Going back to Lockerbie - 1 year on

It's almost 25 years since the Lockerbie bombing.  Last year during a trip to Moffat with friends I went to Lockerbie to try and find the memorial to the disaster but I didn't find out in advance where it was, and I didn't dare ask anyone where it was once I got there, in case I was intruding on someone's grief, so I never found it.  The full story of that trip of exactly a year ago can be found here.

This year I went back to Moffat and this time I did my research and so on Saturday I actually found the memorial.  As soon as I got off the bus I felt a bit dumb because the first thing I saw was a sign directing me to it, and I wondered how I never found that last year.

The memorial garden and the small visitors centre are situated about 1 mile from the centre of Lockerbie on the A709 to Dumfries.  It took me about 20 minutes to walk there from the bus stop in the town centre.

The memorial is at the far end of Dryfesdale Cemetery, maybe 5 minutes walk from the main road, and there are a lot of single graves you have to walk past before you get to it.  The thing about regular graves is that they are all individual.  Each person has died an individual death, most of the people are relatively old, most cases they've died of natural causes, and the dates of death are all different.

Somehow that makes it all the more jarring when you arrive at the memorial to the Lockerbie bombing because every plaque or tribute has the same date of death on, ie 21st December 1988, and many of the individual plaques are for people who were 20 years old when they died, which is the same age I was when I saw the coverage of the disaster on TV.

There is a small sign at the entrance to the memorial garden that explains that the 270 victims were from 21 different countries, and the range of ages was from 2 months old to 81 years old, and it's not to minimise the deaths of people of other ages, but I identified most with the people my own age, and it was a genuine surprise to me how many of them there were.

I didn't know before I went that 35 of the people who died were university students from Syracuse University in New York, who were returning home from European placements.  All the birth dates were 1967 or 1968, so they would all have been in the same academic year as me.

In the last 25 years, my life has had its disappointments and mistakes and foul-ups, but seeing the graves of so many of my contemporaries made me feel grateful to have had those years from 1988 up to now.  Because choices and opportunities and the freedom to make decisions about your future as a grown up and maybe mess things up along the way, are luxuries those who die young don't have.

At the rear of the memorial garden is the main memorial wall, and this lists all 270 people who died in the bombing and subsequent crash, in alphabetical order.  What I noticed immediately was how many clusters of names there were with the same surname, which meant that whole family groups had died.  I couldn't imagine the devastation of even losing one person, but what of those who lost entire families?  It doesn't bear thinking about.

I don't cry very often, and I didn't cry at Lockerbie on Saturday, but I was reminded of the last time I did, which was at the Gandhi memorial in Delhi.  I think it was probably partly a release of all the tension of getting to India in the first place, but the inscription on the walls there said 'Violence is Suicide', and somehow just reading that brought me to tears and while I was stood at the Lockerbie memorial it came back to me how true that sentiment is.

After I'd read slowly through all of the 270 names I walked back to the Visitors Centre and went inside.  A cheery Scottish lady greeted me.  I told her that I didn't really know why I was here but that I just wanted to come.  She said it's important to the families to know that people still remember.

She herself was a resident of Lockerbie and I asked her if she remembered the night of the crash and she said she did, and she showed me on a map where she lived, and told me that some of the plane fell in her garden, and she was lucky it didn't fall on the house, and I said 'Lucky would have been if none of it had happened', but then I wished I hadn't said it because, if you experience a terrible thing, maybe it's a comfort to think of how it could have been even worse.

She also said that home is where you should feel safe, and yet that was where those Lockerbie residents were when they were killed.  And I thought about that, I thought about the fact that getting on a plane carries a risk, and how you maybe think about that before you get on one, but you don't expect to die in your living room while you're watching TV or getting ready for Christmas, but that happened to those people in Lockerbie, whose homes were destroyed by falling pieces of aircraft.

She said she'd been working in the visitors centre 8 years and she's met many of the relatives of the dead, and I noticed there were lots of seats where people can just sit and contemplate, and there's a memorial book called 'On Eagle's Wings' which was compiled by the mother of one of the victims, and in it there's a page for every person killed, and a pictures of each of them, and amongst other things, it said that the purpose of the book is to remind people that each of the 270 dead is not just a number, not part of a statistic, but someone who was loved, and who is missed every day by the people left behind, and I read as many as I could, and again I was drawn more to the people my own age, but on every page there was a story of personal tragedy that could break your heart.  On every page a story of unbearable loss.

The bomb that destroyed Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie was timed to go off over the sea, so that the evidence wouldn't be recovered, but because the plane set off late it exploded over land.  And that randomness was one of the most haunting things about the tragedy for me.  The bombers had specifically targeted Pan Am, most of the people on the plane were American and it was Americans they wanted to kill, but the plane coming down over Lockerbie, that was truly random.

I have no connection whatsoever to anyone who was killed at Lockerbie and yet I felt a very powerful urge to go there.  And when I got there I found it unsettling, and moving, and sad, and incomprehensible, and lots of other things that I can't explain in words.

I don't know how the families of the dead carry the burden of their loss, but a thought occurred to me as I left the visitors centre to walk back into the town.  I wondered if the fact that it happened over a town instead of over the sea, at least there was a focal point to their grief.  It gave them somewhere to come to, and the community there embraced them and cared for them, and it pulled together and helped in any and every way it could, and those bonds survive till this day.  Maybe the fact that their loved ones died in a place, rather than being scattered at sea, is a comfort in some way.  I don't know.  Who knows how anyone really feels in a situation like that?

Before I left, I wrote my name in the visitors' book, but I didn't write any comments, because what can you say that makes any sense of any of it?

I still can't define why I went, I don't know what it means to pay your respects, or what remembrance  is, but somehow by going to Lockerbie I wanted to acknowledge that this terrible thing happened, and I wanted to register my own sadness that these things happen at all, a sadness that people can be so far removed from any kind of empathy, that they will willingly murder and destroy and ruin the lives of others, with no thought of the consequences.

After leaving Lockerbie, I caught the bus back to Moffat, and I spent the evening with friends, talking and laughing and sharing a meal, and I was glad that I had that life to go back to.  I was glad to have a community of my own to be part of, who support me and who love me.  And I felt grateful for my life.  For all of it.  The good parts and the bad.  Because not everyone is so lucky.

This can't be History! It hasn't finished happening yet!

Yesterday I watched the FA Cup Final, between Wigan and Manchester City.

Wigan were the underdogs, but they won, and they deserved to.  They were the better team, and so when they scored in the 90th minute I was pleased for them.  It reminded me of the first FA Cup Final I watched in 1978 when underdogs Ipswich beat the favourites Arsenal.  That final was also similar in that Ipswich played better, had lots of chances, but didn't score till near the end.  When they did score it was completely deserved, justice was done blah blah blah.

My enjoyment of Wigan's last minute winner was however, spoiled somewhat by Clive Tyldesley, who, nanoseconds after the winning goal, set off on a speed-talking sprintathon down Hyperbole Avenue which didn't stop for about 20 minutes, going on and on about what a historic moment it was, and how it was the most historic moment since 1988 when Wimbledon won, and then he pretty much went through all the underdog goalscorers they've ever been in the history of the FA Cup.  He also pointed out that goalscorer Ben Watson looks like Prince Harry, and then tried his best to get a load of Royal references in there too.  I would have switched the telly off, or kicked it in, but I wanted to see Wigan celebrate their success.  The only time good ol' Clive stopped talking was to allow the equally naff Andy Townsend to get a few equally nonsensical words in, about finding the last piece of the jigsaw and other unrelated tosh.

please see previous rant about over-excited commentators

Later in the evening, I found a documentary on ITV about Aberdeen winning the European Cup Winners Cup in 1983, when Alex Ferguson was the manager, and they beat Real Madrid in the final in Gothenburg.  The programme itself was absolutely excellent, but a special treat was the highlights of the Final, which was commentated on by Brian Moore and Ian St John.  Tyldesley and Townsend they are most definitely not!  They didn't go on about history in the making and all that, they just talked about the actual game they were commentating on, and what was happening in it.  And sometimes, when there was nothing that needed saying, because it was all up there on the screen, they didn't do any talking at all.  They just sat there quietly.  

if you want to see what I mean, follow this link

It's fair to say that when I was 15 and I watched Aberdeen win the Cup Winners Cup I was aware of what a good team they were, but I probably didn't fully appreciate the quality of the two guys in the commentary box.

Brian Moore died in 2001.  Something I didn't know about him was that he was a lifelong Gillingham fan and the club's fanzine was called 'Brian Moore's Head looks like London Planetarium', which in turn is named after a line in the Half Man Half Biscuit Song 'Dickie Davies' Eyes'.

here's the video. I think the guy smashing his flat up at the end might have just finished watching Tyldesley

I pinched this little excerpt from the fanzine's website:

The recent loss of Brian Moore was felt right across the British game. He was an icon, and not just because of the shape of his head. For many of us during our formative years he represented the face of football on ITV – fronting The Big Match on a Sunday afternoon. His commentaries were knowledgeable and passionate. His love for the game was obvious for all to see (and hear).

He was from an era where football was less about money and greed and more about the sheer childish joy of watching the game. His style was unique and his reading of the game on a par with any of his peers. He came across as a true gentleman without the arrogance or ego of many within the game.

There are millions of reasons why you could argue that modern day football isn't what it used to be.  That's maybe why football commentators over-excitedly seize on any drama whatsoever and shout it from the rooftops.

I miss lots of things about the football I remember from my youth.  And since yesterday, I miss Brian Moore too.

Foals and Chimps - a tour of Edinburgh

I've been to Edinburgh before, in 2005, but I was in no state to enjoy it by the time I arrived.  I'd spent the week cycling there from Newcastle with Ruth, and after spending 5 hours doing laps of Edinburgh looking for our accommodation we weren't in much of a mood for being tourists.  I did go for a look at the castle after Ruth was passed out in bed but it was full of seats for the tattoo or something, so I couldn't get in.

Or even any good art?

The story of the 2005 episode can be found here

A scene of past misery

I've had this week off work, and I've planned and re-planned how I was going to spend it to within an inch of its life, then at the last minute, Ruth and I decided that the umbrella heading of 'getting away from it all' included getting away from each other for a while, and taking a break from our ongoing attempt to retain our title as undisputed 'World Bickering Champions of the World'.

The Royal Mile - Edinburgh

She went off to a cottage in Cumbria on Sunday which left me with a decision to make, and I am terrible at making decisions.  I was thinking I might go back to the West Coast of Scotland, to visit some bits I've previously missed, maybe Jura and Colonsay, but there's some big walking festival on in that area this week.  Seeing the pictures on the internet of last year's event, wizened but fit geriatrics wearing rucksacks the size of houses and walking boots and grinning from ear to ear as they pour out of boats onto the normally sparsely populated islands put me right off.  Also, when I saw the forecast it looked like I'd probably be blown home again anyway.  I took it as a warning that Alex Salmond's personal wind turbine had been blown over in high winds.  I figured the east of Scotland would be less windy, at least for the first couple of days, so I decided to go back and have another go at Edinburgh, 8 years after my first aborted attempt.

I almost booked into the same B&B as last time, miles from the centre of town but then I got an email from Travelodge advertising cheap rooms right bang in the centre of Edinburgh.  That'll do for me, I thought.

My hotel room - between Jenners and Thunderbird 3

I could have gone to Edinburgh on Monday, but I went to York instead, to have a practice run at being in a city on my own.  I did really well.  I bought some new shoes (I'd got yellow paint on my other ones taking stuff to the tip) and I also bought some Foals cds from HMV to listen to while I was away (Holy Fire and Antidote).  I did especially well with the shoes because I could have bougtht some for £50 which didn't fit as well, but for once I paid extra and got the £70 ones.  I didn't even get a sweat on, I just paid for them and left.  In fact, I kept them on, and put the ones with paint on in the Clarks carrier.  I sat down outside Fenwicks for a bit, casually texted Mr Fenwick's grand-daughter who I happen to be a close personal friend of, looked at my shoes, and thought how much better I looked in them.

This is York, not Edinburgh

It was only when I got back from York that I realised Ruth had taken the laptop away with her, the very thing I was going to use to transfer the cds to my phone to listen to while I was away.  The bloody Linux computer I was given, which is excellent in many ways, can't seem to read the phone, and it makes the music files absolutely massive so you can only get about 3 songs on, so that was a no-go.

Can you help me please?  Is this the way to the zoo?

I was so determined to listen to Foals while I was away, that on Monday evening I crawled up into the loft and reassembled an old PC from discarded bits and pieces, to enable the cds to get copied.  Luckily I'd been up in the loft for hours in the last few days throwing stuff out, so I knew where to find the monitor, keyboard, mouse and 3 cables required to effect the copying of the cds.  It was my brother who got me into Foals btw.  I'd never heard of them before then.

Edinburgh Castle - It's on top of a volcano (almost everyone knows that)

As well as her laptop Ruth had also taken the car to Cumbria, so I had to improvise.  I got a Sikh to give me a lift to the train station.  He charged me though (it was a taxi).  I booked a first class ticket from Darlington, it's not much more expensive on certain trains and they give you free coffee and sandwiches, so you effectively get your money back.

Princes Street Gardens - Spring is finally here!

I sat next to a beautiful young girl / woman on the train with dark hair, pink painted fingernails, a yellow hoodie and a massive red rucksack.  I couldn't make out the writing on the back of her hoodie, but I imagined she was part of a rowing team, or a student or something.  I thought about talking to her, but I didn't want to be the annoying guy on the train who talks to you, so I didn't bother.  Besides, she'd bought a first class ticket, so I thought she might want to be left alone with her laptop and her nine other electronic gadgets.  It was probably as well I kept my distance, otherwise I could have microwaved my own head, just being near all the chargers.

Don't look directly at the sun - you could die!

I like Travelodges.  They may be no frills, but they're usually right in town centres, and it's not like B&B where the owners want to know your life story and they want to interview you about the state of the NHS, and where they don't want you to bash the antiques or damage the hand carved wallpaper on your way up to the room with the fucking expensive curtains that are on strings so you don't get hand prints on them, and the bath has got a roll top which is just the most stupid idea ever because where do you put your shampoo?  Actually that was just once, but you get the idea.

Travelodges don't give a shit who you are.  You pay them up front, you turn up, they give you a keycard, they don't ask you a thing.  They give you a room with absolutely no sensory stimulation in it that could have been designed by the Soviets, and they forget about you.  And this week, that was exactly what I needed.  Edinburgh is stimulating enough, without having art in your bedroom.

This particular Travelodge was about 10 feet from the epicentre of Edinburgh.  It was down a back alley in between some bins, but I didn't care.  It was close enough to the centre I could nip back to the toilet while I was out sight seeing if I felt like it.

Princes Street Travelodge

Before I even checked in, I went to the Tourist Information Centre.  Where's the cinema and where's the zoo, I asked?  One was a 10 minute walk away, the other was a bus ride away.  Don't you care about museums? they asked, they're even nearer.  I'll have a look at them when I've been to the zoo, I said.

After I'd checked in to the least stimulating hotel room on the planet (something about it reminded me of Kafka, ie my prison cell, my fortress), I went for a walk in the wind.  The hotel had everything you need from a hotel.  A bed, a hot shower, a kettle and some cups and some tea and coffee.  It also had a TV but I never even switched it on.  I don't go on holiday to watch TV!

The excellent view from my hotel room

I stood around outside the Scottish National Gallery for a bit, trying to get a sense of the scale of the place, and then I offered to take a picture of an Argentinian.  She was trying to do it herself with the timer but her camera kept blowing away.  In exchange she took one for me.  I also took a picture of some Korean guy but he was like David Bailey, he took all the spontaneity out of it by trying to spend hours setting the shot up, and then he wasn't happy I hadn't got his legs in, so I just wandered off and left him to it.  Eventually he roped the Argentinian in to help. It was a good job I met the Korean before seeing Olympus Has Fallen, otherwise I might just have blown his head off with a bazooka.

Here's a picture of me taken by an Argentinian

I felt a bit overwhelmed at first by Edinburgh.  I always feel like that in big places, like cities and mountains.  Also, as well as the usual city noise, there were about 50 million workmen bashing the hell out of the city centre putting tramlines in.  I hadn't eaten on the train, even though free crisps had been available, so I wandered into a shopping centre and bought a Greggs meal deal for £3, followed by a Millie's cookie.  Both the young girls who served me told me to 'Have a nice day'.  Give me a chance, I've only just got here, I didn't say.

I was glad to be out of the noise and the wind and the sun (I remembered everything but sunglasses).  I sat and ate my late lunch between the Early Learning Centre and Dorothy Perkins.  There wasn't much overlap between the two sets of customers.  I guess if the young mums populating ELC ever did shop at Dorothy Perkins they had now abandoned this in favour of buying go-karts and educational drumkits for their offspring.

This could be the title of my autobiography - or anyone else's

I like people watching.  I sat there for ages, feeling relaxed and feeling sorry for some kid who was traipsing along behind his Channel 5 documentary size parents, munching his way through a family size tub of muffins.  His life's fucked already, I remember thinking, it was only later in the week I realised he was probably killing chimps as well with those muffins.

Around 5.30 pm I went back to Kafka's study for a bit, had a shower and a shave, listened to some Foals  and then went to the cinema.  I passed a lot of beggars on the streets.  Almost all of them had a black dog.  I used to have a black dog, who I loved.  I'm glad I didn't have to live outside with him.

My dog died before I got a digital camera, which I regret

I never know what to do with beggars.  Are they for real?  In Edinburgh a lot of them had signs which said things like '100% genuine beggar' and 'I really am homeless'.  These affected me a bit like signs in the supermarket which say things like 'Our beef isn't full of horses'.  It just added to my mistrust.  This may be a poor statement on my humanity, but there you go.  Also, I got pretty good at blanking beggars in India, even the ones that used to hold hands with me and rub my leg.  I did eventually give a small amount of money to one beggar in particular, and I selected him partly because he didn't even have a dog (maybe he's saving up for one)  I'm not even capable of looking after a dog properly, so it seems a bit irresponsible to have one if you haven't got a home.

At the cinema I saw Oblivion with Tom Cruise.  Although the Moon and most of the Earth had been destroyed in a post-apocalyptic future, they had really nice white clothes and shiny apartments in the sky and Looper it was not.

Anyway, I thought it was excellent.  Then I ignored some more beggars with dogs and went to bed, although I had a Yorkie first from the vending machine in the Travelodge lobby.

Vue Cinema Edinburgh - now with extra Giraffe

I woke up at 6 am on Wednesday feeling really hungry.  By 7 I was showered and in McDonald's eating a sausage McMuffin, which came free with a greasy hash brown (actually I think it was the other way round).  I also ordered coffee and orange juice.  The whole meal only cost about £4.  McDonalds was so close to the hotel I could have ordered it out of the window.  I'd intended to go to the zoo first thing, but I didn't want to get there before they opened so I wandered up the castle for a look around, took some panoramic photos in the rain and then I started meandering down the Royal Mile.

Edinburgh Castle Car Park in the rain

By the time I got to the Starbucks halfway down my new shoes were wet and so were my jeans.  It was 8 o'clock in the morning.  Things weren't going well.  I went in to Starbucks, ordered a massive bucket of coffee, and went upstairs to look out of the window and dry out.  And it was great.  I really started to relax.  I had a book to read, about a vicar working in a supermarket, a fantastic view out the window, and coffee.  Loads of wet cyclists with wet kids on the back in hi-vis ponchos kept bouncing past on the cobbles and I was safely indoors.  As I sat there relaxing I remembered the stress of arriving in Edinburgh by bike 8 years earlier and having my fillings loosened on those very cobbles, and being completely lost.

Starbucks in Edinburgh - they sell coffee in buckets

By 10 am it had almost stopped raining so feeling dried out and recharged I went off to get the bus to the zoo.  I stopped at a couple of museums on the way, but that didn't hold my attention for long because all I could find were pictures in gold frames of 300 year old people in wigs, who all seemed to have exactly the same face.

I caught the bus to the zoo, which cost me £3.50 for a return.  The young blonde female bus driver didn't remind me at all of bus drivers at home.  She even shouted me helpfully when it was my stop, even though there was a massive sign out the window that said 'Zoo'.

This was the toilet at the zoo

By the time I got to the zoo, it was nearly 12 and raining heavily again.  I paid my 16 quid and went in. The girls on the desk were in a bit of a flap about not being able to show me the Giant Pandas.  I'm not bothered I said, I didn't even know you had any.  For the first half an hour in the zoo all I could find was a wet dog hiding so I went for a sit down and a sandwich, in the monkey cafe or some such place.  It was pretty expensive, but a sticker on the sandwich assured me it had been made on the premises.

Lunch at the zoo - I chose a table with a plant on it

It was actually quite nice, and the young girl who served me was still brimming over with youthful enthusiasm and keenness.  As I sat and watched the rain bouncing off passing schoolkids I wondered whether I'd wasted my time and money coming here.  Then two wet women with two small wet children came in and sat at the next table.  A boy and a girl.  The little boy was called Walter.  They were so enthusiastic about what they'd seen and they couldn't wait to tell daddy, and their unbounded joy totally blasted me out of my cynicism, so I thought I'd go and have a proper look.  I saw them again later, and they were doing some more marvelling at stuff, talking about Edinburgh and all its majesty.  A fragment of a half man half biscuit lyric came to me: 'see how we yawn, at your bile and your scorn, it's a beautiful day, Peace on Earth has been played, make a noise with your toys, and ignore the killjoys, 'cos it's cliched to be cynical at Christmas.  It wasn't Christmas, but you get the idea.

Some penguins, doing what penguins do

I looked at some penguins for a bit, and then I watched some lions sleeping, until the big male lion woke up and if he was wanting a staring competition he didn't get one because the glass between us didn't look anywhere near thick enough for my liking, so I pretty much ran off.

The lion that stared at me

Most of the animals were behind glass, which made the photographs come out quite badly, but the zebras were just behind a fence, as they were considered low risk, so I got a few pictures of them which are better than the rest.

Zebras - not considered to be overly dangerous

I liked the monkeys best.  Probably because they're most like me.  98% to be exact.  It was in the chimp house that I found out that the chimp's habitat is being destroyed to make biscuits and toothpaste, and I felt bad about it, even though I'm not the one cutting the trees down but I do sometimes eat cheap biscuits.  I'd rather have the chimps.

Chimps and Veg

My enjoyment of the chimps was a little bit affected by a young girl talking into a dictaphone (or whatever the modern equivalent is).  She was actually commentating on the chimps.  'It's 2.05 pm, Eddie is urinating, Stella is eating some fennel, Archie is throwing a banana, 2.06 pm Archie is eating some broccoli, now Stella is urinating'.  That sort of thing.  Not sure if she was a zoo employee, or just a keen amateur, but I wished she'd go away.  Which reminds me of a joke (it's not really a joke).  Q. What's the difference between a chimp and a human?  A. When a chimp looks in the mirror he knows he's looking at a monkey.  The joke that isn't a joke works just as well if instead of the word human you substitute the word commentator.

Here's me playing Spot the Monkey

After the chimps I drank my orange juice from McDonalds which I'd saved for later ie now and I went back into town.  I had some Harry Ramsdens fish and chips served to me by a dour female Eastern European, who pointed out as if it was a novelty that I could have them with salt and vinegar if I wanted.  I was having them with salt and vinegar 40 years ago while your parents were still street urchins in Vilnius I totally didn't say, and then I went to the cinema again.  This time I wasn't so lucky with my film choice.  The film I went to see on Day 2 was Carry on up the Whitehouse, also known as Olympus has Fallen.  It absolutely had to be a spoof, except no-one had told the stellar cast and they were all playing it dead straight.

It was absolute carnage.  It was like the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan, but for the whole film.  It was like a much bloodier version of Die Hard, or Air Force One.  People weren't just getting shot, they were getting bazooka'd in the face and having their heads cut off with helicopter blades, and having bombs put down their trousers.  It was horrible.  The two Scottish girls next to me were gasping and nearly passing out with it all, as was I.

Quick, let's blow some shit up

Amongst the most ridiculous parts were the fact that Gerard Butler had been fired from his job 18 months ago, but he still knew all the access codes for everything in the White House. and the combination for the President's private safe.  But the most stupid part was at the end.  Not since Roger Moore dressed as a clown in Octopussy have I seen such a clumsily handled defusing an atomic bomb scene.  (I wrote about that one here)

Poor old Gerard Butler (who is almost as old as me) only had a minute left to save the Earth but to do it he had to input a code that was about 77 characters long, including hashtag and back slash and all sorts of stuff, both in upper and lower cases.  You could see him thinking 'Oh, for fuck's sake, I've just killed 47,000 terrorists, now America's going to be completely destroyed because of my lack of keyboard skills'.  After the film I had another Yorkie, went to bed, and fell asleep listening to Foals.

View from Calton Hill

The next morning (Thursday) I was up at 6 am again, paid for an extra night in the Travelodge because I was liking being in Edinburgh so much, showered and was in McDonalds again for 7.  Same breakfast.  Greasy hash brown, sausage mcmuffin, coffee and orange juice for later.  I went for a walk up Calton Hill, it was still a bit windy, but sunny too, and with a bit of rainbow thrown in.  The views were amazing, I took about a million photos including some photos which I took outside the American Consulate without being shot at.

Outside the American Consulate

Rainbow! One of the advantages of getting up early

Part of the reason for staying another day was that I wanted to go to the Museum of Modern Art on a free bus to see Death to Death and Some Mothers Do Ave Em or some such exhibition about the human body.  On the whole I prefer modern art, to paintings of George the First, but not this time.

Whatever you do, don't get the free bus

The first free bus was at 11, so like Wednesday I spent another couple of hours in Starbucks on the Royal Mile and did pretty much the same as the day before.  Reading, looking out the window, relaxing and drinking coffee.  A line I came across in the book I was reading was this: Hurry takes us out of the present, and makes monsters of us all.  I thought back on my past holidays and how often I'm working to a schedule, and trying to get somewhere, and how that turns me into a monster.  A monster with a timetable.  here's an example from last year

So the question I've been asking myself this week is this:  Should I even be on holidays with a timetable?  Often with holidays the times I look back on most fondly are those where I'd completely stopped and wasn't trying to get anywhere.  Mevagissey Harbour wall reading Murakami, Charlestown harbour having a coffee with Ruth and Hudson, Craster out the back of the pub eating crab sandwiches and looking at Dunstanburgh Castle, having a big fat burger at Felixkirk on Royal Wedding Day.  There's a joy that comes from movement, and from arriving in and passing through places, especially on a bike, but there are also times when what's most required is to just to sit and do nothing.  To look out of windows and to not have an agenda and not to have anywhere to go.  And this week I needed that more than the moving around stuff.

Nice building, shame about the art

I spent so long looking out of windows I missed the 11 am free bus to the Modern Art, and with an extra hour to spare I went to the National Portrait Gallery instead.  Inside there was the House of Annie Lennox, which was like the Seventh Circle of Hell, and then I saw the best Art I saw all week, although it was photography, so I'm not sure if that counts as art.  It was lots of black and white photos from the thirties by Edith Tudor Hart.  Even if she was a Russian spy, I definitely recommend it.  Nobody's perfect.  Seeing all the grim thirties portraits brought home to me how lucky I am.  In terms of times and places to be born, I pretty much hit the jackpot.

Here's me being a kid in the 80s

I was born at the end of the 60s in England, just before the moon landing.  I grew up in the 70s when there wasn't much else to do but run around playing football, go to the library a lot and watch westerns and Harold Lloyd, so I never got massively overweight as a kid.  I learned to develop an attention span for boring things, by not having a lot of different things going on at once.  Although we've had a few small wars, I've never had to go and fight the Nazis or any other fascist dictators.  I've always had enough to eat, and technology only really took off when I was getting on a bit, so it never dominated my childhood.  Rather helpfully, I grew up at a time when you didn't need a laptop and an i-Phone to get through a two hour train journey.  Just being on a train was exciting enough.  Whatever is outside a train window it's got to be better than watching re-runs of Bonanza, Skippy and Champion the Wonder Horse.

One of Annie Lennox's suits - Welcome to a World of Pain

Anyway, back to Edinburgh and my desire to see Modern Art.  I did manage to catch the second free bus of the day, but I wished I hadn't.  The inside of the bus was only big enough for action men and barbie dolls.  Not only were my legs crushed as soon as I tried to sit but the bus was hot and full of other crushed people.  Also, Jeremy Vine was on the radio.  If Annie Lennox was hell, this was a close second.  The outside of the Modern Art museum was pretty cool, but the art inside was absolute crap.  It was all drawings of penises and old lilos and sculptures made out of piss and breasts made out of wood hanging from the ceiling and I wished I hadn't bothered.

Here's me glad to not be on a bus anymore

Instead of waiting for the free crush-a-bus, I walked back into the city and went to see yet another movie, this time Trance by Danny Boyle.  No bloody idea what was going on in that one, but I got to see Rosario Dawson naked, including her front bottom, so it wasn't all bad.

Walking back into town - better than the bus

My cinema visits had been getting earlier, in fact my whole week of Groundhog Days were starting earlier and earlier.  Tuesday I was at the 8 o'clock cinema showing, Wednesday it was 6, by Thursday I was getting in at 4.  I had kept forgetting to have lunch so before Trance I went and had a three course meal at Ben and Jerry's (or it could have been Frankie and Benny's) before the film.

I was so knackered from the early mornings and all the walking that I went to bed at 8 pm on Thursday.   I walked so much every day the actual soles of my feet were sore every night.  But it was a good kind of sore.

What? - No caption?

Since I'd arrived on Tuesday, when I'd felt a bit overawed by the size and the noise of Edinburgh, I felt by Thursday that I'd really started to relax into it and feel at home.  I'm no good at following maps and guide books on paper, I prefer to wander round first and build a mental map and then compare it to the paper one.  The more I started to understand the layout of the city, the more I started to like it.  Being able to mentally place the Castle and the Royal Mile and Calton Hill and the cinema and the museums and all the other places I'd been in relation to my base at Princes Street, and to each other, I started to feel like I belonged.  I've had similar experiences in other cities, Bath, Wells, London, Leeds, Duisburg, Hannover, Essen for example.  Rather than finding a place on the map and deciding to go there, I like to do the going part first.

Friday morning I was up even earlier.  I had trouble sleeping past 5 am.  Again I went to McDonalds and had the same easy breakfast, although I was enjoying it less each day.  Also, the old guy sitting near me who I'd seen two days before with his mass of grey hair held together with some sort of mesh was freaking me out.  He might have even been a woman, I wasn't sure.  I don't think he'd bought any food, but he'd stocked up on the free miniature milk cartons and he was drinking them like jelly shots.

Castle

The good thing about the breakfast was that it kept my hunger at bay, and kept me fuelled up for more exploring.  I went back up to the Castle and in contrast to Wednesday it was an absolutely beautiful sunny morning up there.  I had another go at taking the panoramic pictures and these ones looked a lot better because you could see the distant hills a lot better.

Now that's why I call a Panorama

This time I walked the whole of the Royal Mile, and ended up at the Scottish Parliament building at the bottom of the hill, where I saw a duck and sat down and listened to some more Foals.

The Scottish Parliament

Here's a duck I found

As I sat in the sun feeling relaxed, I remembered being here 8 years earlier, tired and lost at the foot of Arthur's Seat in dire need of a map, without a clue how to find my B&B.  It felt better, being back again, knowing where I was this time, and with no particular place to go.

My second home in Edinburgh

I walked halfway back up the Mile, and for the third morning in a row ordered a big bucket of coffee from my favourite Baristas at Starbucks.  It was later in the day than my other two visits and some people in suits were in there having business meetings, either in person or on the phone, talking about emails and spreadsheets and network cables, and saying things like 'to all intents and purposes' and 'taking the process forward' and 'blue sky thinking'.  The only blue sky thinking I was doing was thinking I'd like to go outside and see some more blue sky.

Here it is

Being alone in a city for a few days, I did feel lonely at times and I noticed a lot of other people spending time alone.  I wondered if any of them were lonely too.  But it's so hard to tell, because these days a lot of people who are spending time alone are so absolutely laden down with gadgets that it's impossible to tell if they even feel alone, never mind lonely.  If you're getting constantly battered with status updates from everybody you've ever known, are you ever technically even on your own?

My phone is so old I could only do one half of the social networking thing on it.  I could send messages out, and sometimes I did that just to keep me from bursting with sensory overload, but my feedback loop was missing in that I couldn't see what responses I was getting, if any.

I went to the Tourist Information Centre a couple of times to use their internet, but this was only to find stuff out and to book another First Class ticket home, I didn't really have enough time to talk to anyone. I wonder if it's a sign of the times that an internet shop by the escalator in Waverley station has shut down.  With everyone and their dog now using smartphones, they probably went out of business.

Princes Street Gardens in the sun

It's like a park, but it's right by the shops

Like York, Edinburgh still has a HMV, and as it's a big one, so I thought I might be able to pick up a third Foals album to listen to after I got home, and I managed this successfully.  The third one is called Total Life Forever and I'm listening to it now.  Later I'm going to climb into the loft to transfer it onto my phone.

Although Edinburgh had really grown on me, by Friday lunchtime I was glad to be leaving.  It was filling up massively with weekend tourists and I'd enjoyed it so much during the week, when it was relatively quiet, I didn't want to have my memories ruined in the crush.  I'd already been crushed once this week.

Goodbye Thunderbird 3

The train home was the best First Class I've ever been in.  I had a seat which was both an aisle and a window seat and as well as free coffee, I also took some free crisps this time.  I sat opposite a young geeky looking man who was studying an AAT textbook.  He looked at me when he sat down with a look which seemed to say 'I've seen you but I don't really want to talk to you'.  I felt pretty much the same, so I wasn't offended.

Darlington is only 2 hours away from Edinburgh on the train, but arriving back there, it seemed so much smaller, duller and less exciting than Edinburgh, and although I felt like I got out at just the right time, I still miss it.

I got the train back to Thornaby, where I had to mix with the second class masses again (less laptops) and then I got another taxi home.  Not a Sikh this time though.

I got home and in my absence a team of cleaners had been in and cleaned my house from top to bottom (this wasn't entirely unexpected as it had been pre-arranged), and there was a £20 voucher waiting for me, for winning Team of the Month at work.  It's a Cineworld voucher.  Both these are exactly the kind of surprises you want when you get home from holiday.  So much better than a mouldy fridge.

It probably sounds as though it should have been, but this holiday was not in any way sponsored or endorsed by Starbucks, McDonalds, Travelodge, Millie's Cookies, Greggs, Vue Cinemas, Cross Country Trains, Frankie and Benny's, Edinburgh Zoo, HMV or any other big multinational companies.  Maybe it was just because I was in an unfamiliar place, that I chose to fall back on things where I knew exactly what I was getting.  I'm not sure.  What I did find though is what I already knew really, which is that all those places are only as good as the people who serve you when you go in, and everywhere I went I got service with a smile and people wished for me to have a nice day.  And I did.  I had a nice day every day, and I came away thinking of Edinburgh not so much as a holiday destination, but more of a home from home.  

A Freddo bar away from death - How I became a lazy cyclist

In the first few month of 2009 I hardly did any cycling at all. The tablets I'd been on since 2002 to treat my arthritis I think had stopped working. Since 2008 my symptoms had been getting a lot worse, and we almost didn't book a cycle tour in either 2008 or 2009, because both times I doubted whether I'd be up to it physically.

 


The hospital had offered me some much stronger medication (methotrexate) but I can't remember if I'd started on that by 2009. I'd been hesitant about taking it, due to the monthly blood tests and the alarming list of potential side effects. The fact that in larger doses it's used for chemotherapy didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm. But whether I was on it or not by then, I can't remember. What I can remember is saying that the only way I could do a tour in 2009 was via B&Bs. There was no way I could cycle camp, it would be too hard.

I'd had a bloody horrible time camping in the summer of 2008, on the church camp at Winksley when I just couldn't get comfortable in the night, and I totally spoiled it for Ruth, so unless there was a big improvement in my symptoms, I wasn't about to try camping again.

Although I wasn't in the best physical shape for going cycle touring, I really fancied doing the Sustrans Lochs and Glens North Route between Glasgow and Inverness. I figured that if I only tried to average about 40 miles a day and if I only pedalled when absolutely necessary I could probably do it. My feet and hands had been painful on some really short rides earlier in the year, on one in particular I felt like I came within a Freddo bar of death. Thankfully I found a Freddo bar in my pocket, so I got through it. As well as sore hands and feet, I was worried about becoming fatigued so that was another thing in favour of the freewheeling idea.

 


Judging by the route profile for the Lochs and Glens, I reckoned I probably only needed to pedal about half the time (pedants such as Graeme please note, this actually means half the distance, not literally half the time, I'm well aware it takes longer to go uphill than down).

By the way, my physical feebleness wasn't the only reason I decided not to pedal too hard (or much). I also don't like to stress the bike. I don't know what tolerances they use when they test bikes, but I don't want to go snapping bits off mine by riding the thing like I'm the Incredible Hulk. I figure if I ride it quite softly, it will most likely cooperate. One of my favourite things when riding a bike is to ride it so it feels like I am not trying. If ever I was a He-man figure in the past, which I doubt, I've gone beyond that now. I don't want to go blowing my knees out or snapping a chain by trying too hard. Isn't the whole idea of a bike to make life easier, not harder?

So that was how I arrived at the decision not to try very hard at all on my bike in 2009. I wasn't sure what I'd got in reserve, and I didn't want to blow the tank early.

Sunday 10th May 2009.
Ruth and I rode to Darlington and caught the train to Glasgow.
I don't like riding on urban cycle paths due to the regular deposits of broken glass and dog poo which are found there, and I tried to persuade Ruth to do the first few miles out of Glasgow by train, but she wasn't having any of it. We'd booked a B&B in Balloch, and much as I whined on about getting the train at least as far as Bowling, she took no notice. She said it would be all part of the experience.  



Within a few miles of leaving Glasgow station we'd totally lost touch with the Sustrans signs, and we ended up in what to me looked like a pretty run down area. I'm a bit ashamed to say it now but I was feeling very self-conscious because we were on nice bikes with good quality kit and I was expecting to get some hassle or to even get robbed (probably by skinheads in shell suits with flick knives). Then, just at the height of our being lost, and my feeling anxious, and while I was hopping around outside a scruffy looking pub desperately needing a pee, and contemplating doing one behind a nearby skip, we were offered help by a man carrying some wrapping paper who'd just got off a bus. He took one look at us and he could obviously tell we were struggling. It was the first time I'd ever met a real Glaswegian, and if I'd inadvertedly picked up too many stereotypes from watching Russ Abbott's C U Jimmy, my defences were about to be lowered.

The man with the wrapping paper wasn't approaching me so he could head butt me in the face and tell me to 'Stitch that!', No, he seemed genuinely concerned for my welfare, and clearly wanted to help me find my way, as have all the other Glaswegians I've met since (see India 2012 and Kilberry 2012). With no sense of irony in evidence he pointed down the road and said 'See that burnt out shell of a building, turn left there, follow the path along the river for a bit, and you'll soon find your way'. The burnt out building proved to be not just a useful waymark, I also managed to have a pee behind it too.

I started feeling better for a while about the whole venture, the sun came out, but then Surprise Surprise! a glass related puncture. How unexpected! Not! Having tried to get Ruth onto a train to avoid this, I started having one of those I told you so type moods. Luckily Ruth took complete charge of the situation and fixed it while I stood around being pathetic, and pulling faces for the camera.

 


Once we got as far as Bowling, the route turned into a very pleasant canal towpath, and the sun was still out and we saw lots of families out for their Sunday walk, and it was just like seeing families anywhere else in Britain out for a Sunday walk except in Glasgow, every man had a can of Tennant's.

I felt pretty fatigued for the last few miles and I was glad to arrive in Balloch just before 6. The B&B Woodvale was absolutely fantastic, Alison the owner was really welcoming, we went out for a walk to the shores of Loch Lomond and an Italian meal in the evening, and I started to relax into the trip.

Monday 11th May 2009
Balloch to Strathyre.
A problem I'd been having in early 2009 was that I had been using toeclips on the bike, but after about 15 miles or so's riding I kept getting really bad pains in my toes, and I had to get off the bike and walk around a bit to allow it to wear off. It certainly made doing long distances difficult. Anyway, I decided after breakfast on the Monday that the toeclips had to go, and I'd just have to use flat pedals alone, so I spent about half an hour dismantling them before we set off.

 

Upon leaving Balloch, we encountered a man who was stumbling out of the local corner shop, drinking cider and arguing with himself. At 9.30 in the morning. I tried not to make eye contact with him, because I didn't want him to start arguing with me instead. 

The first part of the day was quite easy, as far as Drymen, where we stopped and sat outside a cafe for quite a while having coffee and cake, and not worrying too much about the time.

 


By the time we got to Aberfoyle, it was nearly 2 pm, and I was having real trouble seeing. I think the cheap suncream I'd put on my face had run into my eyes, and coupled with the glare from the sun I could barely stand to keep my eyes open. We went in a cafe for some lentil soup, but even in the very dark indoors of the cafe my eyes were so painful I had to borrow Ruth's sunglasses, and I ended up keeping them on all week. I've always hated it when people wear sunglasses indoors, ever since my step dad (nickname Roy Orbison) used to do it while he was drunkenly putting frozen peas in the deep fat fryer (but that's another story), so I felt the need to explain to the waitress that I wasn't either a blind man, a poser or simply being ignorant, but my eyeballs had been taking a bath in suncream, and they were stinging like mad.

Another downer about reaching Aberfoyle was that as well as being blind I realised that my back tyre was flat again. It was most likely glass residue from day before.

I was feeling pretty low now, and also panicky about the time, but Ruth took control again, fixed the puncture, and finally we set off again about 3.

From Aberfoyle the route signs directed us onto a steep forest track. We met 2 other cyclists on mountain bikes and we all realised together that we were lost in the forest. Eventually we found the main road again but we still had a steep climb to do over Duke's Pass. We seemed to be averaging about 3 miles an hour at this point.

Once over the top of the pass, we followed the road as it wound downhill to the edge of Loch Venacher. The path alongside the loch as far as Callander was pretty gravelly and then after Callander there was another bumpy section of cycle track to Strathyre.

 


It was just after 8 pm when we got to Strathyre, and I felt absolutely knackered. Until Arnside in 2012 this was the latest I'd ever arrived at my accommodation. My good intentions of getting there about 5 had gone out the window. We just managed to get to The Inn and Bistro down the road from the B&B minutes before they stopped serving. I felt a lot better after a good meal, but then some guy in a kilt started playing the bagpipes at absolutely deafening volume inside the pub. Ruth thought this was most excellent and very Scottish, and added to the atmosphere, whereas I just wanted him to go away.

Tuesday 12th May.
Strathyre to Aberfeldy.
The next day got off to a better start. We followed a lovely little country road to Balquhidder, where we visited Rob Roy's grave.

 


Then just after joining the railway path to Killin, I got my third puncture in 3 days, on the front wheel this time. More glass. Ruth hadn't realised this as she was riding in front but by the time she came back to look for me I'd almost fixed it. Although I hadn't done much to fix the previous two I think I must have got the idea because I had it repaired quite quickly. We followed the railway path through Glen Ogle to reach Killin about 1.30.

 

By the time we reached Killin I was having one of my trademark dips in both body and spirit. I was having a few stomach pains, well sort of a cross between that and a stitch, and I was having trouble speaking. 

Again Ruth took charge. She went in the first pub we came to, ordered me a Venison burger and chips and a pint of coke, and made me sit down, eat and drink. I murmured some protest about how we should have shopped around for somewhere cheaper, but she said it was more important to bring me back to life, and she was right.

 


I felt a lot fresher after lunch and we set off along a minor road which ran alongside Loch Tay. I always imagine roads alongside lochs will be flat but they never are, especially not in Scotland. It was tough to get any momentum on the undulating route along the Loch edge, and before long we had to stop again to get some coffee. Sweaty and scruffy looking as we were, and Ruth with her regulation oil mark on her calf, we felt seriously underdressed for the extremely well to do Ardeonaig Hotel. It cost about £7 for two coffees but it was worth it. It was great coffee served in a silver coffee pot and there was plenty of it. It certainly put some life back into us. The middle aged lady who took our order insisted on bringing me the bill in one of those leather folder thingies and then she insisted on bringing me my change back in the same leather thingy after she seemed to have had to walk to the moon and back to get it, and I imagine she thought I should give her the £3 as a tip, and it's probably the kind of place where most of the guests can't be bothered to wait around for ages for £3, but to me £3 is £3, and I'd already spent about a million quid on venison burgers that day, and I'm not made of money.   




Full of caffeine and with my £3 change safely tucked away we set off again and before long we were rolling down the hill into Kenmore. Ruth and I had a wobbly embrace on the grass verge in Kenmore, and we had the strong feeling that we were over the worst. And we were.

 


The rest of the day consisted of an easy ride over smooth roads to Aberfeldy and then an excellent and relaxing evening starting with our outstanding B&B Balnearn House. It was run by a lovely young couple with a baby, which was unusual because normally B&Bs are run by old folk, and it had wood panelling and we got bathrobes, and there was quite a nice view out of the window except for all the diggers and JCBs which were digging some stuff up in the middle distance.

 


And after using the bathrobes and lazing around a bit, we went to the Black Watch Inn and I had my first bowl of Cullen Skink which may have been the best thing I ever tasted, and I said that to the woman at the bar, and she said she'd be sure to tell her husband, who'd made it himself out the back.

Wednesday 13th May 2009
Aberfeldy to Balsporran Cottages.
3 days into the trip and apart from a bit of cloud in Glasgow, all we'd had was sun, sun, sun. Not even a cloud in the sky. We started Wednesday with a nice easy ride on smooth roads to Pitlochry, where we stopped for some coffee, lemonade and a scone. We got a bit lost near the Hydroelectric power station which didn't appear on our map, even though the fish ladder next to it was. Eventually we retraced our steps and realised we had missed a Sustrans signpost due to it being very near another sign advertising ice cream, which had caught our eye instead.

We rode on main roads as far as Blair Atholl where we used the toilet and raided the local shop for food, drink and ice cream to see us over the Drumochter Pass. The guidebook had been at pains to tell us not to get caught out going over the Drumochter Pass, about how the weather can close in suddenly, and how you can end up dying of exposure. With weather this sunny, all I was in danger of was melted ice cream on my legs.

We followed the disused old A9 (now traffic free) and then a very well surfaced cycle track up and over the Drumochter Pass. It was very picturesque except for all the litter strewn next to the A9 where car drivers and coach parties had mindlessly chucked their rubbish instead of taking it home with them.

Pretty much as soon as we crested the top of the hill, and had only just started rolling down the other side, the first building we saw on the left was our B and B, Balsporran Cottages. And it was a very welcome sight. It's a bit isolated up there so the owners do you a lovely homemade evening meal (including crumble) and we spent the evening eating and chatting to the other four guests, and the B&B owners. Two of the other guest were in their seventies, and it was the usual story. They were all as thin as pipe cleaners and they all liked to walk about 40 miles a day for fun, and the oldest woman only had about half a lung left and she'd also had to cut part of her own leg off with a penknife and leave it in a bog, but she could still climb Ben Nevis in about half an hour, carrying a tent and a spare pair of boots. Excellent. And I'd been sweating about doing 40 miles a day by bike. No problem!

When we'd planned the trip, this was the day we thought would be the hardest because of the big hill, but in actual fact it felt quite easy, and it was definitely my best cycling day of the trip.

Thursday 14th May 2009.
Balsporran Cottages to Carrbridge. Any day which starts with 12 miles of gently rolling downhill sounds like a good day to me. This is what it looked like from the route profile in any case. Right, I'm not pedalling I thought, not until I have to.

I managed the first 4 miles without pedalling at all, but then there was a slightly uphill bit going through Dalwhinnie and I started doing that rocking backwards and forwards thing to try and scrape a tiny bit more momentum out of the situation. As I almost came to a standstill, and probably looking a little bit like I was having a seizure, I saw Ruth coming the other way to look for me, in case I'd had another puncture. I'm okay, I said, I'm trying not to pedal. But seeing her coming towards me put me off a bit, and I did actually start pedalling, so I don't know how far I could have got if I'd just carried on rocking.

 


Because the route became a bit undulating thereafter, I had to continue pedalling on and off between Newtonmore and Kingussie, and so I didn't get my full 12 miles of rest. Mind you, you can overdo it with the freewheeling. If you don't bend your legs once in a while, they start to seize up. At least mine do.

We stopped at Gilly's Kitchen in Kingussie, which the hard nuts we'd met at Balsporran had recommended to us, we had some coffee and I bored the polite young assistant with my anecdote about I knew exactly how to pronounce Kingussie (Kinnoosie) because there's a funny scene about the place in Slumdog Millionaire. You know the one that won all the Oscars? Set in India? She was only about 12. She'd never even heard of it, I was wasting my time.

I've had a few spokes pop in my time, and always on the heavily laden back wheel of the bike, which I had to eventually get rebuilt later in 2009, but usually they go when you're carrying some weight. This time one popped just as I lifted the bike away from the wall of the coffee shop, to set off again.

By a brilliant piece of good fortune, there is a bike shop directly opposite Gilly's Kitchen, which I took my pringled back wheel directly into and asked them to fix it. By a not so brilliant piece of good fortune, it was the mechanic's day off. It was only about 10 miles further to Aviemore so we rode on there with my mis-shapen wheel making an annoying grating sound on every revolution.

Just before Aviemore we made an unscheduled stop at the Frank Bruce Sculpture Park, where there's some pretty weird stuff going on. Whenever I'm on a bike ride I usually try and avoid getting off the bike to do any walking, but Ruth is more in the moment and she'll go look at pretty much anything that takes her fancy, even if it means tramping two miles up a hill to look at a couple of rocks (see Isle of Arran electrocution story 2012). This was one of the better and more thought provoking detours we've done.

Fortunately, when we arrived in Aviemore I was able to get a quick repair done to my back wheel at Bothy's Bikes. 'You really need a new wheel' the mechanic said. After repairing it, he invited me to ride it round the car park for a bit to try it out, which I did, but as tactfully as possible, he told me, if it falls apart on the road, it wouldn't be his fault. I agreed not to blame him.

While he was fixing it, we had some fantastic cake at the Rothiemurchus Visitor Centre. There was a bit more down and up and then we arrived into Carrbridge.

When I'm riding with Ruth we often settle into a pattern where she rides a little way in front, and we often don't speak for quite a while, as we enjoy the ride in our own heads. This day in particular, but on the trip in general, I can often remember watching her riding style and admiring her steady metronomic pedalling and her serene demeanour. It's on days like these that I think she was born to ride a bike. I'm often up and down during an average touring day. Sometimes I feel really glad I'm there and sometimes I feel desolate and like it's all going wrong, and why didn't I just stay in? Ruth on the other hand tells me that she enjoys every second of it. And I believe her. My enjoyment from these things often comes from reflecting on things afterwards, and writing it all down, and talking about what's gone before, but I think she genuinely and actually enjoys it all as it's happening.

Later on that day it rained for the first time in our 5 day trip, and I expended more energy fighting with my neoprene overshoes trying to get them on than I did cycling. Ruth had to take over in the end, as I was heading straight for pulled muscle central.

The B&B in Carrbridge was lovely (Pine Ridge). It was run by a lovely lady called Shona along with her small and somewhat limpy dog, who was adorable, but probably would have been quite ineffective as a guard dog. Sometimes when you turn up at a B&B it feels very much like a business transaction. I am giving you some money, and you are letting me stay here for a bit and giving me some of your food. The great thing about the B&Bs on this trip was that they felt like a home from home. There was still an exchange of money involved but we felt totally comfortable being there and fully able to be ourselves.

By a strange coincidence, after having spent part of the day at a Sculpture Park, when we went to put our bikes in the garage it was also full of wooden sculptures that Shona's husband makes. But he wasn't Frank Bruce, so it was only a small coincidence.

 


We went out to look at the famous Carr Bridge and take some photos next to it, and then we had a cheap meal at the local pub. It was quite relaxing, except for the quite loud woman at the next table with the peroxide blonde hair who felt the need to comment on almost everything that her two teeny tiny children Savannah and Archie did. 'No Savannah dear, that's not how we eat asparagus now, is it?', and so on.

I sometimes think some parents feel the need to do a John Motson style commentary on every single thing their children are doing, just to prove that they are indeed out there, doing some parenting. But what do I know? Probably nothing, it's just that when I'm eating a meal two tables away, I don't want to come away afterwards feeling like I now know someone else's children as well as they do. I don't care if Archie wasn't brought up to make chip sandwiches.

Friday 15th May 2009
By now the good weather had finally deserted us. We had a rainy and steady climb up to Slochd Summit and then pretty much a roll down the hill all the way into Inverness. At one point Ruth rolled down one hill too many, and shouting didn't work, so I had to phone her and ask her to cycle back up it to take the turn that she'd missed by getting carried away.


On the way, we stopped at the Culloden Battlefield Visitor Centre for coffee and crumble. We found it to be a very haunting place, and over our meal the conversation ended up mostly being about violence and oppression. And then a couple of coachloads of American tourists came piling in, and I was glad I didn't have to queue up behind them, because we would have been hours.


It was a comparatively short day at 29 miles and we got to our B and B around 3 O'Clock. Luxury. This gave us time for a shower and then some Costa Coffee, Cider and Pizza, but no soup! We caught the train home the next morning.

On reflection, what an excellent experience that week was! I would like to do it all again someday. The weather was great, the winds were benign, the locals were friendly and the mishaps were small. If only all trips were like that.

Although I felt a bit crap physically on some of it, like heading into Balloch on Day 1, and on the long drag into Strathyre on Day 2, and just before and just after Killin on Day 3, I felt a bit better every day, and I think in the end I probably could have pedalled more, and I most probably wouldn't have fallen down at the roadside and died. Ditching the toeclips certainly helped, and probably so did the very kind weather, and no doubt it helped a lot that all the B&B owners were kind, and all the food and drink was good, and that we were out there, in the fresh air, doing something we really like doing. And certainly it helped that at the times when I was at my most feeble, Ruth was not, and she helped me through it. And it helped a lot to see her absolutely in her element, enjoying every second of it. And even being with a man with bad feet and a tendency to moan and a reluctance to pedal didn't dent her enthusiasm.

When I look back now at 2009, I realise how much better I've been since then, in health and in what I've achieved on a bike. The drugs that I initially didn't want to take have worked out really well for me, and if they're giving me side effects I haven't noticed what they are.

But I still like to conserve energy when I'm out on the road, by pedalling softly, and by not trying any harder than necessary. But that's the thing about a bike. If you help the bike, the bike helps you. And so if there was ever a form of exercise for lazy people, cycling must be it. And that's probably why I keep doing it.