December Dauners

Happy Hogmanay. Blowy and wet and easy to forget it hasn’t been like that for ALL of December.

Spook and I started our December with my old pal of 40 years and his wonderful Melanie. It’s a 12 hour drive to visit them so hasn’t happened in years. Ever since I read book 4 of The Famous 5 I wanted to go to the smugglers haven of Rye. I’ve waited so long it isn’t actually on the seaside any longer. When did that happen???? Over 50 years since I read it but I dare say a lot longer since she wrote it.

I don’t normally get all excited about Christmas but Mel and Richard were already excited on 1st December so I had to step up - especially as Meg and Darragh were coming over from Ireland for Christmas - his 1st with us and her 1st in 5 years. And she loves Christmas, so wee bit pressure!!

We started with Santa’s house as he went through his list of things to do. Santas Helper was very helpful as goes with the title…..

Not a single crumb touched the napkin and the staff were able to put it back in the drawer without washing. Auntie Al turned 50 so we went out to celebrate at Letterfinlay.

This is the dawg that slipped through the Billy Munro net of resistance.

We took a drive up to Cairngorm to see how things were looking there. Then we had soup, fantastic chips and sausage for the dug at the Newtonmore Grill. I love this place!!

Our friend Roberto despairs of my lack of a sense of adventure and took us out on his boat from Corpach Marina. I’m always keeping an eye on which is the closest shore - just in case.

Roberto is the most determined person I know. It drives him against all the odds, and the Nyali is his pride and joy.

We got a few lovely frosty days. Always welcome in winter and increasingly rare.

Things really hotted up once Meg hit the Irish seas. Aussie Cam, Amy and Rhiannon were dispatched on a rainy evening to find a tree and to not return without one.

They did very well.

Christmas, the first without granny Joy, was one she’d have enjoyed. As Papa said, she liked Christmas.

Carol, who’s pretty special, invited us all out to Camusrory on Knoydart. Billy hadn’t been out since 2009 when he’d walked in with his friend Barney and they’d partied in Sourlies Bothy with a happy group of men who’d all been made redundant. There were instruments and much merriment. It’s a 5.5hr hard hike in and if you have special friends, you can get an easier ride in to the last great wilderness in Europe - so it is often called.

David is a very safe pair of hands and devoted his time to our welfare. There is no nipping in and out from Loch Nevis to pick up friends or buy a pint of milk. It’s an hour by boat from Mallaig - including the short drive to their house.

Where Meg and Darraghs dog Rua, met his grandparents, Maurice and Minnie. Maurice and Rua discovered a mutual love of the green croc.

Grandpa and Granny

Rua also discovered a mutual love of Knoydart - which he shared with all of us.

Papa and I had opted for the lift to Carnoch in the side by side quad while the rest walked.

We were reunited with Mr Brown who took a real fancy to Billy. Every time he turned round he was there. He’s a bit of a sinister lurker and Darragh said he reminded him of the penguin in Wallace and Gromet. We were all a wee bit scared of him. Except Billy.

Mr Browns best friend - the one he never bullies or tries to scare, is Biscuit….

Carol and David wined and dined us and one overnight felt like the adventures of one week.

There was an option to get back to Mallaig on the warm, dry boat or the RIB. Billy and I chose warmth and the others chose a wee bit of a breeze and a sea eagle.

Carol and David are grafters. Fitting us in to their busy schedule and giving us such a unique adventure as a family was priceless. That’s a hard one to beat. In fact, it can’t be.

Thanks to Darragh for lending me some of his lovely pics.

We are all set for a New Year now.

You Cannot Go Walking With Those Pants

The dog developed a special liking for knickers in November. Thankfully Spooks and not mine.

For the first few days it was quite unrelenting…..

However, once we were over the pants hurdle, the month itself has been delightful. I try not to dwell on how sinister the temperatures have been and focus on the beauty of it - a good November under the belt really eases us in to winter.

Carpet of moss in the west coast rainforest

There’s a great view whether you look at your feet or ahead of you…..

A wee lochan on the back road to The Clachaig, Glencoe.

The Waxwings arrived on the croft on the 1st of November and stayed until they’d stripped the whole place of Rowan berries. Scamp comes to stayover once a week and on one morning walk, I stayed still to watch and listen, while she scamped about. She got plenty excercise and I got none….

That one needs full volume to enjoy the moment on the 8th of November. Including the cockerel as the sun comes up.

Scamp is very patient for a 6 month old, but she CAN be a little needy at times…..

Not that I’m suggesting she’s the only needy one...

For the first time ever, I went to the Remembrance service at the Commando Monument. With continuing wars causing death and misery for millions and making some people very rich - and with the religious element not a comfortable fit, I’ve preferred to remember it in my own way, based around stories my mum told me. I almost fell over myself trying to physically distance myself from God Save The King, so I’m a bit of a disgrace…..but it was very poignant nevertheless.

Spook went to Italy with my brother, increasing the Needy November Knicker issue, so I took Courr away for some distraction therapy in the East at my best friends house. She’s got one or 2 dogs (more like 24) and there’s a strict pecking order, which helped Courr to come to terms with his own Fuckwittery. There was just no point!!

One must NOT disturb Whip when she’s updating her social media.

He came to terms with it all eventually and the rewards were heathery hillsides and stubby fields with glorious new smells.

Dill O’ The Hill has oodles of patience and is just delighted that she was that days choice to assist in my pal’s endeavours along with some of my Finzean Favourites….

However, none of that days work on the hill could happen until the same squad had man-handled the Gamekeepers very wide, brand new recliner into his house, fitted it’s feet, and talked him through the workings, so that he could get appropriate rest after the long days that he works.

Finzean truly is a Fair Place and the way this community pulls together at the best and worst of times, is genuinely heartwarming.

It was time to head west again. There was a diversion from Grantown on Spey on the way over from home, at the junction to Tomintoul as the road had dissolved a bit at Bridge of Brown. A local man at the Lecht, where I’d stopped to walk the dog, told me that I should take the short cut from Tomnavuillin past Tomintoul Distillery on the way home as that was much quicker. Nothing like a wee bit local knowledge.

The light was wonderful and inspiring and went from this…..

To this……within 5 or 6 miles…..

The local knowledge short cut took me from Tomintoul to Tomintoul in 40 minute’s - in a snow storm. The shortcut brought me out AT the road closure, and not beyond it and within 5 mins of the road block, I was back to the start of the diversion. Still, the snow storm had passed and the light changed completely on my 2nd attempt and I added to my Whisky Distillery tour by passing Glenlivet twice, Tamnavuillin twice, Tomintoul only once thankgoodness, Ballindalloch, Cragganmore, Tormore and the new one at Grantown on Spey called The Cairn. All I know is that my head was spinning by the time I was passing it on my way west, having just ‘done’ 9 distillery’s in quick succession and there had been some weird subliminal affect on my brain that required me to pour a dram soon as I got home.

That mid November day was the temperature turning point. It had been 17 degrees in Finzean the day before on the 16th.

Moonlit walks with the dog on frosty nights were magical.

Last of the Summer Wine walks with Billy where we discussed ‘Mrs Cooks’ house which hasn’t been Mrs Cooks for decades, and which he could tell me used to be the Nurses house - Annie, though he didn’t know her 2nd name. She’d ridden a Velocette LE which was a ‘silent’ motorbike, mostly used by the police in the 1950’s. Back at the car I suddenly realised the first major frost had just occured and on last weeks walk, we’d wandered past Ronald’s Blackthorn tree which was laden with berries. I had a glass bowl in the car and messaged Ronald to ask if I could harvest his tree. He was waiting beside it when we drove along and he and Billy caught up on vital local information. Annie was a McMaster, and the frame of her Velocette was just down the croft, in the burn, as she had presumably sold or given it to Ronalds father. If it hadn’t been snowing we’d have been straight down there looking for it. If it really HAD been Last of the Summer Wine we’d have hauled it back to Billy’s shed where it would have been restored to its former glory. It dawned on me that Billy hadn’t lived up here in the 1950’s - he moved up in 1969 - so how did he know about Annie the nurse? She used to bring her motorbike into Marshal and Pearsons garage where he worked! Of course he remembered most bikes that came through the workshop!!!

As chill sets in, everyone needs a wee bit extra comfort, food and shelter…

Sometimes the dogs just need a duvet day - like the rest of us…..

And comfort food……like two pieces of shortbread, with jam in the middle, icing and a cherry on top. Last of the Summer Wine always ended up in the cafe, but after the First of the Winter Sloe Gin it was a cuppa at Billy’s.

To end November we drove to Rye to celebrate St Andrews Day with beloved pals we rarely get to spend time with.

They are artists and I wanted to see their studios. Courr ran through the pots of pigment powder and we could have dipped him in water and rolled him on canvas…

Having paint all over you makes you a bit of a social pariah, unfortunately. Anyway, we’re having a lovely time down here. Happy St Andrews Day.

Dogged Days, Rainbows, and passing Storms.

October’s a long month - 31 days to be exact. Ending with what was the wedding anniversary of my mother and my adoptive father. Having increased their respective families in 1969 to a blended one of 5 children, with this marriage, I think they chose All-Hallows-Eve (Samhain) so that they wouldn’t have to take us out guising, as neither were of the Couthy School of Parenting.

But what made it particularly long this year was that we got sick in the 2nd last week which made that week feel like a month in itself. Norovirus has been circulating and perhaps we got that, which spread around us with varying degrees of misery. Being sick at 60 is bad enough but my father in law assures me that it’s much worse at 89. Spook didnt have time to get sick as he was too busy looking after Billy and I, and spent a crazy amount of time out on rescues (slightly more than half of the actual call-outs for the month as he couldn’t manage them all,) in between full time work. However, we all made remarkably quick recoveries in time to see out the last rays of October. When those clocks change, the evening darkness comes down like a shutter!!! Maybe its just as well October was long so that we could immerse ourselves in the colour and light of it.

I started with a trip east to spend time with my oldest friend who was running a drop in ‘paint apples’ session at the Plenty Festival. She’s the Artist in Residence with the Far Orchard project at The Barn in Banchory. I left my clingy little dog with my husband so that I could enjoy 4 hrs of painting apples without his huffy little face at the window. Spook then had 2 days of his huffy little face on the beautiful hillside which he refused to explore as he was ‘nursing his wrath to keep it warm’ just like his mammy does when SHE’S pissed off.

Huffy Pants

Apples (and maybe beetroot?????)

Then I went south to visit my beloved Ayrshire relatives. I asked my sister if she wanted to come and she said yes, let’s take the dogs. I said no, that was too much. My aunt said, of course bring the dogs, we love them…….. hold that thought.

Firstly I had to sit in the back all the way as neither dog would let me sit in the front without them.

Chauffeur driven

My name is Morag. I am a pathetic example of a human being and I should know better. But honestly, it was the only way without having to wear a dog on my head. We went to Prestwick beach for a pre-visit walk and for the dogs to let off steam. In reality Scamp the pup had pre-loaded a lot of sea water which she then spewed all over the kitchen floor after 30 minutes of stealing slippers, doorstoppers, and crocs. I’d say mine was a dream dog…..(is that a Rastafarian blanket, Aunt Jean??)

Rastafarian?

…..except that he’d stored his pre-load of sea water in his bladder and ran off down the street, across the road and down the next street with me hollering after him I thought he’d gone forever, but thankfully it turned out he was just looking for a spot of grass for a pee and when he couldn’t find any he came back and soaked Aunt Jean and Uncle Davids nice stone chip front garden. He’s such a prince. I’m thinking my relatives may have had to have a lie down after we left. Sorry Aunt Jean, Uncle David and Liz It was SO lovely to see you.

There was loads of opportunities for dry, unhuddled strolling…..

Last of the summer

Spook just needs a stick

Caledonian Canal

Scamp has a sleepover once a week to try and teach Courr about love and sharing. Even though she tries to pretend she’s a Warg at times.

How Scamp wants Courr to see her.

In reality, she is the sweetest natured dog and Courr has much he could learn from her. Although Courr does work better as an artists companion, than Scamp….

Dutiful dog

Scrappy sketch

Outdoor sketching is a bit of stretch for me as I don’t get perspective but I’ve begun enjoying it for the sake of it. I usually bring it home and add stuff…..sometimes I rip it up and rearrange it. Scamp took it upon herself to redesign the image.

Scamps attempt at improvement

Doggy Perfection

Courr was delighted that the annoying, popular little dog had messed up. I’d say he probably put a gaelic curse on her - imeacht gan teachr ort - I looked it up - it implies that the ‘person’ should go away and never come back.

Gypsy Courr-Lee

October brought stormy weather plus a proper, named storm. One morning of frost. Colours that we never tire of. Waxwings from Scandinavia to harvest the berries. As they filled their bellies (800-1000 berries a day per wee bird) we filled ourselves with as much light as we could,

Field of seaweed

Floors that hing oan

One frosted morning

4.30pm  Week before clocks change  

Peanmeanach Bothy Just before the storm.

Peanmeanach Bothy  Calm before the storm.

Waiting for the Waxwings

Classic October

Making myself Billy’s devoted servant (I’m like my dog,) is a frightening thing. He was fixing his boiler and I tailed (ha ha) him everywhere as he doggedly (ha) worked to make a copper washer that was the wrong size, into the right size. After 5 attempts the dog was bored. After 10, I was bored. After 15 Billy decided he was bored but the only way he was getting a shower was to persevere. I gave up and went to do the shopping, while the dog huffed in the car. Billy fixed the boiler. It was always going to be fixed……

Meanwhile back at home, I persuaded our young Aussie Ghillie that if he wanted to be like his Dad when he was a batchelor at Braeroy, he needed to get his clothes and his boots as close to the Rayburn as possible. I suspect Roddy of Braeroy, never had such bright pants, but I felt this brought Cam closer to his father..

Bothy Laundry

Whilst dodging horse poop in my crocs, I googled Waxwings because Billy and I could hear them chattering on Roberts croft next door as they harvested the berries. I remember back in 2016, about to head off south to visit my mum, when I watched them pour onto our croft, the air filled with their sound. I’ve never seen so many since, even though I’ve watched for them each year. Apparently when the arrive in huge numbers it’s called an ‘irruption’ and it can be expected around every 8 years or so. It’s to do with what the feeding grounds are like in Scandinavia at the time. When there’s not enough food they come in their masses.

Billy’s Berries

Waxwing Irruption of 2016

Happy Halloween

Dodgy Biscuits and Music Festivals

September began with an opportunity to apply some Highland Hospitality. Spook answered my phone to a man who said they’d been locked out of their booked campsite due to arriving late and did we have a hook-up and showers. I heard him say that we didn’t but they could park in the yard and use the house facilities. I opened the yard gate when they arrived and shut it behind them. It’s good I don’t keep it padlocked or they might have felt a little anxious. Their holiday hadn’t got off to a great start as they’d flown from Luton to Glasgow but her baggage had flown somewhere else, and as they were picking up a hired camper and travelling around the NC500 with no fixed abode, there was nowhere to send her luggage so she was to pick it up on her way back to Luton. Then they’d grabbed dinner in town before going to the campsite where reception was closed and no contact or explanation of where they were to park. So in a panic they’d found the website for my 2 caravans and hoped we could help. Traditonal Highland Hospitality is that should someone come to your door for help or shelter, you are duty bound to assist. The most treacherous example of this being the MacDonalds of Glencoe sheltering Campbells and English soldiers in 1692. I learnt about Highland Hospitality from Joy and Billy Munro - my parents-in-law - who demonstrated this hospitality on a seemingly weekly basis - the best example being when an outdoor pursuits minibus broke down outside their house. Billy ran an eye over the engine to see if he could fix it, while Joy made them a cup of coffee and they enjoyed a slide show of the northern region of Xingua Provence as my friend had called round to entertain the Munros with her pics.

The couple from London were a little bemused by the open door policy and lack of any payment. I did explain that they needed to just take things as they found them as I’d done 7 loads of washing on a wet day and the hallway was strewn with hanging sheets in a web of clothy dampness like something out of Miss Haversham’s hoose and they had to weave their way through it to find the shower room. Also Aussie Cam had done his washing which was draped over a clothes horse in the same space. I’d forewarned Cam not to be dashing from room to room in his bright orange underpants as he has been known to do - it’s possibly an Aussie kinda thing. I felt the couple had enough to deal with. I’d told them just to come in and out of the house when they needed the loo or shower and not to knock. The next morning I went out to say goodbye. Sometimes my ADD, finds that the H kicks in, manifesting itself as a tendency to over friendliness. I get sort of excited and nervous and can be a tad over-whelming. A thought was running through my head that they might try to pay something and in a Rapunzal moment, I pondered insisting they call their first born child Morag as it’s a name that is dying out.. At the risk of scaring them into thinking they were in a Tartan Noir horror, I resisted and just wished them a good trip and the offer to keep the towels.

The Indian Summer took a wee while to kick in and didn’t quite pan out the way I’d hoped. It was the 6th before it began and possible the 8th when it ended, in terms of Indian heat. Ben Race day saw a temperature of 24 degrees at the summit and turned out to be one of the toughest race conditions for many years. It took it’s toll on many runners and the next day was much cooler, with snow on the summit by the 9th. Spook had turned his ankle 3 days before the race and so was spared this serious discomfort and he went off to the Kirriemuir music festival with his Dad and his sister - the folk one, not the AC/DC festival.

Not to imply that I’ve nothing better to do with my time, but with the benefit of a joint account, I could trace their movements and got the impression they were having a good time. There can’t be too many watering holes in Kirrie, but I’d say they were in all of them. Starting with the Tavern and finishing there, so I worked out that was near the campsite. I now know the names of the places to be - Kerymor Tavern, Thrums Hotel, Three Bellies Brae and the Airlie Arms Hotel. If you know Kirrie and you think they missed a goodie, then do let me know so they can include it in next years repertoire.

The month at least stayed dry and pleasant for the most part. Weekday coffee and a walk around the croft at Inveroy can be partaken. Billy insists he’s allergic to dogs, which is handy for keeping them at arms length. Horses don’t seem to affect him….

There’s an old tradition that gets applied on these walks, which I never experienced myself, but I recognised it as soon as I saw it. The Walker and Cameron family of Upper Inveroy would know it too. Alistair Cameron - The Ploo (plough) would use the end of his stick to point out things of interest or bits you missed (like the best tattie at harvest time, just covered in soil and barely visible, but not to be left behind), and Billy has developed this approach. I expect Spook will continue the tradition when the time comes.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are cake delivery day in the Spean village shop. I’m often tempted by a cream donut when I’m picking up the paper, but I know that’s not Billys style. So I bought him a biscuit that I was sure he would like, but which has an off-putting name. I handed him the paper bag and said “I’ve bought you two bits of shortbread with jam in the middle, with icing sugar and a cherry on top.”

“very nice” he said and opened the bag

“That’s an Empire Biscuit!” he said. But I was ready for him and countered with the fact that it would be a shame to miss out on a biscuit he liked, and if they could re name Glasgow Streets that were called after slave traders, we could rename the biscuit. I did a bit of research and vaguely speaking, they were generally known as German biscuits, but in WW1, English soldiers decided to rename them Empire biscuits on account of the fact that they were busy fighting the nation that had created these tasty bites. One account said the Scottish soliders called them Belgian biscuits and I did find that Kiwi’s call them Belgian biscuits because they look a wee bit like Belgian buns - on the top, at least. So the next time I was in on a Thursday, I asked the shop assistance for a Belgian bisucit. She looked in the cabinet and looked at me….

“I’m Belgian,” she said in English with no hint of an accent. “And there’s nothing in here, we’d call a Belgian biscuit.“

Honest to goodness. What are the chances that the new member of staff is Belgian on the day I decide to try out the new name?

The Empire biscuit issue reminds me of someone who once told me he thought he may have encountered my mother in law at a local restaurant. By coincidence, it was the Jubilee weekend and a German friend was visiting and had taken them out to dinner. My informant told me that this woman had taken issue with the menu and was struggling to find something she liked.

“Coronation Chicken? Hmmm - no, I don’t think so.”

“Balmoral Chicken? Nope. Oh dear - I see there’s a Victorian Sponge for pudding!”

“I’ll just have to have the fish and chips followed by cheesecake.”

Which is exactly what she would have ordered anyway - she just appeared to need to hold a protest of some sort.

“Could that have been your mother in law?” he asked.

Aye.

On a dull-ish Monday, with the hope that many tourists had gone home, my sister and I took a trip out to Arisaig for a walk along Camusdarrach Beach. All was quiet, and we found Barbie doing what she does best - conquering the world in the scantiest of outfits.

She’s some dame!

Harvest Moon and some Northern Lights, all help to make September a favourite month, even if it wasn’t quite the wall to wall blue skies I was looking for.

And the return of Lochaber Live, brought a very special weekend to the town. Glorious weather and all the generations partying together. It felt good to have been at the last one 30 years ago, and to see people there that I knew had made it happen back then. I only partook in it lightly this year, whilst fondly remembering pulling work colleagues out of hedges and laughing loads as a 30 year old. Much to my father-in-laws disappointment, he only took in the Sunday afternoon family ceilidh with his 60 year old companion (me). But we both acknowledged that children getting their first taste of a ceilidh and music festival was brilliant. He did join us each morning for analysis of the previous evenings high jinks - one morning he’d already boiled his Inveroy egg, so he brought it with him…..

It came on it’s own plate - ready salt and peppered - and one could understand why he wasn’t down grading to a shop bought one.

Throughout the summer I’ve done some Talks in a local hotel, for mostly American tourists who travel here on the train. I’ve bent Billy’s ears for months over the matter of what I might talk about and it obviously needs to include a bit of history. The Clan Cameron museum at Achnacarry, as well as the West Highland Museum are treasure troves and I discovered Billy had never been to the one in Achnacarry nor St Ciaran’s church which sits on the estate, so the other day we took a trip down there. I’ve been plittering about with paints on paper to very little avail - just making patterns and trying to be mindful and relaxed with no other aim. But I did think they had a bit of a look of the church window. I come here quite often, for one who has no religious belief.

Meanwhile, my son, who was always known as Horizontal, is travelling around America, sending me pics of hot springs in the middle of nowhere, salt flats, and roaming Buffalo. And my daughter, who stole the H from my ADHD is none stop in Ireland, working out at Crossfit, running, working, cooking, socialising and has just brought Dougal, her sourdough starter back to life after 2 years at the back of her fridge. I might have to spend some time in Ireland. Dougal brings an extra level to life quality.

Bring on October.

Augustus Uvidulus-Drookitus

My Father-in-Law was a bit annoyed at me. He said I was wishing summer away. But I wasn’t. I was only wishing August away. It’s my least favourite month of the year. I hadn’t realised he was correct. August IS the end of summer. June, July and August collectively is summer. But I’ve been telling anyone who will listen that we’re going to have a wonderful Indian Summer all of September and at least half of October, so I consider it just to be starting, not ending. In Ireland they call it ‘the little autumn of the geese’. I can thole anything that August brings if I promise myself an Indian Summer. It’s dry, sunny, the colours are beginning to turn and the roads are quieter. There’s an early morning, envigerating cool autumn air and the spiders hiding places are revealed by the dew.

August comes with the expectation that it will be all about barbeque’s, holidays and suntans, but in the Highlands it brings gridlocked roads, rain and midgies - although the midgies struggled to get a grip in the high winds, which included the tail end of a hurricane this year. When the sun does squeeze through the clouds, it can have an exotic heat, but the next shower brings the temperatures down, along with the spirits, and the moment passes. I don’t blame the holidaymakers for the gridlock. Why wouldn’t you want to come to the Highlands for your holidays? I did it myself when I was 19, once the hay was all in from the fields in late June and I had time to hitch my way around the north west in glorious July sunshine. I knew then that this beautiful region was where I wanted to live. When the sun shines we have wonderfully short memories and forget that it rains. I suspect that short memories and eternal optimism have evolved for our emotional well being in the west Highlands - if you don’t have that, you’re stuffed.

I’ve felt so sorry for the toursits. Often they will say they don’t come to Scotland for the weather. A Maltese family told me it was 40 degrees at home and they spend an hour in the sea each morning and night and the rest of the day hiding inside with the air conditioning on full blast. A Swiss man on his boat in full wet weather gear, told me his friends at home wished they were here as it was too hot at home. He didn’t look so convinced. We’re so lucky to have the water - we know that. But the unrelenting rain this August has almost brought us to our knees. I’ve enjoyed watching the world pass through Neptunes Staircase, using it to cross east to west coast or vice-verse. I’ve had lot’s of French and Dutch visitors at my caravans who have been a real pleasure to meet. August is a stay at home, lucrative and hard working month, and I soak up the exotica of the peope passing through. But here we are at the last day - sun shine and promise. Love it!!

This was the last rays of July. I love that it looks like I’m on a full on drove. In reality it was a 10 minute manoeuvre!

Also the last rays of July. Meg and Cam grew up together before he and his family moved to Australia over 21 years ago. He currently lives with us.

Late July and half of August brought Meg, Darragh, Rua the Lab, and the pizza oven. It also brought 2 Kiwi’s, Roberto and his girlfriend Ellie, and if you throw in Aussie Cam, we sometimes had 7 or 8 for dinner. For the first part of July, me and the dawg lived completely alone because Spook had legged it to Canada, so it was quite a contrast.

Saying goodbye was sad…..

Meg was so worried there wasn’t enough space for the dog that she nearly off loaded the precious pizza oven. She needn’t have worried….

Rua was the saddest to leave. It’s always a wee bit hard when the holidays end.

Running Girl continued with her weekly dips but had to combine her winter and summer attire…

I squeezed in a visit to my bestest old pal at the start of the month over on the east, arriving at 10.15pm in time for the birthday cake. We became best friends when I called in to Aviemore on that hitchhiking trip. I knew that cool girl from college lived there so I thought I’d look her up…..and now we’re 60!!

Tomorrow is September. Today the sun shone, loaded with promise…

And a little creative pollution.

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!!!

Content Link Block

Select a page and create a visual link to it. Learn more

Blog

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.