had ended up in the panniers until eventually the heat was such that shorts and T-shirts were all that was needed. We were pleased that our health and our stamina had held out, this being sort of what we had hoped for, although we had always been prepared to return early had we felt that this was necessary. It wasn't.

What we had not expected was the feeling of sadness, regret to have left behind an environment that accepts and respects cyclists. We immediately began to notice the criticism aimed at cyclists in our own country coming from other road users; both car drivers and pedestrians moaning about them for different reasons. Riding two abreast on a road (this is advised so that a car can pass more quickly), riding on the pavement (given the choice between a narrow road full of lorries and an empty pavement I know where I would rather be), such things have always been the subject of criticism but now our eyes had been opened to see things from a different perspective. Outside of a few of our big cities cyclists are generally second class road users, hated by all and expected to do battle with cars on busy roads with no help from the infrastructure itself. Holland is no different in one way. The roads are just as full of cars and can be unsafe for other road users but many years ago the Dutch people made the decision not to let rising car use dominate the way the country worked. They incorporated an alternative network alongside the one for cars and fought for the right to keep riding on bikes. Dutch cyclists do not, in the main, wear helmets for the simple reason that they feel safe when they ride and they do not want anyone to be discouraged from cycling by having to put one on. The low cycling casualty rates back this up so there is no reason to change. One Dutchman we met explained it this way - for all road users the heavier you are the more responsibility you carry towards those lighter than you, with pedestrians at the lightest end of the scale. Cyclists, whose combined weight makes them heavier than most pedestrians, must give way and respect the rights of those walking and cars, being heavier still, must give way to both cyclists and pedestrians whenever there are crossing points and junctions. The whole infrastructure in Holland is designed on the basis of this way of thinking.

I could not resist this. The Monday morning rush hour in Den Haag, to which I have added some music. This is the way of life we are now missing.

We have yet to ride our bikes since we arrived home, partly due to the wet weather but also because we know it will bring home to us again the sense of loss, awareness of the direction our country might have gone that would have made our lives different from what they have been.

Holland by bike - 8

We could not believe it. Our last day in Holland had arrived. Once again the sky was cloudless although the northerly breeze kept us cool enough to ride comfortably so after waving goodbye to our hosts for the night we set off towards the ferry port. The last few days had taken a lot out of us so in some ways we were looking forward to getting on board our ship and settling in for a good night's rest during the overnight passage. But in other ways we were sad to be leaving a place where we had enjoyed such an amazing holiday. (I was going to say relaxing, a strange thing to feel after riding so many kilometres.) As it turned out we had decided that the direct route to the ferry port would not be enough for us and whilst planning the ride the previous evening we decided to make a small detour to visit a vegetarian restaurant, of all things, that would make a good stopping point for lunch. It was actually run by an Italian couple who made their own very tasty houmous. Well worth the detour.

An early arrival at the ferry dock meant we were able to get ourselves and our bikes on board quite quickly, lash them down, then take the lift up to our cabin four decks above. Loading so many cars and other vehicles is a complicated and slow business and getting on board early meant that we could look down smugly upon those still waiting down below on the dock. Sitting in a car might be comfortable enough and foot passengers can wait indoors but if you are a cyclist and it is raining or cold then this is not where you would want to be hanging about.

Our cabin on board was tiny but perfectly adequate since we only needed it for sleeping on the passage to Newcastle. Once all the vehicle loading was complete we made our way to the self service restaurant where we enjoyed a substantial meal just as the ship was leaving port but before we had finished eating the ship's movement could be felt. The northerly wind was coming down the full length of the North Sea and once we were outside the harbour the ship started to pitch and roll as it punched into the swell. Indeed throughout the night in our cabin we could feel this movement and despite our tiredness it was difficult to ignore the gentle rolling and pitching and the slight noises which accompanied the movement. By morning we were wishing it would all come to an end and we delayed taking breakfast until the ship had reached the calmer waters inside the long arms of the harbour walls at the entrance to the river Tyne.

Finally the moment came to push our bikes off the ferry and take to the road to cycle away from the port. This time, however, we were back in the UK, so we had to remember to cycle on the left side of the road and also to steer to the left when confronted by another cyclist on a cycle path. Even more important was to remember to look to the right to check for cars when crossing a road. Everything that had become instinctive during the last month had to be un-learnt...and urgently, from the moment our feet touched British soil. And once again we faced the complex journey from port to home which started with a bike ride from the ferry terminal to Newcastle Central Station, right in the centre of the city. Fortunately this starts with a properly signposted cycle path so with all our senses on full alert we jumped onto our bikes and rode off.

We soon found ourselves crossing a waterway, just like we had done many times in Holland, although we could not help but notice something rather different in what we were seeing. Similarly with the cycle path itself which, instead of being smooth and clean, was riddled with lumps and bumps, obstacles that we had to steer around carefully. It was also covered with rubbish and dog poo plus we were constantly ducking from the overhanging tree and bramble branches that were growing beside the path. When we came to our first road crossing it became clear that priority would be given to cars, cyclists always being expected to give way even on the smallest of roads. This was not what we had become used to. It occurred to us that in the UK there are no rules embedded in our Highway Code that can be applied to signify a change of priority at junctions, no road markings specifically designed to indicate that cyclists have priority. All road users, cars included, are expected to give way at a Zebra crossing, marked with broad white lines on the road, but there is nothing similar to deal with the situation where a cycle path crosses a road. There might be an awkward pair of iron fences on the path which cyclists have to zigzag around when approaching a road but sometimes these are absent so there is nothing to warn the cyclist of the approaching road crossing and certainly never anything to require a car driver to give way. We had become used to a vastly different infrastructure everywhere we went in Holland, irrespective of whether it was a town or in the country. We had now arrived back in a country where cyclists are treated as less important than any other road user, quite a scary place to be.

Several times we were directed onto minor roads, perhaps through a housing estate, and the unclear signposting made this quite difficult but eventually the Hadrian's Wall cycle path took us along the River Tyne to the quayside in the centre of Newcastle. From this point we were faced with a very steep climb uphill to the station, this being on overcrowded roads with no signposted guidance as to which route to follow. It might have been safer to walk the bikes but pushing a loaded bike uphill either in the road or on the pavement is extremely strenuous. In the end we did a bit of both, riding, juggling with the traffic, and pushing, until the station finally came into view.

Once safely inside the station, grateful to have arrived in one piece, we located our platform then waited for our train to open its doors so we could find the carriage which contained the 'cycle storage unit'. This turned out to be a cupboard! Cyclists are expected to lift their bikes up onto the back wheels and hang them vertically from hooks, but since these were too small for our wheels our bikes were simply balanced upright in the tiny space provided. The door would not close and there were no securing straps so we had to improvise as best we could. Our panniers had to be removed first and stored elsewhere and the physical effort of lifting the bikes would have been too much for many cyclists. Considering this is a main line service between two big cities the cycle storage was glaringly inadequate. But worse was to come when we changed trains in Edinburgh and had to cross a bridge to get to the next platform. There was a lift provided for us to take our bikes up to the top but, so we then discovered, the descent lift to the new platform was out of order. This meant we had to manoeuvre our loaded bikes down a couple of flights of steps amongst a rush of impatient train travellers and with no help at all from the station staff. This was the stuff of nightmares.

But at least our next train had somewhere a bit more sensible to stow the bikes for the rest of our journey to Glasgow.

Our plan was to spend another night in the Glasgow Youth Hostel, a place we had stayed at on our journey out and a place where we knew our bikes could be stored safely overnight. Once settled in we ventured out into the city for an evening meal and were delighted to find yet another vegetarian restaurant close by. Life is getting better all the time! Then in the morning a very early bus ride home enabled me to collect our van with its bike rack and return to Glasgow to load up the bikes then drive home. Only when we had completed these final steps could we truly accept that our holiday of a lifetime was over.