60 in Speyside. A Wee Piece of Paradise

A man drove towards and past us on that long walk out from Glen banchor towards Newtonmore. He stared at Sara as he drove by, his head moving to keep her in view as he drove, a wide smile on his face. We stopped and looked at each other. What on earth was THAT about. Although we felt a bit bedraggled and broken, we didn’t think we looked in any way comical. Sara said it would have freaked her out if she’d been on her own. (And without me, she wouldn’t have been there at all.)

As we dropped down into the village, the same man came back along the road and wound down his window to talk to us. Still grinning. He’d seen us at Laggan less than 5 hours ago. It was the dog he remembered - presumably Sara and I had melted into something beyond recognition. He’d been going up the road for a recce as he was planning the same walk next day, but to include a Munro. He didn’t explain exactly why we were so funny, but at least he wasn’t sinister anymore.

Destination Grill. We could smell it before we saw it. A Highland Truckers Cafe and the loveliest welcome. Wet dogs and women welcome, we set up camp next to a radiator. We had no idea where we would be sleeping but I didn’t care. We could eat, drink, recover and had about an hour and a half until darkness.

We asked the waitress where she thought we could camp. She asked the Cook, he asked the Manager. Sara pointed out a long path down to a tunnel under the railway line and asked if they knew who owned that land. I said I thought it would belong to Robert from This Farming Life as Spook and I had watched it the other night and he was rounding up sheep near the shinty field. The Manager said Robert would be in later as he came for a pint every Friday. So Sara did a wee recce to see if it looked like a viable spot, declared that it was, and we waited for Robert. I recognised him straigth away and said “Robert!” as he walked past us to the bar. He looked marginally alarmed and then a little ‘sheepish’ when I said I knew him from the programme.

“But that’s not what I want to ask you about. Is that land over there yours, and can we put a wee tent up for the night?”

He looked down the lane and explained that it was Common Grazing ground up to the fence under the tunnel and if anyone (most likely one grumpy farmer who used the lane) challenged us, we could say that we’d checked and that it was ok to camp.

“But it’s going to rain ALL night!” he said. “Why don’t you sleep in my shed?”

I took this suggestion very seriously - sheds can be very noisy and draughty but he had Alpaca’s - I knew that from the programme. As long as they didn’t spit on us, they could be cosy. Robert saw me looking tempted and said it was the other end of the village so he’d need to get us a lift. He looked longingly at the door to the Bar. The Manager said she’d give us a lift when she locked up for the night.

By this time it was 6.40pm and Sara had already been pacing about clutching her tent waiting for him to get thirsty. She’d carried that tent a long way and it was me who’d said I wanted to sleep in a tent with my dog. The main point was that we’d established a place and permission. I had to let the tempting shed offer go. There was very little daylight left so she set off saying it would take 10 minutes to put the tent up.

It was pitch black and an hour later before she finally appeared back.

She said she’d been stomping purposefully down the lane and passed a man walking the other way with his dog. Shortly after, she heard a yell and looked back. The man had tied up his dog and was running towards her at a sprint. This was far worse than the man in the car grinning at her. She hugged the tent for protection and froze.

“What’re you doing?” he yelled.

“I was just going to put my tent up.” she squealed

“Oh thank god. I thought you were going to kill yourself. I had to come back - I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

Having established that she was of reasonably sound mind, he then advised her to walk further along under the line, to another tunnel that was much drier. So she went under the tunnel and climbed into the field. Which was full of cows and as she’s very scared of cows she clambered back over onto the embankment where she side stepped her way to the other tunnel. Where the wind was howling straight through, so she went back along the awkward slope to the other tunnel where the aforementioned ‘grumpy’ farmer was now loading up some silage on his tractor.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a less than friendly tone. She told him, he checked where she was from, established that they had a mutual connection in Lochaber - as one does in the Highlands - took the tent off her so she could climb the fence, and left her to take the 10 minutes that it takes to put up her tent.

Before we’d left home, we’d had a chat with Jim Cooper from the Rescue Team and alerted him to our plans. He’s got a bit of time just now before supplying safety cover to SAS TV programmes and other such ‘cliff hanging’ types of stuff. I just wasn’t sure at which point he’d consider it reasonable to ask him to come and find Sara. I had mentioned the possible use of a flare in an emergency, but he’d kinda ruled that out as unlikely to be helpful.

The Manager had meanwhile assured me that we were welcome to stay in her Grill until she closed up at 9pm. There were a few other folks in - mostly local, and a couple who were living here for the tree planting season. The young woman was beautiful with the thickest, longest dreadlocks I’ve seen, and the man had little tattoo’s across his face. And of course there was Robert and his pals in the bar. I could probably rustle up a search party without resorting to Jim.

Sara reappeared, breathless and laughing about the kindness of the anxious dog walker. We gathered up our things and the dog and headed out into the thankfully not yet raining night. Down the lane, under the tunnel and there was the tent in the torch light on a perfect wee spot of grass just big enough. It was a bit of a wade through the tunnel, but it was really sheltered. It was a haven.

Apart from the night time trains that shot past us like missiles, lit up the tent and sounded as if they were going to run us over. The first morning train was 6.30am. Then the ‘grumpy’ farmer arrived at 7am splashing through the puddle in his truck and fired up his tractor. He did say good morning, which was nice of him.

Neither of us had slept much, but it was good not to be walking, we weren’t cold and we weren’t wet. It HAD rained all night, and the dog had a slight problem with a windy bottom, but on the whole, I could say I’ve had worse sleeps in hotel rooms. I COULD say that. It was time to get up and see where we were in the cold light of day.

What more could one ask for?

Sara’s daughter Maisie works on the Caledonian Sleeper which has to skip the West Highland Line just now as there’s maintenance on the line. So they get off at Kingussie and take the bus to Fort William. Maisie WAS on this train and said that if she’d known, she’d have tossed a couple of breakfasts out the window for us.

But we had the lovely Newtonmore Grill, thankfully, so no need.

The Romanian woman who was manning the fryers, greeted us with “coffee? Tea?” rather than a good morning.

“Sausages? Eggs?”

I’ll have toast says I, and I’ll have porridge, says Sara/

“Porrich????” The lady looked a little contemptuous. This is clearly not the breakfast of Truckers.

Sara looked embarrassed and said she’d just have toast.

“It’s ok. I make you porrich. I have time.” She made her the biggest bowl of porridge possible and poor Sara trudged her way through it to show her gratitude.

The tree planters arrived for a pre-planting breakfast. Bowls of lasagne and chips were delivered to their table without the slightest hesitation or raised eyebrow. Much admiration for the dreadlocks ensued. Then a saucer with a cut up sausage arrived at our table.

“Forrr dog.” She stated.

Over toast, porrich and sausage, we decided I wasn’t fit for the back country walk to Kingussie but could probably manage the pedestrian path that goes direct. We’d already arranged with Lindy-Lou that we could leave our rucksacks in her wood shed in Kingussie and then attempt to walk to Loch Insh thus enlightened.

We said our goodbyes to the loveliness of Newtonmore and it’s Grill - forget the tourist hotels - this is the place.

We abandoned our bags, grabbed a coffee in Kingussie and booked our lift from Spook slightly early. We’d walk along the back road and he could scoop us up before Loch Insh. After contacting Linda about our bags, she’d invited us to enjoy an alternative option and I’d made a date at the lochside and had decided to knock Kincraig on the head.

We walked 7 miles instead of 15, for which I was very very thankful.

Ruthven Barracks. It was all delightfully rural compared with the wilds of yesterday.

Less than 2 hours after calling for back up, Spook delivered us here…….

I felt I’d made my point. I’m 60. I have aches and pains I didn’t have when I was 59. I needed an intervention. And Lindy-Lou in the shape of her mobile sauna at Loch Insh happened to be right place, right time. Dip in the loch is highly recommended but thankfully not obligatory. Enough!!

Sara is all pink because she went for the full swim, and I am white because I refused to, I have next to no clothes on, it’s bloody cold and I want to be inside.

Where it is fantastically cosy and restorative and from where I can watch my Daniel Craig emerge from the loch….

This was the spa break we didn’t go on. This was a little piece of perfection.

It was good of Daniel to join us.

Our Guru of Sauna Cairngorms and Yoga Cairngorms - Linda - could tell us that the optimum experience is to heat up first, and then plunge into the loch. Repeat 3 times for the full healing experience as the pores are open and the goodness reaches the very core of you. I remained only marginally healed but very very contented.

To book this you can contact Linda at www.yogacairngorms.com

To book a visit to Roberts croft and walk with the alpaca’s and donkey contact his wife, Jenni at www.cairngormalpacas.co.uk And check them out at BBC’s This Farming Life. I love that programme!!!

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59 to 60. Expedition Style.

“What do you fancy doing for your birthday?” asked Sara a few weeks ago.

Go for a long walk with my dog, and stay in a tent. Maybe a section or two of the East Highland Way. I’d given my mum the book in 2013 as she’d always talked about doing it. She was never going to manage much of it after her stroke, but I’d thought we could walk wee sections of it at some point. We never did.

It starts in Fort William and joins with the Strathspey Way to get you to Aviemore. Sara said she’d LOVE to do that, so I put the planning in her hands…..she loves a bit of planning.

So what’s the plan - I eventually asked.

Faegour to Newtonmore and then 2nd day walk to Kincraig , have birthday lunch with Spook who’s job it would be to pick us up. Her husband, Kevin would take us to the start. I love being looked after.

Eventually I got round to asking her how long the 2 days would be. 15 miles each, she said.

Ah…..

I did some training. I got up to 5 miles with the dog. Then I didn’t want to wear me or the dog out before the big trip, so we tailed off - so to speak.

Think the dog wants to go home.

Two days before it had been 16 degrees, warm and sunny. Then a storm blew up one day before, and lingered around somewhat. Kevin took delight in informing us every time his temperature gauge on the car dropped. 3.5 he said with glee.

There was to be some wind, some rain, some sleet and some sunshine. We focussed on the positive. And it was only about 5 miles to our coffee stop - Laggan Stores. What a delight. Highly recommended. Hustle and bustle on a Friday approaching lunchtime and a warm welcome to wet walkers and a wet dog.

Truly 10 out of 10 for quality and welcome. There was a bit of a sleety downpour while we were here but that passed and we stepped out into the dry with only 9.1 miles to go. Nae bother. We left the main thorougfare to wander through the settlement of Balgowan. You drive past this everytime you go to Aviemore but don’t realise what a gorgeous wee sleepy hamlet it is. We met Pam and her dog Lennie in the nick of time as she walked with us and could show us the right direction to take in the woods where the path diverged and then the faint track out onto the moor. There are no signs, you have to use your book and your navigational skills (ha ha ha ha.) She also said that if it got too wild, to come back to her house for tea or gin.

There had been one or two people who had assumed we wouldn’t go due to the forecast. But there weren’t trees to fall on us if it was too windy, the snow forecast was only for sleet, there was going to be moments of life saving sunshine and by a happy coincidence, the wind was at our backs.

You can choose a summer month, and still have heavy rain - and midgies. So a little sleet and no midgies - that was ok.

One minute you’re on the main road from Fort William to Aviemore and the next minute you’re somewhere you’ve never seen before and probably won’t see again.

It is vital to maintain a positive attitude at all times.

And you will be rewarded with shelter in the form of the Stalkers Cottage at Dalnashallag.

It’s a place for shelter, but the wind was rattling the roof and the potential for wild imaginings plentiful…the tent was still a better option.

This was once a place of at least 18 dwellings before the Highland Clearances in the mid 1800’s.

We needed to cross the river and make our way down this glen to Newtonmore. The book said that we had to cross a shallow boulder crossing which would comprise of 4 streams merging. He noted that it was ‘fairly easy’ and would ‘provide a fun navigational challenge for the less agile.” I’m not sure how many times I called him a patronizing git, but there were now 6 crossings since he wrote this book in 1988, my dog and I were traumatised, our feet and legs were soaking.

This was the 6th. At least the sun was shining.

Although that did change soon after.

Not once did I worry that Sara would be annoyed with me for choosing this as my birthday treat. The more challenging and diverse - the more she revelled in it.

Eventually we reached a proper road rather than a riverside track and Sara nearly recognised the hill that she has run many times at the Newtonmore Games. It was behind her whilst she was claiming that she thought she could see it away ahead. This is the woman I entrusted my life to….. the photo above is the hill race hill. Thankfully it was not the one in the distance.

When we left the Stalkers cottage we had under 5 miles to go. By the time we got to this road we had travelled about 3 miles. This road was the longest 2 miles I’ve endured!! Suddenly the distraction of ‘fun boulder fields’ was better than marching along tarmac.

Our target destination was the Newtonmore Grill. Opening hours of 7am to 10pm had a lot of appeal. We didn’t know where we’d camp but as close to it as possible was beginning to look like all I could cope with. Knees, ankles, thighs, calves, shins - none of them wanted to walk a step further than necessary. It was approaching 5pm. Plenty of time to eat, recover and decide if we bale out to a hostel, or use the tent that Sara had gone to all the hassle of carrying on her back……..Would a Spa weekend be a better way to turn 60? The night ahead would reveal the answer……it wasn’t over yet……

Whisky Galorious Max-Innes

After sitting forlornly in the Craigs Graveyard in Fort William, waiting for the rain to fill my waterpot, (because I have been painting graveyards recently and had forgotten to bring any water,) it was ironic that the rain came in the following days and everyone’s water pot runneth-ed over. Roads closed from landslides, lochs, rivers and puddles swelled to rarely seen proportions and Lochy Bridge looked like it could break into pieces by the force of the torrent. It rained and rained and rained. Big solid drops of serious rain with no let-up.

There was little choice but to join the Lochaber Whisky Club. I’d been meaning to do this ever since enjoying a visit to the Whisky Shop in town when I was looking for a special whisky to buy an Irishman on his wedding. Even if you don’t buy a whisky, the pleasure of Max Stephen’s knowledge and enthusiasm is catching. I joined his mailing list but lacked the pre Christmas energy to make the December tasting night and hadn’t recovered it for the January one. February and a dearth of dry graveyards to paint in finally pushed me out the door for some inspirational company.. I enjoy my reclusive anti-social life at home whilst also genuinely enjoying the company of fleeting conversations and experiences when out and about. This was a wee piece of perfection on many levels. (With a slight sting in the tail.)

Spook and I went with our neighbour Rou. The Black Isle Brewery is a great venue for a warm up drink and a pizza before the event. The upstairs venue opens at 7.30 with first dram poured at 8. By the time we wandered upstairs we were almost last in and the room was full of familiar faces without necessarily knowing everyone, and there was a buzz. Max and his colleague Innes Mackintosh, greeted us at the top of the stairs and explained how it worked. It’s £20 on the door, and you get a glass, a piece of paper and a pencil. Then you sit at the long, shared tables and wait for the drams to be poured. Either Max or Innes talked about the individual whisky whilst the other went round and poured it. I loved this so much more than when you arrive and all the drams are pre poured, set up in front of you. There was a lot of people to get round for one man pouring, and yet it added to the growing excitement that came with each new dram. There were a lot of father/son combinations in attendance (possibly mother/daughter one’s too, but I didn’t note them,) and we sat with one such combination. You immediately have the whisky in common so converstation flows naturally and at our table it was light-hearted and no one had to pretend they knew anything about it other than that we had a mutual liking for the stuff. I particularly admired the nurturing father who swapped glasses when his son was out of the room, and took the larger dram to protect his son from potential ill health the next day (if only I’d had such a caring father in attendance.) Max and Innes moved around the room, sitting at a table here and there, with their own drams and joining the group chats. They are wonderful hosts and their age is such a part of their success. They both went off to University and after completing their degrees (and more) chose to come back to Lochaber and share their love of whisky - perhaps not in the way that I have shared the whisky love with many Highlanders over the years, but in a more thoughtful and informed manner where the precious liquid is treated with great respect - with a twinkle of fun thrown in. This is a place of Highland Hospitality and welcome.

As one of the newest members of the Club, I felt it was important to make very careful notes of my impressions. Ever the professional, I wanted to show that I also, had the necessary respect for this golden liquid.

I think it’s worth having a wee look at the increasing strength of the drams. Whilst my notes were not particularly informed nor elaborate, they did deteriorate a little as the night when on. The writing is hard to decipher, but I was wanting to share in the conversations as well as take notes and drink the whisky and I’m a chronically bad multi-tasker. After the last dram I proudly showed my notes to my neighbouring companion, James. He looked at the last note - “And it took you 6 drams to establish the fact?” was his only comment.

I also see that there is a Glentauchers whisky stain on the last comment - so clearly not all the whisky was getting down my gullet!! And I see that I have observed that Spook is clearly “scuttling the goldies” (Still Game reference) whilst I am delicately savouring them.

The night was so friendly with everybody chatting and clearly enjoying themselves. Spooks grin got wider with every dram and we all declared we’d be back for the next event on the 7th of March…..until the next morning. With a raging thirst and thumping head, I could barely get out of bed. I was supposed to get an early lift to town to retrieve the car, but there was no way that was happening. Spook made me a cup of tea and left me lying on the sofa - groaning. He and Rou made it to work without an effort and I didn’t make it to breakfast. By 9.30am I’d made a good recovery, thank goodness and decided that the best way of a full recovery was to walk the 4.5 miles to get the car. This pleased the dog.

And gave me time to reflect upon my behaviour. I don’t wish to be unable to attend the whisky tasting nights so a new approach is required. At £20 (and it may be £40 for the next night if they introduce a £500 bottle - when else will you get to taste THAT?) it’s great value just to be part of the night. There is no requirement to take the full dram which is generously poured. I am not without discipline (and loathe a hangover which comes with a very long memory - it’s 20 years since my last one,) and I think I’d simply ask Innes and Max which is their favourite and take the full dram for those and just a wee taster for each of the others. And totally cleanse the gullet and the gut with a big glass of water between drams. Like Gordon Jackson and many others, I was possibly born 2 drams below par, (Whisky Galore reference) so 2 is all it takes for a good night, plus a wee swirly around the mouth for the rest. Perhaps my note taking will improve. As my next hangoer is not due until I’m about 80, I would like to navigate my way there, enjoying a few lovely drams on the way and I can’t think of a nicer way of doing some of that with The Lochaber Whisky Club.

A Drought in The Old Fort

Part of Friday was spent sitting in a graveyard waiting for it to rain. I’d been in a bit of a rush and had thrown an old set of my mum’s gouache paints into the bag, some brushes and the buckled graveyard sketchbook. I’d remembered a wee water holder and had filled my water bottle. But I’d left the water bottle at home and was now experiencing a rare moment in a week of torrential rain when I just needed it to rain enough to put some water in my pot. There was plenty of puddles on the main road but none in the grassy yard. I just couldn’t face the looks of passing drivers and pedestrians if I knelt on the roadside dipping my yoghurt pot in a drain - I just couldn’t. So I waited. And waited. And a few drops fell, slightly damping the sketchbook, wetting my palette which had some old paint on it, turning it to the colour of mud. Paint in tubes is thankfully wet by nature so I just squeezed some out on my paper and my fingers and squished it about, using the coloured pencils to draw a little. The graveyard was looking a little the worse for wear in the dull skies and weeds, though the grass was cut. The gateway structure into it was originally the entrance to the Old Fort William, back in the day when it really was a Fort and King William of Orange had a wee claim on the place. I thought I’d better try painting that, though I should know better as we’re talking angles and stuff. I could just say the dog got in the way…..

The week wasn’t shaping up to be a very creative one and I was mostly grabbing opportunities between other stuff. This was the easiest graveyard to get to and years ago I’d had a nice day in here drawing, but I definitely wasn’t feeling it today. Maybe it was the lack of rain.. As I was approaching the back exit to the graveyard, some young men walked past, staring over the wall at me as if I’d just crawled out of a crypt. Thankfully I wasn’t draining a puddle, but I had a moment of ‘seeing oorsel’s as ithers see us’.

To satisfy my new need to put paint onto a surface, I added some bright colours to my concertina sketchbook, which I could do at the dining room table as long as I remembered to wipe up the paint splashes from the floor, and the table, and the seat. The current warmer climate will get me back out into my Breaking Bad Studiovan, and not a moment too soon, before the layer of painted household surfaces get too thick.

Lacking graveyard get up and go, I spent Saturday printing on tissue paper from a gelli plate. This looks really easy in Youtube videos, however, I got in a messy fankle - thankfully I was doing in the Breaking Bad Studiovan due to global warming which saw Aboyne reach a record 18 degrees for January - not good.

I’d raided my sister’s haberdashery collection for old bits of lace from our Nana. She was a Corsetiere before she was married (1920’s) and I was thinking there would be all sorts of sexy lace, but of course corsets were a little more functional back in the day and mostly she had boxes of tape, and stays. However there were wee bits of treasure and my sister gave some very fluffy synthetic feathers (not my Nana’s) which thankfully she doesn’t want back as they are now stuck to a table in the van in a gloopy mess. But they made some nice prints…these will hopefully be glued onto paintings in a graveyardy kinda way - eventually. Torn to bits, of course.

A wee piece of Nana’s printed lace in my sketchbook.

Nana’s lace.

Connections

I am Dougal from Father Ted. A slightly smarter version in that I understand that the toy cow in my hand is small and the cows that appear to be the same size in the field away in the distance, are actually big. However, how to get that on paper, no matter how hard I look, just doesn’t square up for me. If a crow flies overhead (they do a lot of that at graveyards,) I paint it on and it’s the size of an albatross - or a Dementor. So I have to paint it out and give up on that particular slant on atmosphere. I understand that the gravestone closest to me will be bigger. But the one further away is in actual fact a lot bigger than the one closest to me so what do I do with that. I just can’t see it. The artists job is to select what goes on the paper and what gets left off. In the end, I resorted to finger painting as a way out….

My drawing skills were greatly improved by a spot of sleet. Unfortunately I had to mop some of the paint and ink up or it would all have run off the paper, and then I laboured over it once I got home.

Dog not happy. I’d forgotten to take his luxury mat that Marion made for ME.

For years, Granny talked about us all going up to Cille Choirill with the children and a picnic, to fix up the headstone and tidy up around it. Now the ‘children’ live in Ireland and Canada, and the cousins live in Glasgow, and the headstone is still squint and is the only one with weeds sticking up through the snow. The names are of the Kennedy’s and descendents. Great Great Granny Jessie Kennedy and Great Great Papa Donald, Great Granny McAllan, and her brothers, and Great Papa McAllan. 2 of these boys didn’t make it home from the First World War and one of them did, but ultimately didn’t recover, and took his own life. My children are connected to this place through their bloodline, and I get to be connected through them, thanks to my husband and Granny Munro.

There is no family graveyard in my immediate history, though Ayrshire does hold some of my McCosh relatives safely in it’s rich soil. My Pollock history lies in the land that I pass by on my way to visit my daughter in Ireland. It is reflected back at me as I drive past Symington and see Ailsa Craig ahead, and on the left, through the image that I lived with on paper for over 50 years.

This is my mothers drawing that she did from the view from our farm. After my dad died and we left Ayrshire, this picture stayed pinned on this board from then in 1969, until now. It sat on her easel permanently and now it lives in my house on the same board. The pins are rusted in and it would tear if I tried to remove it. Underneath are 3 sheets of paper with things on them but I have no idea what. This could be our Headstone.

This will be my dad, ploughing the field.

This is the farm where the collie dog lived that used to come over and visit us. I thought it was a wolf and would run screaming into the house to hide. I was an overdramatic and annoying child.

The Barnweil Monument, or lesser known Wallace’s Monument, in memory of William Wallace. The skyline view that used to represent home for the first 5 years of my life. I always look when I drive by.

This connection to Ayrshire is so deeply held and important.

Gathering ideas for when I eventually try to make a painting. The weeds will be going in.

Earlier in the week, I created and fussed over a made up painting from Mucomir with the wee church making an appearance. My sketchbook that went missing at Mucomir, was delivered back to me and the two Cille Choirhill sketchs were made on it’s buckled pages to celebrate it’s return. Id met Roddy Moy in his truck on the road and asked him if he’d seen it. He’d said no, but that people in Mucomir were talking about a potential Banksy that had appeared. The farmer has a sense of humour. I’d asked him to ask around. He didn’t look as if he was going to put a lot of effort into it. About 5 days later I was chatting with Carrie of the Barge when I remembered she lived at Mucomir and asked her if she’d seen a sketchpad lying around. And she HAD!! Sitting on the graveyard wall with it’s one sketch facing skywards, as if waiting for someone to collect. Unfortunately we were chatting amidst deep snow, so it was going to be buried by now, unless someone had picked it up. But she sent me a video of her digging it out and delivered it back just under a week after it had gone missing. I’m ridiculously happy to have it returned - I didn’t like to think of it rotting in a ditch.

Back home from Cille Choirhill, cold and wet, I was about to take off my boots. I had another Dougal type moment, when I realised I was wearing mismatched boots. I don’t know if he ever did this, but I think he probably would. Spook scratched his head and asked how anyone could do this without noticing. Well I did notice - but only after the event. I’m not totally stupid.

Dancing with Ghosts

As a creatively repressed person (I still tend to do the obvious when painting and lack the confidence to be really brave and not worry abou the result,) I’ve gone back to repeat the art course I have just finished. At the time I completed the 12 week course I thought Aha! I’ve arrived. And then I’ve gone out and ignored a lot of what I’ve learnt and lack creative innovation. So this week I started at the beginning again as there is one year access to the course.

Assignment 1 is to do a painting of my subject without looking at my paper. (Blind Painting). Whilst listening to a piece of music - I thought I’d combine the assignment with my wish to paint graveyards - whilst ignoring any impulse to dance and look as if I’m attempting to drum up the Devil - whilst looking like a mad character from a Fargo drama.

There’s a graveyard 6 miles along the road which would have served the community of Mucomir. That was this weeks target so I thought I’d walk the dog close by to use up some of his energy and give me peace to paint afterwards. At the start of my walk I met Roddy Moy (who farms next to Moy Bridge Graveyard, and has already learnt of my apparently goulish penchant for hingin’ aboot with the long dead.) He was on his way for his morning cuppa in the household that is directly across the road from the graveyard. So I did mention to him that I was heading that way after my walk and would have headphones on listening to music while painting - in case they should look out the window and worry….

He gave me a steadfast, farmery kinda look and said “Ah well, everyone needs a hobby!”

I’d chosen 250 to Vigo as a piece of music that stirs feelings of love and loss as well as love and celebration. Angus Grant wrote it and his version on the Venus in Tweed Shooglenifty ablum is wonderful Duncan Chisolm also plays an exqusite version. It’s a Lochaber song about a road in Portugal.

My sister Marion has been a bit worried about my health in damp graveyards and made me a beautiful mat with waterproof underside to protect me from the damp. She said it only lacked dirt on one side and paint on the other and I should go get it dirty. I set up my paints and laid out my new mat……

There appeared to be some kind of misundertanding between myself and the dog. But he was certainly giving me peace, so I turned on my tune and covered my view of my sketchpad and pretended I was playing the fiddle. Weilding the fiddle brush enabled me to resist dancing. Bizarrely, despite thinking I’d put loads of paint on the paper, there was hardly any!! I’d sprayed the paper with water first, and used an inktense pencil and then painted.

The dog had settled down for the long run, so I painted another, as one listen of 250 to Vigo is never enough.

This is the version from after I’d got home and added to it. It’ll be getting ripped up and rebuilt. I did do one more painting whilst just listening and looking at the paper and enjoying yet another repeat.

I was really enjoying myself now and my fiddle playing was coming on a treat. Unfortunately I have lost this one as I placed it on the roof of the car while putting all my stuff in the boot and I think I drove off with it still there. I’ve since sent Roddy Moy a message asking him to keep an eye out for it, which I’m sure he’ll be diligent about. I’ve resisted calling the police for danger of being fined for wasting police time, nor put out a notice on Buy, Sell, Swap Lochaber. The sketch book may get buried in the forthcoming snow and the painting may age beautifully until the thaw. One can only hope.

The path of the artist does not run smoothly. That’s a given. I did buy some tulips to paint in between the graveyard pics but every time I looked at them they’d changed shape. It’s a tulip thing. But I worked away at them, in between dancing with the ghosts (which I only did once I’d extricated the dog from his luxury mat and woo’d him with a walk in the gardens next door, still with the headphones on and glancing about to make sure no one was around - so still repressed.)

When I came into my house today, Running Girl was ensconced in the kitchen eating her lunch and wating for us to come home. We were a little late so she occupied herself between bites of her oatcakes….

She runs, she cycles, she swims. And now she paints.

While we ordinary mortals were lurking around graveyards and the likes on a dull day, at the very same time, my husband’s colleaque was above the clouds in a different, more heavenly place.

Creating My Own Layers

Showing up is a wee bit harder than I’d hoped it would be. It’s only fun when you think that you’ll eventually make a picture you like and then you are reminded that your drawing skills are quite shocking. However, creating something out of that sketch that at least means somethiing to me is my main aim.

I went back to the old graveyard in Glen Nevis to see if a dry day made things any easier. Nope - the likelihood is that the unexpected effects of the rain helped. Also, a lack of rain brought a little more activity to the glen and the dog got all territorial and did his rotweiller impression to a very nice man who’d come to cut up the large tree that had blown over a recently rebuilt dry stane wall. We chatted across the wall until my phone sounded from in amongst the debris of sketchbook and paints. The Woodsman said that it was a pity to spoil the peace of the old graveyard with such a modern thing as a mobile phone - as he pulled the cord on his chainsaw.

Dearie me. This time I’d stuck Sir Walter Scott onto the paper before I left home. I thought this might help me feel more creative and inspire a sense of history. I was glad the Woodsman was more interested in carving up the tree than seeing what I was painting. It’s always dangerous to look over someone’s shoulder as you kinda feel you have to make some kind of comment. However, I’m definitely feeling that it’s worth starting with something from out and about and then labouring over it in comfort back home.

The gravestones do all lean over, but I think I also had my head at an angle!!

As a hoarder, I don’t throw much away, so I found the front page of the sketch pad that I’d used as a palette the last time I was at this graveyard andI tore that up and stuck bits down. This added some modern history.

I wish I could paint so freely on paper as the paint on my palette implies. Something to work on….

Showing Up

Last Thursday I discovered at the last minute that I didn’t need to go to work after lunch. Spook came home at that point as there was no power up his mountain after the previous day’s storm (Storm Gerrit), it was pouring with rain and he was in the doldrums. It was far too wet to do anything. So I donned my layers of clothing, waterproofs and Dry Robe (which has retired from any attempts at protecting me from the cold after dipping myself in cold water as who the hell wants to do THAT?,) and took my paints to the ancient graveyard in Glen Nevis. Very close to town, it’s enshrouded in large ancient trees and a dry stone wall and people must walk past it all the time without noticing it’s there. There was even a bit of a canopy to protect me from the worst of the rain. 40 minutes is really enough to get some shapes and colours onto paper and I managed a small one and a larger on another of my Mum’s old sketchbooks. The paint was extra wet with the rain, so I left the graveyard for the short walk back to the car, carrying the small one flat in one hand and the large one balanced in the palm of the other. Unfortunately, the rain got even heavier and was gathering on the sheets of paper, but I didn’t want to tip them up and wash all the paint off. There was almost no one in the Glen. Almost no one. A young man walked towards me, hunched up and looking lost.

“Is this the way to Ben Nevis?”

Using the hand with the smaller painting, I pointed into the mist behind him.

“That’s it over there. It’s 3.30pm, I hope youre not planning to go far?”

What a tumpshie, I thought, as the paint drippped off the large painting, and ran up the sleeve inside my Dry Robe. Imagine even thinking about it on this day and at this time with 1 hr of daylight left. Some people are just mad - mad, I say!!

My sopping painting was held high, just under his nose - it’s impossible to know what he was thinking. Hard to see ourselves as others see us, I suppose.

This is what it looked like after working on it at home.

This is what it looked like in the car, with a big puddle of muddy water.

When I got back to the car, I didn’t want all the water to run away and I still hadn’t wanted to tip it up in case the puddle of paint was crucial to my work of art. So I propped it level with some dogs toys and rubbish in the back of the car and drove carefully home, trying to keep the car level. A quite ridiculous concept, of course, and Spook would wish I had taken such care when I transported the little jug of olive oil to his parents house to aid and abet the wax in their ears. It’s still possible to get an oil stain on your bum if you sit in the wrong place.

This is what it looked like once the dirty paint water had soaked into the boot of the car. (I’m sure the dog toys took the brunt of it.)

My smaller painting, used to point out Ben Nevis to unsuspecting tourists.

My Grandpa Nicol’s ancient Waverly Novels, by Sir Walter Scott, have sat in my house for almost 2 years now. No one wants them. They are tattered and will never be read again. So I took a deep breath and tore pages out of XXV The Pirate (there are 48 of these beauties) and glued them onto the painting. Sacrilege perhaps, but surely Sir Walter Scott would approve of a little repurposing if no one’s going to actually open these books again?

48 Novels. That’s a lot of glueing and sticking. Printed in 1831 - quite fitting for an ancient graveyard.

Monessie Gorge was handy for a lovely after work dog walk the following day and the weather was lovely. 30 minutes was enough to catch a quick sketch in the gloaming.

Cold fingers. Cup of Tea and a Timtam at Curly’s house, and them home to rework it. Haven’t ripped this up, nor the Glen Nevis Graveyard ones - yet.

The last day of the year was a Sunday. The Day of the Dip is a Sunday, which as I have stated, I no longer participate in. But I do wear the Robe, which now has white acrylic paint down the front of it (and some brown paint inside the sleeves.) However Running Girl continues with the Dip and chose Loch Sheil at the foot of the Glenfinnan Monument as her last dip of the year. I decided that no opportunity should be missed to try a wee painting so said I’d take the same time it took her to strip off, swim and don her dragon onesy (no such fancy kit as a Dry Robe for HER.) I rested my finished pic on her swim bag, which she grabbed in her freezing fingers, which tipped the pic onto the grass. This added texture to a dull a painting.

I tried to brighten it up at home, and then ripped it up and tried again.

Only bit I liked

The wee smudge in the water is Running Girl

It’s hard to describe the pleasure I have had from going out to paint, regardless of the weather or the light. The sense of empowerment from not having to hide from the weather nor worry about whether or not a painting works. It’s about showing up, and keeping on, because it doesn’t matter. It’s just paper and paint, and I can do what I like.

Rip It Up and Start Again, I said......

Waiting for good weather is not an option, nor is choosing a time and sticking to it. So I grabbed an unexpected moment when I had the sketchpad, but not enough clothing. It was a balmy 6 degrees with a bit of drizzle and wind chill, ensuring I couldn’t labour over it as 35 minutes was more than enough to freeze the end of my fingers and some of that time was spent chasing my paint pot about in the wind. This was my mum’s old sketchbook and she’d already put a dull green wash over it. I think that means I can call it a collaboration although she’d be horrified at the perspective of the wee church - can we just say I abstracted the shapes? No?

The dog was sulking at home with Spook but that just saved me having to put up with him sulking in a graveyard, though photographic evidence of the sulk was sent to me…..

Next to the door and my boots - as if there was anything he could do about it.

Before ripping it up, I wondered if I could liven it up a bit.

All that happened was that it got sunnier and splattier. When all else fails, I splatter. And when that fails, I rip.

Before that I’d tried going a bit more blue and lavendar. 35 minute sketch and hours of labouring!!

As further collaboration, I added some music from my mum’s first piano book. I forgot to note the tune. It’ll likely be a reel or a strathspey.

Now I’m not sure if I like it as a whole, but am loathe to rip it up and start again….

Moy Bridge Graveyard was starting to look particularly dull, so I brightened it up a little.

Nobody Said it was Easy

Once a week should be enough to whet my creative appetite, so on a truly gorgeous sunny day I managed a wee walk up to the loveliest graveyard in the country. The dog was very excited but it won’t be long before he recognises what that green rucksack with the swinging paint pot signifies.

He has all the freedom he needs to sniff to his hearts content. But no - he’d rather sit in the huff and get in the way. At one point he had his nose resting on the sketch pad….

I took my concertina sketch pad which only really had left over paint which I had dobbed into the pad while I was painting at Meg’s kitchen in Ireland. The layout seemed to work quite well here.

The writing was from a crumpled up, discarded and soaking piece of a childs homework I found in the park in Ireland. Didn’t want to waste it. Hope the child didn’t get sent back to look for it - it WAS very wet and torn.

Unfortunately, my main sketch looked far better with the shadows created by the bright sunlight and the wet, cheap paper!! When I showed it to Granny (who’s family rest here) she said it looked like an orgy. I think she was confusing it with the scene from Tam O’Shanter!

Thankfully, I’m very aware of my limited sketching ability and the plan was to rip it up at home and rearrange. I did some wee sketches of shapes and images to add to the mix.

If only I could edit the pictures as easily as I can on the phone as they looked way better in black and white.

An hour or so at home was enough time to splice them up and make a lighter hearted, non orgy style pic. Cille Choirill is a very precious place and I would never seek to try and reflect it’s iconic place in peoples hearts and minds. This is me enjoying the process, inspired by the loveliness of the place.

A bit squinty, but will go in my pile of ideas.

Last week’s Moy Graveyard was a bit greyer, so I brightened it up a bit before storing away.

Finding The Joy

Who would have believed I needed permission to go look for it? To just throw paint around and see what happens? That it’s all about finding what you like and don’t like and keeping on exploring the things you do like. That you don’t need to hold onto every single little thing in case you can’t manage to create it again. It’s about being brave, letting go, not needing the approval of others. Lesson’s in life through painting.

Itsmosblog has stagnated because I didn’t know what to do with it but wanted to keep it, so that’s the first thing I’m not letting go. Now it’s my new weekly assignment guide. I’ve just finished a course called Find Your Joy by Louise Fletcher who is an abstract painter. 12 weeks long, it kept me painting and smiling for the duration. I have reached no elevated creative hieghts - just the revelation that I love putting paint on paper or canvas or board, when it doesn’t have to be something at the end of it. Feeling I have to make a painting work, usually kills it. But now that Louise is not handing out assignments every week, I want a place to keep a record and to have to keep ‘turning up’. I wouldn’t have a blog if I didn’t want to tell people about ‘stuff’.

I’m going to start looking for my joy in graveyards for the moment. Places full of stories, memories, love, loss. I wonder if losing my own father before I was 5 years old, his remains scattered in the Rememberence Garden at the Crematorium in Ayr - a place that holds no meaning to me - has led me to have a special interest in places where people can go to remember and reflect. This is in no way a morbid interest. I’ve sat in many graveyards, wondering who lie’s there, what was their story. And I’ve sat in ones where there are people I loved and cared about. And I find them peaceful and restorative.

I haven’t a clue what the paintings will look like, but I’m not going to worry about that. I’m going to enjoy the exploration and see what happens. If I don’t have time to get out sketching, then I’ll sketch anything that comes to hand or get some paint or pencils onto a substrate, regardless. Like the other week when there was no time to paint so I looked in a mirror, didn’t look at my paper, and drew my face. That was fun. I added the cold sore but ignored the wrinkles. Maybe the next time I’ll add them and it might look more like me. It doesn’t matter - it was fun.

Moy Bridge Graveyard is just along the road, so I checked with Roddy Moy (so named as he farms at Moy) if it was ok to drive through his yard, down to the graveyard. He’s fine with that which is good as I hate a row. No doubt a hang up from childhood.

I piled the dog and some cheap, thin paper and a few supplies in the car and headed off with a grin of anticipation.

The dog is going to get very bored

I did 2 sketches. I hadn’t meant to try and represent exactly what’s there and fell into old habits of trying to do that. I’m not great with perspective and proportion and so I was planning to try and get a feel for the place. Lewis Noble is an artist who goes out sketching shapes and colours in the landscape and then comes home and tears them up into a completely different arrangement. This was my plan. I thought it would be fun and easy. It was fun, not easy and not very successful. Thankfully the happiness of my day was not hinged upon a resolved and lovely painting. Phew.

I tore, and rearranged, and in fact rebuilt the whole graveyard until it was a dark and creepy place which is not remotely the feel I was going for.

No question about it. I checked in with myself and it was fun. Clearly I have still not learnt about proportion and composition. I have discovered that being a hoarder in life, is also reflected in my paintings. I hoard all the bits I like and I’m niether good at throwing things away nor editing.

Maybe I’ll stick this last bit down and paint over other bits. It doesn’t matter. I sketched and I blogged. Mission accomplished for this week.

As part of my inspiration, I’m including a painting my brother-in-law made for me from old photographs of my dad - Jim Pollock.

Where’s Ma Joy?

Well, I’m looking for it. It’s in amongst some paper and paint brushes and it’s been eluding me for over 40 years!!

1982 to 1986 were wonderful, formative years. I don’t in any way regret my time at Art School but my thoughts seemed reflected in the Tutors eyes. “What on earth is she doing here? How did she get in? And should we throw her out or keep her and try to squeeze a degree out of her? They certainly came perilously close to evicting me at the end of 2nd year which was the 1st year of the Drawing and Painting course. But they liked me well enough and decided to let me stay, whilst continuing to stand and stare at me with their hands in their pockets thinking…”when is she going to start?” Lots of love and encouragement ensued from my fellow students who all appeared to have followed their dreams into Art School. I made my bestest friend of 40 years (who has continued to try and nudge me to recognise the artist in myself) and I hugely value the connections I still have to many of those wonderful people who still work at their art (or not) - some with great success. If it wasn’t for the sweetness of lecturers Will McLean who REALLY tried, and then, in our final year, the encouragement of Paul Gough fresh from art school in London, and Elaine Shemilt fresh from making installations with pigs heads, I don’t know that I would have made it across the finish line.

I googled them to see where they all are now and all continue to practice their art. I heard Paul Gough on the radio a couple of months ago when the Banksy exhibition opened in Glasgow. He is the leading expert on him and apparently there was a significant rumour on tik-tok that he IS Banksy. That’s me then. Trained by Banksy - mibbie’s aye, mibbie’s naw!

Having survived Art School I went on to have an illustrious career as a Store Detective (very good at that) a Tree Planter (not very good at that but it brought me to a whole new and wonderful culture in the Highlands,) a Teacher of English in Wuhan (which no one had ever heard of in 1988), a support worker in the East End of Glasgow where I was lucky to do a lot of therapeutic art with feisty Glaswegians, a support worker for adults with learning disabilities in their own home in the Highlands (no art) and finally a self employed cleaner who wears head phones and listens to podcasts whilst wielding a broom and a toilet brush. Which brought me to Louise Fletcher and her online course Find Your Joy. Can she do what I and everyone else has failed to do over 40 years? I have 3 months to begin the search with support and coaching. It starts today……..

This is me getting back to my inner student - eating cold leftover porridge from the pot. It helps to go for total immersion….

Fridges, Chicken, And Basic Hygiene

Spook and I don’t spend a lot of time together other than dinner and tv.  He has Tuesdays and Wednesdays off and I don’t, so when our Meg was coming over with her lovely Irishman for 2 weeks recently, we both took some holiday leave.  We discovered that it’s quite nice to be around each other. Being on my own is something I’m particularly good at and it’s useful to discover that I’m still able to share that time with anyone other than my dog and my pal - Running Girl.  It’s possible that both Spook and I spend more time with RG than we do with each other - he and the dog run with her on his days off and I drink tea with her on mine.

I regularly maintain that I could easily live alone. 

At 7.10am last Monday this theory was thrown into disarray when Spook went to work. By 7.30am I had blown the toaster, the air fryer, the fridge and the internet. By 8am, determined to thrive alone, I had dragged an old fridge in from my studio/van and had washed the mouldy shelves and scraped and scrubbed the paint from the top of it where my easel had been propped. I had loads of cooking to do and it needed a fridge to preserve it once cooked.  There was no time to lose. A kind of frenzied panic had set in.  There had been much crashing about pulling fridges in and out of position, mouldy glass shelving slipping off uneven surfaces falling noisily onto laminate flooring, and soapy fridge parts dripping everywhere.  By 8.15am the dog was sitting halfway up the stairs with a toy stuffed in his mouth, a look of panic in his soft brown eyes

Having picked up my text message about impending disaster, Spook phoned me.  As he didn’t have a wet kipper to hand, he had to use calm, reassuring words (‘you need a slap with a wet kipper’ is his go to suggestion if I’m having a meltdown.)

He managed to talk me through getting the fuse box reset and the appliances all working again.  Except the internet.  He said he’d call later.

When he called back, I was making a lasagne on the stove top and chopping up a chicken for a curry.  He believed this to be a good point to get me to pull out the Ikea unit on which the internet clobber sits and the wires hide behind.  In front of the unit there are umbrellas, shoes, spare window blinds, a small tv, a dismantled Hoover and an ironing board. I yelled – “I can’t deal with the internet just now cos I’ve got you on my phone in one hand, and chicken in the other and shite all over the place.” He pictured me holding a live chicken by the legs and poop everywhere - with reason gone altogether, he just had to let it go.  If I had calmed down and listened, I’d have seen that the power cable to the internet had slipped out and just needed plugged in.

Knowing whether I’m losing the plot, menopausal or have ADD, is hard to gauge. My daughter suggests that all are possible. Yesterday I had a Mexican stand off with the dog who wanted to take Spooks training shoe for a walk.  When I eventually won the argument, I sat the trainer on the roof of the car which we were standing next to and went for the walk.  When we got home, I decided to nip to M&S for nibbles and beer for Spook, who would be coming home from an exhausting day.  As I pulled up to M&S I suddenly remembered the shoe on the roof of the car.  It wasn’t there.  I’d have to search for it on the drive home.

I was browsing in the veg department (as I didn’t want to be seen going straight to the crisps and alcohol section which was all I wanted) when I met a friend and told him about the shoe. He was empathetic and shared his own story about sitting his iPhone on his tractor while he refuelled and then drove over it with the 3.5-ton tractor.  With a lack of empathy I pointed out that whilst I might get away with menopause claims, he was probably just stupid.

On the way home, I had 2 roundabouts to fully navigate which meant going round in circles while the dog braced himself for multiple revolutions and looked like he might be sick. I scoured the verges, drove like a lost tourist, scanned the driveway, and finally the yard.  No trainer.  I turned the ignition off feeling crestfallen and glanced at the passenger footwell.  Where the trainer was sitting in plain sight.  

Our Running Girl heads off on her 3 month cycle adventure to France and Ireland tonight.  Spook and I have no idea how we will cope.  He now must find the enthusiasm to run with just the dog and get much needed Ben Race training without his mentor.  I must remember to take a shower.  I have to take a shower on a Sunday because I’m freezing after the cold dip in the loch which she makes me do and I have absolutely no intention of doing while she’s away.  And then I usually remember on a Wednesday that it’s halfway through the week and I probably need to shower again.  Without such indicators I’ll easily let such basic hygiene routines lapse. Spook moving into the spare room will perhaps be the ‘take a shower’ indicator but it’s uncharted territory.

Have an amazing adventure, Sara.

Emergencies, fermentation, and the Pursuit of Good Hearing

Whit a scunner. One day of sunshine at a time lest we get too used to such frivolity.

With the frost fully gone, I relaxed and got lulled into a careless footstep. I slipped on a rock and in a semi controlled fall I bumped my right shin, hip and shoulder and mildly tweaked my left hamstring. As I lay on the ground resisting the urge to burst into tears I did tick off a couple of things to be grateful for. . I hadn’t pee’d myself and I wasn’t wearing any of Spooks rescue ‘equipment’. He thinks I endanger the lives of others when I divert his good waterproofs for my own ends. I WAS wearing his socks but how many socks can a man wear? His suggestion that I am putting lives at risk by wearing his socks is wearing thin (like his socks.) Anyway - the sun was shining for a change so at least I had a nice blue sky to look up at.

Even the dog doesn’t want to go out on wet days. Sniffs and poops is what it’s all about but he can cope with short walks in emergencies. Such as the one which occurred last week. Running Girl phoned in a state of some distress. I couldn’t work out the gibberish but reckoned I was only 10 minutes away from where she was working, and where I’d just started the dog walk. I could be there with sweet buns within 15 mins The dog was bundled into the car, buns were bought, and we delivered to the rescue team building where she was whipping the place into a quite stunning level of order. Sadly, the announcement that Ken Bruce is to retire from Radio 2 had put her into meltdown mode which only tea and sweet treats can get her out of. Thankfully she’d got the biscuit cupboard in order before the terrible news so all was not lost and with my bun intervention the biscuits remained intact for the team as they would have been her emotional back up plan.

This is the kind of order I’m expected to maintain (and a very important aspect of rescues) when she’s off on her 3 month cycle tour in the spring, so when a member of the team came in (the one who pays the cleaner) and asked for my car keys so he could move my car to a better space, I couldn’t let him discover the real me. I’m a shockingly messy person and I didn’t want him judging me by the state of my car. Also, when I’d got back in the car after buying the buns I could smell rotting cabbage. This could either be a damp cloth lurking under a seat and festering for a few days or could have been my home made sauerkraut, some of which had escaped from my sandwich when I was lunching between jobs last week. I’d told myself I needed to get that cleaned up before Spook found it but by the time I got home I’d completely forgotten about it. Sometimes even I struggle to live with myself, and the sudden bad smell was surpassing my own personal limit.

The smell was even worse when I went to move the car but I’d forgotten I’d popped the dogs poo bag into the car in the rush and so in this instance, it wasn’t stinking cloths or loose sauerkraut. However, I continue to live on the edge with Spook, between wearing his clothes and not looking after his car. When he was fixing a hand brake cable yesterday and was rooting about in the boot he said there appeared to be about a gallon of olive oil or something similar which had leaked down into the spare wheel fixings.

Ah. Yes. I could explain that I was transporting a small jar of olive oil to his parents house where we were all dosing our ears to improve our hearing and I couldn’t find a lid. I’d put cling film and an elastic band around the top and it would appear this had not stopped leakage when the jar had fallen over. I tried to look angelic as I was, after all, helping his mum and dad - whilst hoping that this was distracting from the far more offensive fermenting cabbage in the front foot well. He was unsympathetic however and wondered that there was any oil left for anyone’s ears.

The other good news was that my sister could tell me that Ken was still going to be around but on a different radio station and that Pop Master would continue to sustain Running Girl through her cleaning mornings.

A Wee Bit of What You Fancy…..

In the darkest time of year you need to make an effort in order to find the light. The dog helps me to do this as he enthusiastically awaits a walk twice a day no matter what the weather is chucking at us. Even HE doesn’t like the rain but sniffs have to be gathered and stored to fill enough dreams in the minimum of 12 hrs that he spends sleeping. I wouldn’t step out the door at all if I didn’t have to. When I look back at the pictures from our walks over the last month I realise that we found far more light than I remembered.

Granny’s Graveyard - so called by my children because their Great Granny is resting here with others in her family. When I used to drive from college in Dundee across country to Kyle of Lochalsh, I’d look forward to the part of the journey where I could look up and see this amazing wee graveyard pitched on top of a hill. I never imagined I’d come to know and be so fond of so many people whose names are now carved into stones up here.

A studio mate at college often took the same journey to stay with folk in Dornie. On the way he’d stop off at Loch Cluanie and collect beautiful pieces of drift wood - possibly Ancient Caledonian Pine - which had perished since the damn was built in 1957. I’d always meant to go and explore the shoreline but was always on my way to ‘somewhere’ and didn’t have time to stop. So between Christmas and New Year I took a wee road trip to the loch and followed the dogs nose.

The road signs were warning snow and ice so as the squalls started moving in from the west, we moved back to the comfort of the van.

There were occasional sunny days here and there but rarely did we have 2 in a row. So when the sun shone everyone got out and marvelled at what a beautiful place we are lucky to live in and forgot about the grey days. Short memories are important sometimes.

Back at Granny’s Graveyard a week or so later the setting sun was strong enough to paint some gold leaf on a few stones.

And on a recent sunny morning I could see that the sun was appearing earlier round the side of The Ben.

When letting the dog choose the path once I’ve chosen the road, he often makes me work a bit harder than I intended.

We left the car at the viewpoint and his choice was ‘up’.

It was a different world at the trig point. But we did nearly get a sunset.

There has been some pretty slippy issues with this changing weather. Rain one day followed by frost the next and sometimes followed by a partial defrost that left unseen ice under puddles making it lethal. It became impossible for Granny and Papa to even let the hens out so I crawled about the yard on ocassion to help with some chores. Granny asked me to take out some stale cake for the hens. She has a liking for the French Fancy but for some reason has an aversion to the brown ones. As in the scene in Still Game when Victor told Jack he could put the bulb on in the electric fire but not the bars, as that ‘implied’ heat, the colour of the French Fancy only implies flavour - lemon yellow, raspberry pink and chocolate brown. In reality they all taste the same (these are not Mr Kiplings which may or may not have different flavours) but for some reason Granny never ever eats the brown ones. So the hens get them. I scattered them in the hen pen and went to chop some wood. I suddenly realised the dog wasn’t with me and looked up to see him appear round the corner licking his lips. As he’s scared of hens I knew he must have scoffed the French Fancies. This was unfortunate as for the last 2 months he’s been on a strict hypo allergenic diet. French Fancy’s are not on his very short list of non existent exceptions - not in any colour.

Next day, as Spook was packing for a training trip to Norway with the rescue team I asked if I could borrow his cosy waterproof jacket before he packed it. He’s never too keen on me borrowing what he says is essentially rescue equipment as I can be a bit careless, but I was only going for a short walk.

The canal path was treacherous and the dog, who normally has the most perfect poop did a skittery one down a steep bank. This would be the result of the French Fancy. I managed to scoop the part slop/part perfect poop into the poo bag and held it gingerly between fore finger and thumb till I got onto firmer ground where I could tie the bag. As I stepped across the ice, I slipped and the poop swung out to the left but with extra sloppy weighted velocity it swooped up into the air, somehow doubling back on itself and narrowly missing the precious jacket, it came to land on the toe of my welly boot. Only one little perfectly formed poop had fallen out and the squidgy bit was still contained within the bag. I was so relieved not to have hurt myself but even a broken leg wouldn’t have been enough to get me off the hook if the jacket had been splatted.

One Lock Short Of The Full Adventure

Today, I went on a wee recce to find out what sort of adventure I didn’t have last night.  Para Clara is 50 tomorrow and Running Girl thought to take her away from the hustle and bustle of town life – especially as she was spending the night before driving around that town in her ambulance.  This would be just the tonic.  When Running Girl had been in need of escape we’d gone to a cave on the west coast in mid-February 2020 before lockdown had appeared on our horizons.

This was the perfect spa break for our Lochaber Girl, but something a little more comfortable seemed in order for Para Clara: a bothy 2 miles into a deserted glen with no electricity or running water but the promise of a fire if we took enough dry wood in with us.

However Running girl caught the lurgy, abandoned her running shoes and donned her pyjamas - during daylight hours. This generally indicates that all hopes and dreams will be suspended until she gets her joggers back on. I’m not sure how a sleepy paramedic just off the night shift felt about this but sad as I was for my sneezy pal, I was looking forward to a snug night in my own bed because I am a cowardly weasel.

In order to find out what I had missed I had to establish which bothy had been planned. I knew roughly the area so consulted The Bothy Bible, cross referenced their directions with the Ordnance Survey map, memorised the directions after confirming with my husband that this was the likely bothy, left the map at home and then proceeded to walk 2 miles up the wrong glen to where there was no bothy - only a mast. I pondered the option of traipsing over a bog and a hill in the rough direction of what might be the right glen but took the safer option of walking back down to the main road and taking the next available 2 mile trek up a glen.

The wrong glen

The wrong view

At the next glen option I met a family of 3 packing gear into their car. They confirmed they had slept the last 2 nights in the bothy. 3 men had left ahead of them this morning and 2 more were up a hill just now and staying another night. The family looked very relieved that 3 extra women hadn’t turned up with their smelly wet dog to swell the numbers to 11. It’s a traditional But and Ben which is 2 small rooms and nothing more. The Broons were always leaving their Dundee tenement behind in Glebe Street and heading to the But and Ben in the glens. There was 11 of THEM if they took Granpaw with them. Where on earth did they all sleep?

Not quite the solitude of a west coast cave. Whilst the cave is only a 40 minute walk in, it’s a little precarious in places. The fact we had to haul Running Girl out of a bog in which she might otherwise have perished if we hadn’t been there to save her highlights this. The bog looked innocent enough until one leg shot directly into a hole stopping only at her groin, leaving her other leg demonstrating good posture for a hurdler and therefore holding her out of the bog. Para Clara and I had engaged our core muscles in stifling hysterical laughter and didn’t want to end up where SHE was so it took a while to calm down and disengage her from the bog.

The walk into the bothy, however, is a beautiful pine clad avenue with effervescent green forest on one side and a fantastic fast moving river on the other.

Which is why it is a busy bothy. Especially at holiday time.

As I had only anticipated a 4 mile round trip, I hadn’t taken a snack with me. By the time I got to the bothy it was lunchtime and I was a bit peckish.

I hoped the bothy might still be warm after all the folk staying in it last night and the fact that the men were coming back later. I imagined 3 bowls or porridge, some comfy seats and cosy beds awaiting.

I could see from my reflection that I was one lock short of an ancient Goldilocks (on account of the unfortunate incident with the dog clippers) but with Sleepy and Sneezy out the picture I was the only one left to keep the Fairy Tale alive.

I sheepishly knocked on the door before lifting the latch and creaking the door open. No porridge, a few comfy chairs, a fire that still had a glow and 2 sleeping bags resting on very thin sleeping mats on the floor.

I didn’t crank open a tin of their food, nor sneak a snooze in their sleeping bags. I just added a few pieces of coal and a couple of bits of wood to the fire in the hope that it might still be glowing when they got off the hill.

Get well soon Running Girl and Happy Birthday Para Clara. I enjoyed the anticipation and I did enjoy the recce. I await your instructions once the jammies are off.

Life Sentence

Our first date was 32 years ago and it always makes this dark time of year happily nostalgic for me.  Driving up in all weather through Glencoe on a Friday night, no snow or floods was going to stop me; but trying to find Spook on the 1st of January 2 weeks into our relationship was a challenge I hadn’t expected. I’d brought the Bells in with my family in the central belt and had assumed that he was just as excited about the Village dance - and me - as I was.

I had to follow a trail of Spook sightings.  He’d left the house at midnight, with a rucksack laden with clinking glass.  This was now 4pm the next afternoon and he had not yet returned.  No one was remotely concerned about him but I was seeing my night of dancing slipping away from me, so I went on a search.  

Some partying had taken place in the first household I tried and they advised me on his likely direction from there.  I found his morning coffee stop and then the house where he’d had some soup. He was travelling alone and seemed to be fluid in his movements.  I eventually found him at the end of the road in Old Mrs MacDougal’s house, very happily drinking Mahhattan cocktails, an empty rucksack by his side.  However, he was much less fluid than early reports would have it, and my night of dancing was still slipping away.  It had taken 2 hrs to find him, he’d been on the go since the day before, and there were 3 hrs until the dance. I poured him into my car and got him back to his own house where his wee sister spoon fed him soup until he made a miraculous recovery to dance the night away – otherwise we might not have made it to 32 years.

Keeping things sweet for those years takes different forms – like being supportive of each other’s efforts and making an effort FOR each other.  Quite a few years ago (I’ve told this story before but it’s important to retell it every now and then as a tale of caution,) responding to demands of Christmas cheer from his daughter, he decorated the house with lights including a string around the 2 Dormer windows with herself hanging onto his waistband as he hung out the window.  It was all rather precarious but he was very pleased with the results and asked me to go down the road to get a good view of them and tell him what I thought.  On a cold, dark, rainy night, with lots of other things to do, I was grumpy and reluctant but said I’d drive down the road (it’s a 2 min walk.) When I stepped out the door, I realized the rain had stopped and so decided not to be silly, and to walk. As I was nearing the bottom of the drive a car came along and stopped very briefly in the layby.  I waited until it moved away and then looked up at the house which was ablaze with beautiful lights.  Back at the house Spook was laughing with delight and said “did you see me?”

“eh?”

“When I saw your car stop, I flashed my bum out the bedroom window!”

“I didn’t take the car!” I squealed, “no wonder it drove away so fast!!”

Every now and then it dawns on me that I should pay a bit more attention to my appearance, though sometimes at inopportune moments, such as whilst marshalling at an all day event with nothing more pressing to do than stroke my chin and ponder life. I discovered a long whisker and presented myself at the medical tent as an emergency which required immediate removal of the whisker.

Once, putting a vase of wilted lilies into the bin I took a wee sniff to see if they still smelled nice well past their best.  It was only by chance that I glanced in the mirror before going to town to see that the orange stamen had transferred its powder into every wrinkle above my lips, giving me the most grotesque moustache – much worse than a single hair on my chin.

Recently I’ve been trying to address my poor eating habits and last week I had avocado on toast for breakfast.  Whilst trying to remove the stone but not lose the expensive flesh, it pinged off the counter and I caught it expertly between my thighs.  I did make a mental note to get that off my joggers before walking the dog but was halfway through the walk when I looked down and saw the giant bogey-like stain.  The next day it was my peanut butter that dropped off my toast and it looked worse than the avocado. Then it was the tomato that landed on my chest leaving the seeds stuck to my jumper.

When Megan was home recently I washed, blow dried and straightened my hair; put on moisturizer and eye liner.  I came downstairs and announced this proudly to herself and her Dad.  Without looking up from his laptop, he said….

“Why?”  

Even Daddy’s Girl looked at him with horror and I looked at her as if to say

“Do you see what I’m dealing with here?”

Every 5 months or so I go to my lovely Hairdresser and spend £60 on a haircut.  This only looks nice when I apply the above routine and otherwise is just a fuzzball of frizzy blond.  But at least I’m trying.  Spook has been trying a bit too.  He’s taken to going to the Turkish Barber where they dole out a little more care and attention at greater cost but he comes out feeling and looking a bit special.

The other day, new rechargable batteries arrived for the dog clippers so that I could get the mutt looking as good as his owners. Imagine the 3 of us, beautifully coiffed as we promenade along Caol’s new shorefront. People will comment on how good we look. The previous batteries charged but then just faded soon as you turned them on so I was a bit dubious about the new ones.  Spook fired up the clippers and said that’s them working.  I said you need to run them a bit longer to prove they are sorted.  At the same time as he held them out towards me on full power, I dipped to get something out of my handbag on the floor which was at at our feet - to see a clump of my expensive blond hair drop to the floor.

Bald spots, beards and bare bums – it’s downhill from here, Darling.

Happy Anniversary.

Can just wear this until it grows back.

She’s (He’s) Leaving Home. Bye-bye

She’s (He’s) Leaving Home – Bye-Bye

As my mother watched the bus pull out of Buchanan Street bus station in Glasgow, she worried that the people I was going to work for in Paris would steal my passport and she’d never see me again. I had turned 18 a couple of weeks prior to my departure and had to navigate my way across London to the correct train station  where I would travel to Dover, and after the ferry to Calais would take another train to the centre of Paris.  As it turned out, those people – although not nice to work for - were the least of her worries.

 I was very excited to be going to live in Paris for 3 months and imagined myself to be attending champagne parties and hanging out with Prince Andrew.  I KNOW!  I’ve never said that out loud before, never mind written it down.  And me a Republican!  But these were confusing times.  As a much younger child I’d loved Gary Glitter, and I longed to be on Jim’ll Fix it.

 To put the year into a historical perspective the week before I left, I was travelling home on the Helensburgh train line having been at a Barbara Dickson concert in Glasgow.  The carriage was full of the sounds of Don’t Cry for me Argentina as a group of soldiers, full of bravado, made their way to Faslane to pick up a boat to The Falklands.  They were also leaving home.  The next morning I met one of them in Helensburgh and he recognised me.  They’d missed their boat and he wanted to come home with me to eat pancakes with my Mum. 

The job I started in didn’t work out but I still yearned for a bit of adventure so went to the centre of Paris to look for another job. I found a new post immediately and booked into a hotel for a couple of days until it started, then went to buy a postage stamp so that I could write home about my amazing life.  A pleasant little man found me looking a bit lost and offered to take me to the nearest Bureau de Poste.  It turned out to be an attic room full of fur coats and he wasn’t as pleasant as he’d at first seemed.  The only wise thing I’d said when he asked me if I was alone was that I was meeting friends for dinner that night. In reality, Simone, the old lady who lived in the apartment above the hotel had only said she would “see me later”.  She’d been part of the French Resistance in WW11 and kept a caring eye out for the prostitutes who worked her street to make sure they returned safely each day. It was only when I watched the film Taken years later that I realised what had almost happened to me.  The only realistic thing about that film was that he got his daughter back, so unless your dad’s Liam Neeson, don’t follow pleasant little men up to attic rooms in Paris.  Perhaps Simone may have been my Neeson.

When Meg left home she did so by stealth so that I didn’t really notice.  She came home from University regularly and when she graduated, went to Australia and New Zealand for a 6 week holiday which she exchanged for a 2 year visa whilst there, taking me along on the stressful process of securing that visa en route.  She’s always been good at sharing her highs and lows and I’ve never needed to seek information on how she is.  She appeared on my screen one night looking particularly disgruntled and held up her ankle so that I could see the bruising.  She hadn’t made her work that day due to the injury and her boss had been very unsympathetic.  It was this attitude that she was phoning to complain about.  On a night out with her old Kiwi school pals she had demonstrated a Highland Fling and landed very badly.  This was not her fault she said, as accidents happen.  I didn’t point out that as far as I knew, she had no experience of dancing a Highland Fling and just because she was Scottish did not really give her a licence to demonstrate it to unsuspecting Kiwi’s.

When it came time for Finn to leave home for a 2 year trip to Canada I found it harder, having had him living upstairs for 25 years.  Who would help the Old Folks with their technical issues?  Meg had complained recently that both her Dad and I had pocket called her on the same day.  Finn explained that you clicked the off button on the side of your phone straight after messaging someone. I realised this was akin to the old fashioned act of putting the receiver carefully on the cradle.  There were many times when the person you called didn’t do that properly (probably my Mum and Dad) and you couldn’t make a phone call to anyone else as every time you picked up the phone to dial you could hear them chatting away beside the phone.  You could yell down all you liked to no avail until eventually you had to call The Operator and ask them to send a piercing noise down the line which usually did the trick.

 I exclaimed that I had never thought of clicking the button to turn off the screen! So simple.

 He said, - with some impatience

“It’s iphone 101 Mum!!”

“Well no wonder I didn’t know THAT – I have iphone 11!” I held my hands out in explanation.

My concern with Finn was that he might not remember to communicate at all, or only send basic information which would never be enough for anxious and curious parents back home. 

“I’ll want to know lots of details” I said, “like how you are feeling.”

“Cold?” he said

Family selfie before he left us.

The promised communication of how he’s feeling.

Jacobites, Brownies, Forest Art and if your lucky - a fig roll

You absolutely do not need children to help you enjoy the delights of the Arkaig Forest Art trail. However, the fun level is somewhat raised if you get to explore with spirited and determined ones so I blagged my way in with the project map illustrator who is in first year at the High School and his wee brother and their tiny friend who has not quite turned 5.

They’d brought some parental back-up and their bikes. It’s a 12km round trip from the Achnacarry Village Hall so bikes are perfect but a walk and a packed lunch would make for a longer but satisfying day out.

The map that you pick up to help you on your way and to collect treasure explains “Arkaig Forest Art is a commission by Woodland Trust in celebration of the community ownership of Arkaig Community Forest with a series of sculptural, and community collaborative artworks created to highlight the past present, and future of the forest.”

This is an inspired way to coax youngsters and newbies to the forest along the very beautiful lochside of Arkaig as the promise of a picnic at Invermallie Bothy 3 miles in is sometimes not enough.

There are 7 pieces of treasure to find and a circle on the map on which to emboss the findings. Who doesn’t love a wee bit of embossing?

Each casket that holds the treasure within, represents the 7 caskets of Jacobite gold (there are 6 chests on the trail as only one casket was ever found - making the treasure hunt even more exciting) which the fleeing Bonnie Prince Charlie and his men had to stash somewhere in these glens as they escaped the pursuing army after the massacre at Culloden.

First one in the bag, it was time to study the map before heading off to the find the next…

If you have one, take a strong mother and a tow rope. Can’t recommend this enough.

Ensure she releases you at the top of every climb. There are plenty thrills to be had on this journey and mollycoddling is not part of the gig.

This was Finns first chance to view the completed project and stamp his map.

Or leaves.

The trail is designed to take you off track.

To find what is stalking it, you need to scramble up and see for yourself…..

There’s more lurking in the woods. More questions to be asked, more stories to tell…

Invermallie Bothy - a usual stop spot but we continued up the track.

In between treasure hunting there are trees of all shapes and sizes to admire.

And something that’s coming to a garden near you soon…

Troll bridge to cross before the last stop.

The final push to the turning point is worth the effort.

There had been a light complaint from the youngest member of the group halfway out on the trail, about having to cycle all the way back and a LOT of whingeing from me that I was starving, and I had to be fed a fig roll before I could even think about the trip back. I didn’t hear a word of protest from any other children.

The wee complainant complained no more as soon as she got the feel of flying back along the track with no stops. My advice would be to take a flask and a picnic, - and maybe don’t take me. The Trust had supplied tea and biscuits at one of the stops but that’s not going to be there the next time

I’ve skipped one of the treasure stops so as not to reveal all and not shown everything that there is to see. How could you ever show everything there is to see? Every change of weather and season will uncover something new once you get your nature eye in.

There is a Loch Arkaig Pine Forest app that you can download for a visitors guide.

Magical day out

The Wee Cat

It’s complicated.

You get a dog to give hope to your off-spring who have been grounded by a pandemic. Your daughter leaves the country as soon as restrictions are lifted.  Your son stays on for a further 2 years, but he’s 25 now and it’s time to leave.  You are left with the dog. Thankfully the dog turns out to be the loving, non-judgmental adoring child you never had.

You get a wee cat to replace your son. The cat is the adventurous, risk taking, independent child you hoped for whilst wishing they were more like the dog.

The dog is hypo-allergenic so that your son and husband don’t get wheezy.  He turns out to be a sponge that soaks up all allergins in the house and is an itchy-scratchy rag-bag that the vet says would be better off living in an outside kennel away from house mites. Spook has recently become a wheezy, weepy eyed mess which suggests he’s allergic to the wee cat.  I resist the suggestion to kennel the dog (or Spook) and on a beautiful sunny day embark on a mission to rid the house of mites and kitten fur.  Spook is on a day off and says he’s looking forward to just fixing stuff .  I  say that if he ever runs out of employment I’m going to stick a sign at the bottom of the drive which says “Stuff Fixed”. And they will come.

I start with a washing of old towels used to dry the dog and throw in the dog bed for good measure.

I shake out the dog blankets from the living room seats and toss them outside onto the deck.  I remember I have another washing machine down at my caravans and gather them up from their sunny spot and stick them in the machine down there.  I’m feeling really good about myself as an animal and husband devotee. Spook is happily out and about studying his ancient tractor and planning its makeover. Only HE understands the jiggery-pokery required to make it work. Maybe a push button starter would mean that I could actually use it.

I am interrupted in my self congratulatory state of mind by the sound of someone kicking-in the back door.  I run through and find the washing machine marching its way across the floor.  I grab it to stop its progress and have to press my whole body against it.  I fervently hope that this is not going to be the moment Spook comes in the back door.  When it finally shudders to a halt, all the lights on the dials are flashing and the red padlock sign is on and it just won’t open.  When Spook does come in, I have no choice but to seek his help.  He says “you over-filled that again, didn’t you?”

“Ehm – I don’t THINK so.  I think it’s just that the dog bed is a bit lump-bumpy.”

He sits in front of the machine whilst consulting his phone regarding trouble-shooting.  Meanwhile I have a niggling thought that the wee cat is missing.  I’d left the front door open and he may have run off due to all the noise.  That would certainly resolve Spooks wheezing, but what if he’d climbed into the open washing machine for a wee snooze?  It happens.  I was in the kitchen, mulling over this awful scenario when I saw the neighbour marching purposefully towards our front door.  Aha! I thought.  He’s found the kitten!

“Hi Mo.  There was an awful banging noise coming from the caravan area – sounded like the washing machine?  Then there was a bit of an explosion.”

I looked over his shoulder to see the machine face planted in the caravan garden.  It lives in a wee shed and I’d left the doors open – which is good, as at least the doors weren’t hanging off.

How was I going to break this news to Spook?  And what if the wee cat was in the cosy pile of blankets that I’d stuffed into THAT machine.  There has to be a reason why I live in a chaotic, mite infested household, and I think this may be it.  Some things, like housework, are best left alone.

Spook appeared in the kitchen, triumphant on 2 counts.  I’d managed to put the child lock on when holding the machine tight.  And a code had indicated that it was an uneven load, which, he stated, equated to an overloaded machine.  Just as he had suspected.

Poor Spook.  He really thought that now he could get back to the important stuff. Unfortunately I had to relate the woeful tale of banging, explosions and a machine catapulted onto the lawn.  He gaped at me.  Worse than that I said (hoping to distract him), I can’t find the kitten and I don’t know if it’s in one of the washing machines.  I tried to look like I needed a hug.  Which I did.  He managed – in strained silence – to open the household washing machine to reveal no drookit kitten inside.  Then we had to walk together to the caravans, with the sight of the machine spread-eagled on the ground – like I was walking to the gallows.  The explosion had clearly come from the over-stretched electric wire when the plug was pulled violently from the socket.  The plumbing was at a right angle instead of upright, also on full stretch, with just a wee drip coming from it.  The machine was indeed face down.  Spook just stared in wonder.

“Overloaded?”

I hung my head.

We managed to get it upright and back into the shed.  Amazingly it had completed its cycle and we could open it to discover no kitten.  The front was a little bashed and with a quick adjustment to the plumbing, and with the plug in the other socket we fired up the machine on another cycle and there was life with no flood.  I felt a little light headed.  Spook hugged me.  

“2 washing machines within minutes of each other.  Stunning!  At least your wee cat isn’t inside them.” He said kindly, with his eyes still streaming (which may or may not have been real tears at this point,) but I could see him mentally making a note not to make the tractor in any way Mo-friendly.

He HAD said he just wanted to spend the day fixing stuff.  

And the great news was that I found the wee cat.  Upstairs.  Sound asleep.  On Spooks pillow.

Pigpen by Schulz. That’s me, that is!!