Random stuff

Lessons learnt in three days....

    - We are not as young as we thought.

    - Some things are too heavy to lift.

    - Muscles will hurt if subjected to misuse.

    - Too many steps make for unhappy legs.

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

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

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

Ramps and other things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spikes in our Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sailing again

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

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

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

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

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

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

Families

'Who'd have 'em.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackbeards

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what a gig! 

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

and the support from the appreciative audience was just terrific.

________________________

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

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

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

Volunteering

Having moved away from Carradale village, we promised ourselves that in our new location we would not take on any of the rather onerous community responsibilities that we had previously saddled ourselves with. We would do this by avoiding joining local committees, this being the route to over-commitment, and so far we have been successful in this.

But this does not rule out volunteering.

The local community trust that manages the remains of our village's ancient castle needs volunteers to help maintain the paths and surrounding gardens and this is a regular once a month activity that I seem to have talked myself into. Then of course there are the beach cleans - periodic organised attempts to remove human debris from a small area of our coastline - which we are happy to participate in. Then, quite suddenly and at short notice, a message appeared on a local social media page requesting help from 'someone with sailing experience'. How could I resist.

The Royal Yachting Association (RYA) provides a qualification for yacht skippers which is recognised throughout Europe, perhaps even further afield. This is essential for someone who wants to make commercial use of their boat, hiring it out for holidays or other adventures. To qualify fully as an RYA Yachtmaster requires passing a theory exam followed by a practical test of your ability to handle a vessel, something that includes giving appropriate directions to the boat's crew so that boat handling, manoeuvring, mooring, sailing, motoring, etc., is all carried out correctly and safely. On a sailing boat the practical part requires you to have at least two crew members to whom you can give directions and this was what the 'sailing experience' request was all about. As it happens, being a crew member for the exam is a role I have filled before so it seemed perfectly natural, therefore, for me to put myself forward for this once again. It turned out, however, that on this occasion there would be a few things I wasn't quite expecting, so it turned out to be quite an exciting day.

The first little twist was the weather. The forecast wind on the chosen day would have discouraged most sailors from leaving port - 25 knots or more with gusts of over 40 knots and torrential rain showers, albeit interspersed with bright sunshine. Along with this there was a sudden drop in temperature brought on by the north westerly wind coming down from somewhere closer to the Arctic Circle. I would certainly need all my wet weather sailing gear and many more layers of clothing than I had worn all summer. Added to this, however, was the fact that the qualification now requires the boat to be sailed and navigated at night, in total darkness, which explains why we left the shelter of the harbour around four o' clock in the afternoon. By this time what heat there was in the day was disappearing fast, being sucked away by the rain showers which kept sweeping down from the surrounding hills.

Once on board the yacht I was briefed by the skipper, a Belgian man called Robin, whose command of English was thankfully very good, and he was first asked by the examiner to do a series of manoeuvres around the marina before we set off to sea, bringing the boat safely alongside a pontoon so that the crew could step off with mooring lines and secure the boat. All went well with this so we then left the harbour where my job as crew, and after stowing away the fenders and mooring lines, was to raise the appropriate sails so the engine could be switched off and we could begin to make our way upwind to our eventual destination some ten miles away.

The sailing boat was normally sailed by just the skipper and his wife as crew, and at over forty feet in length this was a sizeable sailing cruiser on which they had been living for some years. The deep keel made her a powerful sailing boat, so long as the crew were strong enough to raise the heavy mainsail and tension the sheets on one or more of the headsails as well. Which of course was where I came in. My role on board was to act solely on the directions of the skipper, no matter what I might think should be done, since this was part of what he was being tested on for the RYA qualification. So as soon as we started sailing upwind, pounding into the short choppy seas with spray flying over the boat interspersed with the rain showers, my role was simply to hang on and keep my head down to avoid getting too wet.

After a few tacks we sailed into the shelter of an island where we were required to anchor the boat, manoeuvring completely under sail, which again our skipper managed quite successfully. Once anchored the sails were lowered, but not for long as we then set off again, raising the sails once more as the boat leapt about in the waves, to continue our passage up the loch to reach a more sheltered stopping place known locally as Otter Ferry. I have sailed a variety of boats, some big, some small, so none of this was beyond my experience but it was, nevertheless, one of the most exciting bits of sailing I have done for a long time. I took a turn on the helm as we powered our way northwards at over six knots, the boat heeled over as the gusts blasted in, and I was impressed by the way she handled herself such conditions. I was less impressed by the bucketloads of spray that kept drenching me and my fellow crew member and I could feel the heat gradually seeping from my body as the night closed in. But despite all this we made it to our mooring just as the last of the remaining daylight slipped away.  

I think we were all rather relieved when having secured the boat to a mooring buoy we could go down below into the shelter of the saloon where dinner was being heated up for us. Warmth gradually returned to our bodies and we could hear the wind had moderated outside so perhaps our journey home might be a little less fraught. Before we could do this, however, the skipper's next task was to sail the boat into another small harbour, this time docking in total darkness alongside a pontoon without the help of the engine. For those who are not aware, sailing boats do not have brakes. So the only way to come alongside safely is to lower the sails at precisely the right moment and let the boat's momentum carry you slowly in until close enough for your crew step off and get the mooring lines secured to stop any further motion. There is no turning round and trying again if you get it wrong, no second chance, and if you don't get the boat close enough the crew should never fearlessly leap across the gap onto the dock - there is too much chance of something going wrong with this. I am happy to report that our skipper judged things perfectly and it all went without a hitch, the boat coming to a stop at precisely the right point.

Sailing back home was a downwind run, uneventful in the lighter wind and the clouds had also rolled away revealing a beautiful starlit night with a faint glow from the aurora to the north. It was now after midnight and by this point the cold had penetrated all the extra clothing I had put on so when our home port finally came in sight it was most welcome. My job for the day would soon be over. All in all I found the experience exhausting but very satisfying and the skipper and his partner seemed grateful that everything had gone so well.

More importantly this seems to show that even sailing opportunities can be found simply by volunteering.

Looking ahead

Nothing in life stays the same forever. Age comes along and messes up most things eventually but well before that, for us anyway, our everyday activities are subject to change. We moved into our present house nearly two years ago, a new location, with different places to explore around us which in turn brought us different ways in which to spend our leisure time. Gradually and often imperceptibly our lives have changed. One of these changes is in the way we shop. We have multiple choices now and they are closer to home, an easy distance to walk with a shopping trolley. There are even two different hardware shops close by, something which is difficult to understand when you have lived in a tiny village for so long. It feels like we have moved into a city! Then there is the way we move about. We like to walk, or cycle if we can but to go further afield we now have the benefit of a long distance bus which we can easily hop on to if we ever feel inclined to visit our nearest city, Glasgow. So perhaps it is inevitable that we should reconsider all our activities, the things we do indoors, along with the things we like to do when the weather is appropriate to spend time outdoors.

Decorating the house has been a big thing for us and then the garden has taken a lot of time and effort to bring it to the point where it has what we regard as the right mix of wilderness and cultivated areas. Creating a pond, one with the right mix of wild things that can look after themselves all year, has been a learning experience. It requires patience, the aim being to step away and let the beetles and bugs do their thing in peace. They have been doing this since long before humans came along so there is really no need for us to mess around trying to make the water right for them. Once they are 'happy' then other animals, amphibians perhaps, will be attracted to live there too. It took a few modifications before we managed to get the pond water level to stay constant - not too shallow when we have a dry spell but topping itself up from the garden runoff when it rains and a nice boggy area for it to overflow into. We have already spotted some small frogs in and around the pond and are looking forward to the next frog breeding season, the early spring, to see whether they consider it suitable for their little ones.

As the growing season comes to an end our garden's wild bits, which we have left completely alone, present a challenge if we are to follow guidance on managing this. At least once a year a wildflower garden should be mown, the idea being that this will allow the fallen seeds to germinate and by picking up the cut grass the soil will be less fertile, something that wild flowers enjoy. Mowing requires a heavy duty strimmer - the grass stems are waist high - and raking up all the cuttings afterwards is quite a physical task so we wait for a dry period to come along and when this does arrive the scorching sunshine that comes along too makes this a multi-day hot enterprise.

Internally our house is 'finished', not a term I ever thought I'd be using, but we have redecorated every room, stripped away all the wallpaper that came with the house and ripped up the floor coverings (carpet; including that laid in the kitchen and bathroom!), replacing them with something more to our taste. The last pieces of fresh wallpaper were pasted on with some relish since these may well be the last I ever stick up. My wallpapering skills will fade from memory over time, unless of course the whole lot slides off the wall and we have to start all over again.

So what is next, I wonder.

Something we have missed, being so busy working on the house since we moved in, has been our desire to roam further afield. Scotland is a country we love but we have still not explored it as fully as we would like.

So now we have the resources to do this we shall be pointing ourselves in a new direction. Our bikes are light enough to be slung on a carrier behind the van then unloaded when we reach a place with quiet roads or forest trails we can ride on. Already a few experiments have taught us our physical limits, in terms of distance and ruggedness so the future is beginning to look quite exciting.