A day in Crieff

The day begins. A tiny shaft of light spears across the ceiling and my ears open to the muffled, relentless delivery of the news reporter. His voice is coming from the next room. It strikes me that, whilst I can't make out his words, he has an awful lot to say at this time in the morning. His urgent intonation emphasises the importance he's giving to his thirty seconds of air-time.

I reach for my watch from the bedside cabinet.

7.55

My wife is still asleep. Our room, on the top-floor turret of Crieff Hydro in Perthshire, Scotland, has been specially chosen for my 40th birthday. It shapes out into a three window bay which looks down on and  across the surrounding countryside. Pulling the curtains apart I am met with a magnificent background vista of sweeping hillsides as far as the eye can see. Rolling mist forms the centre of the shot, whilst  the little town of Crieff makes up the foreground.

The hotel opened in 1868 as The Strathearn Hydropathic Establishment Company under the management of physician Thomas H. Meikle and looking down on the surrounding countryside, his choice of location must have factored in the health benefits of such a beautiful landscape upon its visitors.

Soon we are enjoying another window seat in The Meikle Lounge for a fantastic cooked breakfast. Maybe not so healthy, but certainly enjoyable.

Next stop, bizarrely,  is the chance to try out a two wheeled Segway on the ballroom dance floor. Despite my wife's calls for more speed, I'm happy to manouevre the boards with a slow elegance. Maybe I'm imagining the Segway is Ginger Rodgers or is it that I'm just scared that I might overbalance?

We head out as light snow begins to fall, icing the shrubs and trees as we squeeze together under the umbrella, glad to have put on warmer footwear. After a mile or so, we end up in the Clubhouse Cafe sipping hot drinks and reading the morning papers. To my right, another large bay window reveals the mist's descent to lower levels, but from the window to my left I have a perfect view of the clear eighteenth green and fairway stretching uphill away from it. We sip our tea and hot chocolate, interpreting, misinterpreting and laughing over a guide to improving marriage from a Saturday supplement in The Times as golfers pepper the green with various degrees of accuracy.

By mid-afternoon, we are relaxing in the hotel's Victorian Spa. It's a child-free oasis, hidden labyrinth-like in the basement of the hotel. As we descend the stairs, having parted with our entrance fee, piped music immediately readies us for a restful few hours. Despite its name, the spa has Roman marble decor as well as Renaissance-style frescoes on its ceiling. The glistening pool is mesmerising and the sound of jacuzzi bubbles merge with calming melodies and restrained voices. Soft low-lighting emphasises calm and the absence of hurly-burly.

Three hours pass.

(Steam room. Swim. Sauna. Shower. A drink of lime cordial. Bubble pool. Swim. Sauna. A coffee. Dipping into a Paulo Coelho novel. Eyes closed for a while. Another swim etc etc.... )

Bliss.

All is well with the world.

A perfect evening meal at the Brasserie follows. Time wanders past. After some good food, chat and people watching, I'm left with that feeling of having over-eaten.The pleasant sensation of sleepiness creeps ever closer and we are soon tucked under the covers where our day began. Turning forty is not so bad thanks to a day in Crieff.

(Our turret room is up there in the background. We were looking
out of those three windows at the top.) 

A day in Alnmouth

The pearl of a recent "family and friends" holiday is finally found after a series of rather damp, rainy "stay indoors" sort of days. When the dry weather arrives, with the sun even threatening to pop through the clouds, we head for the village of Alnmouth, situated on the beautiful, unspoilt Northumberland coastline. Ours is not the first visit by Northerners. Previously named a new town under Norman rule in 1150, it was apparently destroyed by Scottish invaders in 1336. Hopefully our brief sojourn will not do too much damage...

There are few signs of destruction as we take up position on the golden shoreline, stretching for miles as far as the eye can see, with the postcard-friendly Coquet Island standing stage right of the horizon. A cool breeze pulls the children into the fast approaching waves: over and over as if being rewound, then fast-forwarded, their brightly coloured wetsuits hop in and out of the lolloping white breakers.

I am holding a "Thomas the tank engine" kite and the strength of the wind provides a constant tug on my hand. The pull is reassuring, as if I'm somehow plugging into nature via the kite's string. I imagine a surge of natural energy, as the wind's current pulses through my body and transfers back to earth via the icy, lapping waves that I'm kicking through. The buffeting sound pounds relentlessly on the kite's plastic. Waves trip to shore and the refreshing smell of seawater is somehow reassuring.

Away from the water's edge, one man is having trouble breaking in a black pony. Like a bronco in a rodeo, she fusses and swishes her tail, unwilling to let nature take its course.

After more paddling, some stone collecting and the important discovery of a snail, we are ready for a simple beach lunch. Sharing sandwiches, we pin down our travel rugs in the face of an increasingly blustery wind as clouds are sent spinning across a clearing blue sky.

Soon the sun is shining as we indulge in a spot of  beach cricket, where the main challenge, at first, is to ensure that the stumps remain upright. We wedge a red boulder against them to keep them intact and soon the ball is free-wheeling away from the bat as a youngster hits a crisp cover-drive across the flattened sand.

A short stroll around town is next on the agenda. We head down Pease's Lane towards Dandelion Cafe, whose bright yellow logo has lured us magnetically away from a more traditional coffee shop. Straight ahead of us as we walk is Alnmouth Village Golf Club. A golfer professionally sizes up, then sinks a long putt on the beautifully manicured green. As if he's just won the Ryder Cup, he collects multiple high-fives from his playing partners.

Sitting in the bright conservatory of Dandelion Cafe, we sip lattes and munch through some large slices of cake, comparing notes on how relaxed we feel. The children are happy to mix cake, ice-cream, water and sachets of sugar into one stupendous, scientific experiment, whilst the "grown-ups" reminisce and mull over  bygone days.

In the bar, local artwork, all vibrant blue skies, remind us of the present and we head back outdoors to catch the rest of the day. As we walk back along the gravel track, dissecting beach and golf course, the swell of the breakers provides a perfect soundtrack.

Soon our cars are swallowing us back into the pace of modern life and we are heading back to complete the last part of the holiday, but the day spent in Alnmouth has been one to remember.

posted on theme thursday- recollections.

Ups and Downs: A Day in Western Lake District.

A casual squint at the map was my first mistake of the day.

Choosing the nearest direct route from our cosy holiday cottage in Ambleside to the Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway in the Western Lake District was my second.

I'd visited the railway as a teenager and my memories of it had become enshrined as something magical that must be revisited. Have you ever noticed how time can make an occasion seem much more perfect than it probably was?  I visualised the railway as the perfect day out. I'd tried to take the family there on previous Lake District holidays, but had always been talked out of it. This time there was to be no escape...

What I've learned about the world
 #186023D:
What looks like the quickest route on a map is not necessarily the best one to take.

Maybe the signs should have warned me, but I suppose I must have just ignored them. The Wrynose and Hardnott Passes sounded like something from an afternoon's adventure with Frodo and Sam in "Lord of the Rings". This could be nothing worse than stumbling over a few rocks as heroic music by the London Philarmonic sprinkled onto a magnificent vista.

Unfortunately I had no staff to lean on. Instead my trusty companion was the Citreon Xsara which, it soon transpired, was completely unfit for the task in hand. Maybe in the Shire below, the Citreon might have looked ready for an adventure, but up here in the clouds, it was trembling like a spooked hobbit waiting for some black riders to pass.

Some advice. When you're driving up a mountain in first gear and you have to stop precariously at the edge every few hundred metres or so to let a massive 4x4 go by, always make sure you put the car back in gear. I only forgot this once but it prompted tears from both of my children and a cry of another kind from my wife. You do travel faster sliding back down a steep incline, than you do crunching upwards, it must be said.

What I've learned about the world:
#186023E:
When negotiating a hairy hair-pin bend whilst driving down the side of a mountain and trying to see the way forward, the triangular side/front window of a Citreon Xsara looks less like a mistake and more like a liability.

Oh, and what I've learned about the world

 #186023F:

The Lake District is a very misleading name. Why not the Mountain District?
And,
#186023G:
Never ever drive over anything called a Pass again.
(Hopefully the driver above learned this too...)

Finally we reach Dalegarth Station: the rain comes on and we wander into the gift shop. They are selling certificates for having survived the Passes and my daughter, as if to mock me, asks to buy one.

We've missed the train. It will be an hour until the next one, so we jump back into the Citreon and race another seven miles to Ravenglass. I'm glad that it's flat all the way. 

When we reach Ravenglass, it's not as I remember it. In the adult world, you have to pay to park the car before you can rush to catch the steam engine, but we make it and even have time to grab a cup of tea for the ride.

Steam pours past our open windows and a fantastic little journey through a beautiful landscape of fields, forests and hillsides begins. At last I begin to remember why I've wanted to come back for over twenty years...

When we reach Dalegarth Station for the second time, we notice, this time, the coloured bunting that welcomes us. It coincides with a less stressful feeling now that we have no car to worry about.

We decide to take a saunter along the narrow road and head out into the countryside. Turning right at the Brook House Inn, we find a path that leads us past a little church called St Catherine's and on towards a riverside walk. We sneak under a small bridge (which seems to have been built solely to re-enact the story of "The Billy Goats Gruff") and onto a pebbly riverside.  Throwing stones into the water becomes our focus for the next half hour. We move across stepping stones to the middle of the river, hopping from stone to stone until we reach a perfect little island, full of flat pebbles with which to skim the surface of the river. Almost without realising it, we are having a "this is the life" moment...

Heading back up the path, we are magnetised by the quiet little churchyard. As we wander around, I'm looking for some kind of inspiration and find it in an inscription on slate positioned to the right of the church entrance.

Displayed are the words of a young signalman. They are a moving tribute to the ultimate sacrifice he made for his country as well as his undaunted, unquenchable faith. In this setting, surrounded by hillside, trees and sky, the words seem to resonate profoundly over the decades since they were uttered. 

Back at Dalegarth, crowds are gathering to catch the return train. So much so, that we miss it and are forced to wait for the next one. It becomes warmer for a while and all around us ice creams are beginning to be consumed. A lad bounds over the single narrow gauge line, shouting "Harry, watch this!" to his, at first, non-plussed twin brother.  Soon though, Harry is also long-jumping the line with gusto. As the next train arrives there is a jostling for position. I turn to see one mother left alone, with her baby on the platform as we squeeze into our tiny, wooden carriage.

The journey home starts well and goes a little like this:   

A hawk is hovering on a hillside when I turn to look away. Turning back, the empty sky leaves me wondering what prey has been swooped upon in that instant.

Suddenly out of nowhere, there is panic as a dog in the carriage next to ours suddenly leaps off the train. I am sure he will be crushed under the carriage but he somehow manages to twist right and avoid going under. After, what seems an age, the train grinds to a stand-still and the owner is forced to complete a "walk of shame" past the entire train to retrieve his dog. On his return, he reports the reason for the abrupt departure. His dog, it seems, had simply spotted another dog; love at first bark, puppy love etc.

We chug back into Ravenglass station, thoroughly recharged by our day in the country. The in-between part of the day has been a triumph.

However, it will end, for me at least, in much the same level of confusion as it started. When my daughter jumps up to leave the carriage whilst the train is in motion,  I move too fast to stop her, and bang my head on the metal topped carriage. It hits the sweet spot. Another dose of concussion will follow.

I will go on to enjoy my Lake District holiday, but not until the next couple of days have passed...

Heading back for some food at Broughton-in-Furness, I can't even raise a smile at the pub's name, and don't manage to eat much of my lasagne...

I do manage to get some new directions from the pub's owner, however. We avoid the Wrynose and Hardknott Passes on our return journey to Ambleside, but it's my wife who does the driving this time.

(*It was April 14, 2012 that we visited Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway.)

A day in Iona...*

  




The ferry at Fionnphort

 

Water laps against the black metal hold of the smallest Caledonian MacBrayne ferry I have ever seen. A sign informs me that there is space for only eight cars and seventy-seven passengers, but on this cramped deck, even these numbers seem improbable.

We are soon skimming the sound between Mull and the tiny island, with the effortlessness of a smooth, flat pebble, bounding in slow motion away from the small pier at Fionnphort. Almost instantly, the island comes into focus. The landscape speaks of a lost era: small cottages and crofts, no visible vehicles and the Abbey to the right, set back from the shoreline. Its spire is imprisoned in scaffolding and brings a stark reminder of the need for change, even here. In no time, we breach the final few yards of swelling tide, and reach the small, angular, concrete jetty that is waiting for us.

Arriving in Iona is like letting go of your parent’s hand at a silent adventure playground for the soul; we alight the ferry and swarm wordlessly in various directions. A tall white-whiskered gentleman stands, as if sentry to the first house we pass. Sucking on his pipe, he reads each visiting face, surveying our intent.

Despite the numbers who have held the island to ransom for the day, there remains a tangible air of calm. The sea breeze hits my face with the same refreshing effect of an early morning shower. Senses are awakened and I feel a surge of anticipation, as the history of this tiny island speaks into my present. To meander slowly is a rare luxury. We pass Celtic crosses on the road and I have time to consider another road leading to a cross.

As we saunter on, the Abbey comes into view again. I am soon searching in the grounds for the weather-beaten headstone at the grave of John Smith, the Labour leader, whose untimely death shocked me in 1994. I am struck by the fact that this occurred in the last century; that the years that have passed have been light years of political, world and technological change.

Inside the Abbey we read requests for prayer and feel like children once again. This time, we are overhearing a forbidden, adult conversation, as various requests for healing  litter a wooden cross with colourful post-it notes. In the grounds outside, a ball zips back and forth across the grass. Several teenage boys, oblivious to the hallowed turf beneath their feet, are simply enjoying the game, and the day.

Along the single track road, past the golf course, we reach "Camas Cuil an t-Saimh" or "the Bay at the Back of the Ocean," whose name conjures up unspoilt, idyllic allure. Here, waves sweep to shore in swirling blues, greens and whites and splash gently around my bare feet as the world and I become one in worship. Perfect stones glisten like polished diamonds on the light brown sand, and to both east and west, the incline of the hills sweep away into the green headlands. Travelling west from here, the next stop is North America, but I have no desire to leave this beach.

 

Painting by Elise Ferguson.

Wandering slowly from this sacred place, we discover that the camera’s manual winding mechanism has become infiltrated by specks of sand from the beach. I begin to worry that the whole spool will be spoilt, erasing the record of the moment just passed, but the whisper of God instantly reminds me that the Divine Presence cannot be caught on film.

We are soon scuttling back across the water in our tiny ferry. The island may not miss us, but, in the years to come, we will regularly recall our trip, and determine to return again one day. Back home, we paint Celtic crosses on two pristine stones picked carefully from "the Bay at the Back of the Ocean" and place them in our back garden to enshrine in our memories the day we spent on Iona.



*It was Wednesday 7th August 2002 when my wife Jillian and I visited the island. 

A day in Spain...

The blue-gold carpet shimmers and glitters as if magic is being performed endlessly before my eyes. An occasional fishing boat dawdles in front of the horizon crossing the liquid mirrorball momentarily before my vision resettles onto its mesmerising, shining, shifting surface. The puppet master sun has now revealed himself and glides elegantly and purposefully in front of his audience. His warmth is soothing to those who draw from his dazzling performance. Below, some dance in the light of his golden glow. As if in tribute, a rainbow of colours move along the shore: blues, reds, oranges and yellows mingle and merge with the beauty of sand, rock and water, whilst others lying on the endless ladder of sun-loungers are simply happy to be transfixed by his Midas touch.

He revels in this orchestration. It is the creation of light and shade that brings the symphony to life.Canoes and sailing boats now get the nod and burst into the movement. A father and son see the point, and dive beneath the rippling foam. Glorious blooms, content to play second fiddle in the early morning, now submerge the senses with brightness, and their scent adds a vital accompaniment. The yellow bird of paradise flowers sing sweetly from every branch.  Golden green palm trees are grass skirted dancers swaying delicately to the sound of the free-style breeze. The engine of a small ferry chugs rhythmically past, as the resonant whooshing of white waves loops endlessly to shore. Their climactic arrival adds a swelling time signature to the piece being refrained over and over again, as the light sea breeze cartwheels in towards the baking shoreline.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly the feeling of being alive strikes. I dive headlong into the careering waves and my breath is extracted rapidly as the cold, galloping spray hits. The endless blue horizon, with the coast of Africa tantalisingly close, blends with the effortless strength of the wind to create an awareness of the pneuma within...

Later, as evening begins its relentless fall in the east, a shimmering spotlight focuses on the sea, amongst the dark blue hue now settling on the restless Mediterranean. The show is almost over, but, as if to build to a virtuoso crescendo, the sun completely dominates the blackening sky, an awesome, transfixing ball of orange hanging in the heavens. Finally, he disappears, stage right, behind darkening hills in an effortless, yet extravagant exit and ripples of appreciation ring out from water and land. In the lilac, orange afterglow, gulls swoop and settle on the shoreline and peace descends to complement the passing of a perfect day.