Gardening

One of the things that journalists seem to enjoy these days is writing a headline for an extreme weather event. But they don't stop there. No matter whether it is a dry spell, heavy rain or a strong wind these things are invariably placed in the context of the way the world climate is changing from what we consider 'normal' to something else. A weather event that in the past we might have thought of simply as a rare phenomenon is then thrown back at us by the news media who will bombard us with images of floods in India, drought in Africa, melting glaciers in Greenland (easily done because of the way our world is forever connected through the internet) and all this happens so quickly that our own perception of the weather event changes.

As I write this, for the last week or so our country has been sitting under a static high pressure system which has brought us light winds, dull dreary days with little or no direct sunshine but no rain, none at all. This is unusual. In all the time we have been living in Scotland we cannot recall anything like this occurring. The 'normal' pattern where we live is for constant change, a few days of wind, rain coming and going, sunshine off and on, a world where the next day will always be different. What outdoor jobs you can't do today can be done the next or the one after. Multiple days of identical weather are rare but this particular high pressure system hovered over us all week, the barometer needle stuck in one position. The absence of wind meant that it felt quite warm outside and as a result we attacked the garden with everything we had, forks, spades, rakes and strimmers. Nothing was safe. The end result was a compost bonanza for each of our raised beds, the creation of a couple more, and most exciting of all, we built a toad house!

For anyone that might be confused by this you should note that the toad way of life involves waddling about on land just as much as splashing about in water. They like cool damp places with water somewhere within reach and in winter they will seek out such a dark place under a pile of stones, somewhere they know they will be safe from anything that might see them as a good meal. Generally they do not tend to waddle about in daylight so the fact that we have not seen any since we dug the pond in our garden does not necessarily mean they are not around. So just in case one should feel inclined to visit we have provided a home, free of charge. A pile of rocks covered by some turfs which will grow into a shapely roof. The only question is whether we need a sign over the entrance explaining what it is for.

Moving on and reading up on garden chores appropriate for autumn we learn that this is the right time to be turning over the compost that we have in our unsightly plastic bins. The process first involves digging out the material that is at the bottom since this is where the fully rotted stuff is normally found. The rest is 'partly cooked' and will need more time to decompose so this is transferred to an empty bin to start another season of rotting. One of my favourite tools is a compost stirrer, a device that spins on the end of a drill and bores into the compost, mixing the pile vertically and letting air into the lower layers. This is supposed to accelerate the decomposition process and as such I find it quite satisfying.

Which brings us very neatly to the 'Hugelkultur' experiment.

This is a mad idea that came to us via some random social media post. It is (allegedly) a way of creating a vegetable planting bed using layers of material all lying on top of some bits of old wood. The idea is that the roots from what is planted on top will dive down and feed on what is released from the wood underneath as it rots away. Our version still awaits some planting and we scattered sawdust on it to make it look like a Christmas cake, not part of the recommendations.

Elsewhere we decided that the garden needed some trees. I should perhaps explain that our garden slopes down quite steeply from the back fence towards the house and the presence of old tree stumps close to the back boundary tells us that some quite large trees once grew here, maybe before the house itself was built. There is also some exposed rock which, we have discovered, is solid bedrock that extends beneath the top third of our land as well as beneath the house. In the light of this you could say we are lucky to have anything in which to grow our own plants. But we have, and it turns out that the soil we have is dark and rich. It is also invariably moist as the underlying rock only allows rainwater to filter slowly away through its cracks and crevices. The patches of heather and the thick moss covering so much of the garden are other indicators that it was once a woodland so planting trees of our own seemed like a logical step. One side of the garden is particularly damp, runoff always ensuring our pond is never short of water and this overflows into an area where reeds and damp loving grasses thrive. Our choice of tree here is the alder, generally found growing with water close by. Elsewhere in the garden we dig holes for two aspen trees, hoping they will survive long enough to display their fluttering leaves for us. It was whilst digging the holes for these that we discovered the extent of the solid rock which lies less than a spade depth below ground level, prompting us to choose a spot just beyond the line of bedrock.

Our trees arrived by post having been ordered online (the modern way) and arrived in a slim cardboard box. Each one consisted of a single stalk rising from a tiny bundle of roots, hardly meeting the definition of 'tree'. The aspen stems each had just a single leaf right at the tip although the alder proudly displayed several healthy looking green ones along its thin stalk, the word 'trunk' hardly seeming appropriate, but we planted them in the ground then immediately wrapped the delicate things in insulating foam tubes to keep them safe. Given our climate here they are unlikely ever to need watering but they will need protection from the deer that wander into the garden from time to time. It will be several years before these tiny twigs have grown tall enough to be beyond their reach.

Language

First of all, a bit of translation. The language I grew up with, English, uses the noun 'job' to describe two different things. One is an occupation or career, the sort of thing one would do routinely by working for an employer in exchange for a reward, usually in the form of money. The word has another meaning when used to describe a task or a single piece of work such as repairing a tap, digging a hole in the garden or wallpapering the bedroom. I now realise, however, that if the language I had grown up with had been American English then I might use another word in place of my second meaning. That word is 'project'. The first time I heard the word used in this way I was confused, largely because to me a project was something rather different, something bigger, something planned and considered in advance which might take days or weeks to complete. Designing and building a house would be considered a 'project' and this would involve a series of smaller 'jobs' using a variety of different skills.

Why is this important? To begin with it illustrates the way that our spoken language can become adapted in different ways without necessarily becoming totally misunderstood. But take the word 'cool'. Again I have been brought up to understand that this describes the temperature of an environment or an object. It is a relative term with no precise value attached to it, but it is a word that my parents would only ever have used in this context. Today, however, this same word has another meaning altogether, one that is again relative and rather imprecise but at the same time it has acquired a positive aspect. It can describe people, an experience, even a job or a project and it has nothing to do with the temperature at all. Some people might even describe a visit to the sauna as 'cool'.

In the absence of a relevant photo to accompany this blog I give you a random picture with no relevance to the topic.

Since we decided to make Scotland our home (a life changing event that took place more than fifteen years ago) we have adapted our own spoken language based upon the way the English language is spoken by those around us. [In some ways it feels wrong to call it the 'English' language but I shall stick with this name for the moment.] There are two main ways in which we have changed our own speech. Firstly there are words used everyday that can only be described as 'Scots'; words like dreich, blether, brae and canny that possibly have their origins in Gaelic or Norse. More subtle, however, is the way the language is spoken, the emphasis placed upon particular syllables in a way that is different to that of the English I grew up with. Many place names in Scotland have been 'anglicised' or roughly translated from the original Gaelic so that the road signs can be pronounced by visitors from south of the border. When one needs to ask a local for directions to these places one must be able to pronounce them properly to be understood and in many instances this is simply a matter of placing the emphasis on the right syllable. One example of this is a village not far from us called 'Kilberry'. Most English speakers would emphasise the first syllable, making it sound like a type of fruit. In fact it is the anglicised spelling of the Gaelic name Cill Bheiridh, the meaning of the first part of this name means 'chapel' or 'church'. Like many other Scottish place names, the emphasis comes on the penultimate syllable. Another example is the village of Ardrishaig where the first syllable, 'Ard' refers to a headland or promontory and the rest is a bramble bush. The emphasis on the 'drish' syllable is rarely heard when the name is spoken by visitors from England.

The longer we are here and exposed to the language spoken by those born and raised here the more our own speech is influenced by the local dialect. Most people tend to retain the accents we grew up with, usually acquired whilst at school, but different words do slip into our speech, particularly when we are in conversation with someone local, and we do not resist this when it happens. In fact we think it is pretty cool! For example when speaking to a Scot we will say "We stay in Tarbert", meaning that this is the village where we live. What we don't hear spoken much, however, is the Gaelic language. Fluent speakers are rare in our locality, an outcome of the history of the Kintyre peninsular going back to a time when speaking the language was actually banned. This is gradually changing as today there is a strong movement seeking to bring it back and the BBC Alba channel is broadcast entirely in Gaelic.

We met a couple recently whose command of spoken English was very poor as they had recently arrived from Odessa, escapees from the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Without the benefit of Google's translation app our conversation with them would have been something of a challenge but we each had phones held ready and by speaking a phrase into this we could stimulate the phone to make the translation so we could understand each other. This, combined with nods and smiles, gestures common to us all, meant we could communicate quite easily, although perhaps a little slower than usual.

A recent visit to the city of Glasgow, a three hour bus ride away from home, highlighted another feature associated with the way we communicate. In our home village and indeed across most of rural Scotland, when approaching someone on the street it is normal practice to make eye contact just before passing by. This will normally trigger a greeting of some sort, a quick 'Hi' perhaps or even 'How are you doing', a short greeting being the minimum one might expect from a stranger. If it is someone we know then a pause for a conversation (a 'blether' to the Scots) is likely. When the initial eye contact does not happen it usually means you have just passed a tourist. In Glasgow, however, eye contact is avoided by most passers by, perhaps for good reasons although for us visitors this is strange and unwelcoming behaviour that makes us feel uncomfortable, unsafe even. The rush and bustle of city life is something we happily avoid as much as we can anyway but there are occasions when we just cannot avoid travelling there. Our bus passes might give us free travel and the journey around mountains and through glens might be something most would happily pay for but it is not something we undertake gladly. Nothing would persuade us today to live in a city environment.

One final thought on the language issue. We both recently called in at the local village hall to have our flu 'jags' and these seem to have caused some unpleasant side effects - sneezing, runny noses, aches in unexpected places. All part of modern life, of course.

Normality

After our 'Hebridean Adventure' the routine of 'normal' life hits home leaving us with mixed feelings. We settle back into daily routines: walking to the shops, hanging out the washing, following the news, watching Phil, a local pheasant, strutting around in the garden and Rob, our friendly robin eating at our feeder, watching TV (not something we missed at all). All these things being part of the experience of life in a house as opposed to a campervan. The rain continues, off and on, and the garden soaks it up. Then the wind changes direction and it suddenly feels cooler, like autumn, which of course it is. The Equinox comes and goes and we light the stove to keep ourselves warm.

Our bikes seem to have survived everything the Hebrides threw at them and at the first opportunity we take them for a spin along the Crinan Canal, one of our favourite rides due to the absence of anything remotely like a hill. But then we are sidetracked and turn off along the road to Tayvallich, a seven mile detour to the coast. Here we do encounter some ups and downs but a little electric power easily copes with this and eventually we get to sit on a bench and admire the view across the Sound of Jura whilst eating our sandwiches. Riding back the way we came, this time with the wind at our backs, brings us to the top of our favourite hill and a long descent on a stretch of smooth, recently laid tarmac. We descend at terrific speed with the wind in our hair. Nothing overtakes us here but we are soon back beside the Crinan Canal riding at normal speed again. We end the round trip, riding around thirty miles in total, and recognise that this might be our last ride for a while with autumn now upon us.

Then a few days later the rain really starts.

The back garden is awash, each of the pathways we have created to allow us to walk through our dense, untamed vegetation now holds standing water, a testament to the correctness of our garden strategy. The long grass and heather that grows across most of the garden simply absorbs the rain, capturing it until it can soak away slowly in its own time. The pathways across the garden hold the water because the soil is compressed and the water cannot soak in so well.

One storm blows away eastwards giving us a lull and a dry spell before the next one is due.

And this is a big one called 'Amy'. Warnings are published days in advance - winds gusting over one hundred miles an hour and heavy rainfall coming onto already drenched ground.

The day starts quietly, dry with not a breath of wind. This lasts until around ten in the morning when a light rain begins to fall. By midday the wind has arrived, steadily building and throwing the rain against our windows. It arrives from a south-easterly direction but the forecasters promise that this will spin around rapidly, eventually ending up as a northwesterly blast. Our house sits high above the village giving us a spectacular view but at the same time exposing us to whatever the weather chooses to throw at us. We sit and watch, trying not to be too alarmed at the noise of the rain hammering down. Going out is not recommended and we see social media posts with pictures of flooding locally. The rain is already having an impact but this is only the start. We can expect much more wind and this means trees getting blown over, blocking some of our roads. Our local ferry has come back into the harbour, services cancelled for the day, and local businesses are shutting their doors too, trying to discourage people from going out.

We have a log store full of bits of rhododendron wood, mostly hacked from the bushes growing just beyond our garden fence, all branches which were cut up and stored over six months ago so it is reasonably dry. Our multi fuel stove makes short work of this, keeping us warm at the same time, which is a bonus, particularly when the electric power goes off. Suddenly we are plunged into a world where nothing works, no mobile signal, no lights, no cooker or kettle to make a cup of tea. Out come the candles and our portable camping gas stove. Power comes back on briefly then some time after midnight we lose it again and it remains off for most of the next day. In the morning we realise that we don't know the time (electric clock) and being unable to communicate we cannot know how far the power cut extends. We later discover that this power cut only affected our village although there were plenty of others around Scotland in a similar position.

As the day progresses the squalls come on suddenly; a blast of wind and rain hammering noisily against our windows, then it passes over to let the sun pop out briefly. The deer wandering about in our road seemed largely unconcerned and was probably happy to have the road to himself for once. Just before three in the afternoon we are switched back on again. Somewhere, someone has been working hard to fix whatever was broken in the storm, quite a challenge as the gusts have not abated at all.

As it turns out the timing of the electric power returning was perfect as we needed some light for our band's evening performance in the harbour marquee, a remarkable structure that manages to survive anything the weather can throw at it.

We were booked to play some tunes to entertain the local beach cleaners, a regular event here where groups of volunteers go out and and pick up litter from one or other of our local beaches. This being the last such event of the season the cleaners were rewarded with some free food and entertainment. We even managed to get them dancing a couple of times, not bad considering they had just finished their fish suppers.

So this is normal life. As ever the weather dictates so much of what we do at home on a day to day basis just as much as when we are away on holiday.

Hebridean adventure 5

From inside our compact little travelling home we peep out of our tinted windows at the world outside. We have just made ourselves some toasties for lunch as we relax and reminisce on our short stay in the Outer Hebrides. We have made a decision and booked a return ferry from Castlebay on Barra back to Oban on the mainland, an early sailing the following morning which should enable us to drive from there and be home the same day. The reason for us leaving now is simple and it is primarily about the weather. We always knew this would be the main factor determining our return date and that it would be the one thing we could never predict. We did think that we would be cycling more often, perhaps battling the wind, but it turned out that with the wind comes rain, often as heavy squalls, these being regular but unpredictable. In the end this put us off cycling completely and even walking any distance risked a soaking so we have done very little of what we might have expected to do.

There have been, however, a load of big positives to our adventure. We have explored countless stunning beaches with views across the ocean or towards off-lying islands and rocky promontories. We also take away a real appreciation of what life here is like today and have an insight into what it must have been like in the past too. Little things have caught our eyes. Wheelie bins are not safe here unless tied down securely! Garden trampolines, the things that are notorious for flying away in the slightest wind, are rare here but we did spot one, presumably anchored down with some mighty big pegs. The houses are generally built low, close to the ground, and are widely spaced out rather than being grouped into compact villages. This perhaps mirrors the position of the croft houses which preceded them.

Driving on the narrow single track roads is very much a part of the experience. Despite the roads using the same numbering system as the rest of the UK an 'A' road is just as likely to be single track as a 'B' road. Driving requires courtesy, looking ahead to see if there is another car coming then indicating to show you are moving into the next passing place so they can come forward. The wave by both drivers as you pass each other is a given.

There are relatively few shops here but most seem to be owned and run by the local community. Those that do exist, however, are always welcoming with staff willing to  pause for a chat.

Many of the campsites are located on the machair, sand dunes grown over with a mix of vegetation which have always provided grazing for the crofters' sheep and cattle. The pitches are often uneven so finding a level spot is not easy and some care is needed to avoid spinning wheels. Most sites seemed to be closing at the end of September since beyond this visitor numbers will fall off.

For us though, a plan for the homeward journey now being in place, we need a camp spot close enough to the ferry terminal so we don't miss the sailing in the morning. We then get a text message telling us that the ferry we have booked is going to leave an hour earlier, now at six o' clock in the morning, so this becomes even more important. This is due to strong winds forecast for later in the day, so they should not affect us, but the ship has to return to the safety of Castlebay on Barra on the same day.

One final island on our list is Vatersay, hanging off the south end of Barra by another short causeway, so this is where we end up, on a narrow strip of the Machair midway between east and west facing beaches. We thought we might have the spot to ourselves but two other vans drove up later, one of which promptly lit a fire to cook some sausages, despite the rules forbidding fires. [But I guess we did get our own back with the noise of our early departure the next day.]

We had a pair of beautiful beaches to visit this time, one of which even enticed Kate in for a swim. We retired to bed early and slept well enough but four in the morning is never going to be a good time to get up. And what we then discovered was that driving on the tiny single track roads in total darkness is a whole new experience, especially when the sheep bedded down on the road are still sleeping. Once on the ferry, a much larger one for this journey, most of the passengers crashed out wherever they could and tried to catch up on their sleep. We on the other hand started with some breakfast, found a good spot from which we could watch the dawn arrive then had fun trying to identify the Scottish mountains as they came into view.

We passed close by the Isle of Lismore which once again brought back memories of my singing with the campsite manager on Lewis. Music in one form or another is clearly an important part of the lives of many islanders and I am delighted to think that I participated in this.

Our drive home was uneventful, although we did pick up a pair of hitchhikers on the way, a young Czech couple carrying a mass of luggage so they could camp each night. And we later discovered that our bed at home does not shake and rattle when the wind outside blows! This, along with a number of other things, will take us days to re-acclimatise to. We also discovered that everything in the garden seemed to have been growing at great speed whilst we were away, testimony to the wet weather here too. All that remains now is to give the van a good wash to try to remove all the salt and sand that has stuck to the paintwork during our time away.

So what about the bikes, how did they fair perched on the rack behind us whilst being rained upon daily and then doused in sea spray? Time will tell for sure but it seems that the bike cover, the thing continuously noisily flapping about in the wind and needing extra cords wrapped around it to keep it from flying away or ripping into shreds, largely did its job and kept the bikes dry. Whilst away we saw many other vehicles with bike racks on the back but none seemed to be flapping as much as ours so maybe we need to rethink the cover a little. 

Hebridean adventure 4

Looking ahead to the next few days the weather forecast was not encouraging. The wind was guaranteed, still coming from the south-east, but the rain was also going to be a given, heavy showers with brief interludes seemed to be the pattern, based on previous days. After a night in the relative comfort of a proper campsite we decided to book another, this time on Benbecula, the next island in the chain but this being only a relatively short drive we decided to detour on a round trip of North Uist, to experience as much of the island as it could give us. Which was how we ended up stopping to visit a woodland overlooking Loch Langais.

This woodland was planted some years ago as a community project and it is, uniquely, the only piece of woodland on the island. It clearly provides a home for a population of pixies, who have built little houses everywhere you look although on reflection some local schoolchildren might have had a hand in decorating the trees and the mossy ground beneath. The big story associated with this place is about an eight foot high bear called Hercules. Although brought up tame from his youth, some years ago he escaped from his handler and spent several weeks roaming the landscape around here, despite considerable efforts to capture him. He clearly had not been taught how to hunt because when he was finally recaptured he was very thin and desperately hungry. A large wooden commemorative statue stands in the woods today in memory of Hercules the bear.

We were also very impressed by the toadstool population which we could not resist taking pictures of as we walked around the woodland and as a special treat we watched a pair of eagles soaring above the trees whilst we stood gazing up at them from below. Most significantly for us was that once in the woodland we realised we had found a place that gave us complete shelter from the wind and that this had another unexpected benefit - it was quiet. Instead of having to shout at each other we found ourselves conversing normally again, for the first time in days.

At this point in our travels we made a decision to move on to Barra the next day, the last island in the chain. This would involve a short drive from Benbecula across a causeway, a drive down the length of South Uist, then across another causeway to Eriskay from where the ferry to Barra departs. Three different islands again but this time the wind had notched up to gale force and the rain was coming down sideways, continuously. The first causeway was relatively benign but on the crossing to Eriskay, a long straight section, there was spray breaking right across the road from the sea on one side. There was no alternative but to drive across this to get to the terminal despite the risk of our van being blown over but when we finally arrived at the terminal there was no ferry. All sailings were cancelled for the day due to the storm. The only campsite nearby was back on South Uist which meant a reverse crossing of the causeway. By this time the tide had gone down a little although we still got sprayed with salt water. Our adventure in the Outer Hebrides had become an exciting tussle with the first September gale. What better place to experience this than the windiest corner of Scotland.

The night that followed was noisy, rain hammering down on the roof in heavy bursts and the van was violently shaken about by the wind making sleeping difficult. Others in the campsite with taller vans (or giant motorhomes) might have feared for their safety, worrying about whether their home would be blown over, but at least this didn't concern us too much. We had tried to book another ferry for the next day but due to everybody's travel arrangements being disrupted only the evening sailing had room for us. We therefore arose slowly from our beds in the morning, packed up, visited the campsite cafe for a late breakfast coffee and cake then decided to move to the ferry terminal on the off chance that an earlier sailing might have a space. The wind had abated, rain showers still came in but the sea looked calmer and it was clear that the ferries were running to schedule once again.

We joined a queue and were told there was little chance of us getting on the midday sailing but once the ship had loaded, somehow there was a tiny space just big enough for us to fit in, crammed in tight behind a couple of big lorries. [In this picture our van looks like it's a toy.] Remarkably the sea was quite smooth, most of the big swell from the overnight storm had died down as we crossed the Sound of Barra at last.

We even had time to explore a little before driving to the north end of the island to a campsite close by yet another glorious beach. Just around the corner from us (to the right in this picture) is the airport, planes landing on the beach when it is not covered by the sea. On another walk from the campsite along the beach, this time avoiding the rain, we met a couple drawing artistic creations in the sand with a small grass rake and using sea-worn pebbles and other debris to decorate their works; temporary structures, since the next tide will inevitably wash it all away.

Out of all the Hebridean islands the one that appeals most to us is in fact Barra. If we were being honest then the reason for this is that it feels most like where we now live in Argyll. There are hills stretched right across the island, some of which are forested, and people live in houses which are closer together, in small communities, instead of being scattered widely across the landscape. Popping round to a neighbour's house for a cup of tea on Lewis could be a significant hike, especially when the wind is blowing hard. Neighbours on Barra don't have this problem. It also has a road which encircles the whole island, something we were hoping to do as a bike ride were the weather a bit kinder. We are delighted to have travelled the whole Hebridean island chain but thrilled to have arrived on Barra at last, as if this is where we always wanted to be.

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.