Markets

Casablanca Souk

Whether they are the little flea markets that sell tat or unwanted memorabilia or the colourful, fragrant spice markets in Morocco, they all hold a fascination for me..

A market traders life must be the same worldwide; the pressure to find the goods and the hope of selling out on the day; the search for items that will sell easily and the balance of cost of acquisition against selling price. In no other place is this balance in such open view as the markets of Morocco. Yet everywhere, if you take a moment to stand and watch, wherever you are you will see the price of this search in the stall holders face, the lines around his eyes from the sun and the worry are a testament to the strain of buying and selling. The disappointment of no sale and the welcome joy of a good price leave equal traces on the face of the market trader, as the wind and rain leave patterns in the dunes of the Moroccan beaches.  

Cape Verde's Markets were very crowded...

I always have an urge to head for a market whenever I get to a town or city, I love the sensory attack that accompanies these places, whether indoor or out. The riot of colours shimmering in the air, the sounds and cries, the smells of meat, fish, vegetables, spices - even clothes and books - and recently, on a long cruise I had the chance to head for the stalls in a variety of places. Tenerife, Cape Verde, Agadir, Casablanca and El Ferrol all provided a feast for my hunger of markets and not one of them let me down. Yet even in the UK I migrate to stalls like a traveller makes for the warmest Inn. I look for the book stand, the green grocer, the baker - oh yes the baker - at this one stall alone does the olfactory sense shift into overdrive and I drool physically at the smells and mentally at the ideas, the shapes, the artisan skill and the ingredients, I imagine the bustle of the early morning bakery, the flour dusting the very air and the heat from the ovens as the bread is shaped, patted and baked. 

Oranges By The Cart Load

The Spice stalls in Casablanca were all I hoped they would be, colours ablaze and glowing in the damp sunshine, oranges by the cartload, chillies and peppers, lemons, limes and the muted hues of the mounded spices themselves; the ochre of turmeric, the deep red of ground chilli, whole nutmegs and cinnamon sticks in shades of chestnut and burnt umber, the rich pastel shades of the lentils glistening in the low December sun. 

Pastel Shades of Spices

UK fish stalls are fun places, fishmongers having a humour all of their own, but the colours are muted. Mackerel, cod, plaice and salmon are subdued in shade and lack the vivid reds and blues of mullet, snapper and wrasse from the Mediterranean or the frightful appearance of the monkfish and scabbard fish from the Canaries. The spangling sardines from Portugal, the Tuna from St. Vincent and the coin-scaled mullet from Spain are on neat display in rows of bright eyed freshness in most markets. I say most, because a couple of the Tuna that were brought along for inspection for our onboard chef in St Vincent were not as fresh as our local fishermen purported, judging by the limp flaccid flesh and the red eyes of the specimens - they were a day or two old at best. But most of the fish on display are caught that day, brought stiff and fresh straight from the boats. 

Scabbard Fish

Vivid Reds...

 And that's another great thing about markets; you get to inspect the goods, discuss them and haggle if you're brave enough. In the UK haggling isn't really the done thing, we don't argue, discuss or debate the goods on offer, we accept them and buy them - or we don't. That's it. 

All over the world deep, meaningful conversations take place around the efficacy, quality and price of the items. Markets are places to haggle, argue and act insulted, to quibble over cents, pennies and proportions. You spend time comparing and handling, learning to trust the stall holder, relationships are forged or trashed, cemented or destroyed as you spend your time buying your essential items. I was sitting at the indoor market in Bath recently watching the cheese counter as fists were bumped, hands shaken and friendships obviously made through trade were on display. There was a respect, an honest mutual liking and of course money and cheese changed hands as I sat and supped my afternoon tea. 

Colours....

Don't be afraid of markets, respect them certainly, but watch, if you can, over a cup of coffee, tea or a beer and you'll see the exchanges, the colours, hear the sounds and smell the aromas. You'll see friendships, respect and disdain all in one stall, you'll observe peculiarities, oddities and strangeness, but most of all what you're looking at is human nature in its most basic, intrinsic honesty, you're watching life. 

English Market in Cork City

Nostalgia

Is it just me? Am I the only one who can smell the past? Sometimes even taste it? Is that what nostalgia is - a flood of sensory perceptions reminiscent of youth, childhood and past emotions? Smells, feelings, tastes and experiences all encapsulated in that one word - nostalgia. 

Just recently, I have been smelling days on the beach, my first sea fishing trips on Deal pier; I can taste the briny air, feel the cold breeze onshore from the North Sea side of the coast and I remember the first crab, the first fish, the lugworm wrapped in newspaper and the smell of the oil on the reel. 

I can feel the warm sun and the smell of seaweed on the days we used to spin or feather for mackerel, learning to cast as far as possible with our Abu reels and fibre glass rods. We learned to oil and adjust the reels so that we got maximum casting distance free of the dreaded birds nest that would stop us fishing for half an hour at a time while we picked and fussed at the mess in front of us. We dressed in our mothers' (washed) tights to keep the cold from our legs on days when the wind blew through you but the cod came in. or the still, bright days when the cod stayed away but the whiting arrived in shoals. We hated the days when numerous, inedible pouting stole our expensive bait, knowing that we wouldn't catch anything but staying on just in case. 

The promenade at Deal saw us standing together as sentinels behind rods that pointed skywards like weapons of the gods while the sea shifted the shingle soporifically in front of us. 

And sometimes the cod came. 

We loved those days, to take a couple of codling home as trophies of our diligence passing them over to our mothers for approval and praise - but not cooking. Nope, that was our job, rough filleted and coated in bread crumbs before being shallow fried in a pan - nothing fancy in the 70's and 80's. Or large whiting, butterfly filleted and shallow fried again in a coating of flour. Remember, we used butter for frying back then, and served with mash and peas, or chips and peas - or just peas.  

We had a shrimping net then too. All of us, everyone I knew, had a shrimping net of varying efficacy and repair. We would wait for low tide and cycle to the rockier end of the sea front and after a long sweep of the shallow water avoiding rocks, metal bars and broken groyne pieces we would disgorge the contents of our nets into buckets of sea water which we would then transport on the handlebars of our bikes back home. 

One sunny Saturday morning, my brother and I arrived back home with our pails of shaken shrimps and set up the large pan of water on my Mother's pristine cooker hob in her sparkling, sun filled kitchen. 

That's another thing, by the way - in all my memories, my Mam's kitchen is sunny. Always. I can't actually think of it as dark or dull - is that nostalgia? It surely can't be reality, I first heard Bohemian Rhapsody in that kitchen;  Shine On You Crazy Diamond; Houses Of The Holy. I did homework there, hid swede under mashed potatoes and First read Tolkien over lonely, after work dinners - but it was always sunny. I asked my brother how he saw the kitchen in his mind and the word he used was 'dull'! Odd isn't it?

Anyway, the large pan was on the gas hob and my brother - then in his early teens - quickly ladled all the shrimps into it. 

They immediately and with great energy jumped back out again - he had forgotten to turn on the gas, the water was cold and the shrimps didn't like the fresh water  - we were finding shrimps all over the kitchen for weeks. Neither Mam nor Dad were much impressed. 

We had so many good times right next to, above or on the sea. We had bad days too - severe cold which threatened our health, wet days when the rain was relentless and days when the fish were any where else but where we were. 

But the good times remain; the 10 pound cod caught in a sprat glut; the days of mackerel by the dozen caught under high mackerel clouds of summer skies; the smell of the lightly frying dabs cooked in seasoned butter and the slices of buttered bread that accompanied all our meals. 

The unwieldy, one piece 15 foot fibre glass rods that we had to keep in stairwells, the hours spent crook backed over our reels taking then apart and putting them back again to gain an extra yard or two on a cast.  Backs broken from digging lugworm from the claggy, sticky, sucking mud of Pegwell Bay and the hours spent trying to keep them alive and fresh before our trips.

Would we change anything? No, of course not. Even the gloomy trudge home in soaking wet clothes after long, fishless hours under rain sparkled street lamps resonate with a euphoric feeling of times well had, friendships endorsed and manhood attained. Change it? Never, wish for it all over again - oh yes.

Deal - A Great Place To Visit

Deal Town has been listed as one of the top 30 best places to visit for a weekend retreat by The Times newspaper.

The Times commented on the town’s view of France on a clear day and its award-winning High Street as voted by the Daily Telegraph, with a busy Saturday market and numerous bars, cafes and restaurants.

The Times commented on the cottages in Middle Street, Deal

It also mentioned the cottages in Middle Street, a conservation area, just metres from the beach and picked up on Smugglers Cottage in Dolphin Street, a two-bedroom property currently on sale for £249,500.

Deal is known as one of London weekenders favourite places to visit with St Pancras only an hour and a half by train.

The town has recently announced its high speed services to London will continue with new plans to introduce high speed stops in Martin Mill and Walmer.

Deal town mayor Marlene Burnham said: “After Deal won the High Street of the Year award out of the whole country, then to hear that Deal was 17 out of 30, well, what an accolade.

“It’s the real Deal, that’s what they’re getting. It’s splendid news and extremely exciting.

“I’m very interested in tourism for the town and it seems Deal is on the up and up. Perhaps next year, we’ll be in the top three. Well done everybody.”

Peter Jull, chairman of Deal and Walmer chamber of trade, said: “It is pleasing that Deal keeps coming up top in a number of these polls.

“Earlier in the year it was the High Street and now it’s a great place for the weekend.

“Our members will be pleased that their dedication to good customer service has been recognised.”

Broadstairs also made it on to the list, featuring at number 21. The town has been long primed as the next Whitstable with its cliff top promenade and was once described by Dickens as “our English watering-place.”

(With thanks to KentOnline)

 I might add, personally, that Deal is my home town - my family moved here when i was in my early teens and I have many fond memories. It's a warm, friendly seaside town, oozing with history and legend. The ghosts of smugglers, miscreants and rogues still walk the centuries old alleyways, side roads and hidden shanty properties of the town and the pier is still open, accessible and always busy. It offers more pubs per hundred yards than many places in the UK and each of these caters for all tastes and requirements, and, if that was not enough, it has three (yes three) castles along its entire seafront.

Take a trip down and see for yourselves, but if you feel a draught, it's probably not the sea breeze, but the loitering remnants of an ancient mariner or the mischievous shadow of a 15th century smuggler sneaking past.

Land Rovers And Levadas

Levada walks in Madeira

This is a post I wrote recently for a Travel Company...

With the reputation as one of the prettiest islands as well as the most sedate, Madeira has a few surprises up its sleeve when it comes to exploring the its countryside and history. The Portuguese, very rightly, love this little paradise and treasure its calmness, stillness and solitude. Night clubs are few and far between and the tourists most definitely fit into the older age bracket, but on a recent trip, I was able to explore two aspects of the island that may be less well known, getting well off the beaten track and into the beautiful countryside, making some wonderful discoveries and digging up some gold mines along the way.

Naturally, the very nature of the island lends itself to a diversity of flora, terrain and altitude and the million or so tourists that visit over the course of the year come for a variety of reasons, but as soon as I saw the Levada Walks and the Land Rover Safaris, I knew I would have to get out of the town of Funchal and into the hills.

The views from beyond the towns are quite stunning

Levada Walks

As a way to explore the island in a sedate manner and without too many extreme gradients, this is the best!

Levadas are the concrete waterways or aqueducts constructed over the years to supply the southern half of the island with water. There are over 40 kilometres of tunnels, many of which are still accessible today and over 2000 kilometres of walkable levadas around the island, and much of this is easy to walk, eminently accessible by local transport and many can be booked as an accompanied tour by English speaking guides who will share a wealth of information regarding the history, fauna and flora of the island. 

If you prefer, you can explore them alone and many maps of the walks, in easy sections of from 6 to 26 kilometres are available in the tourists centres. As always, it's a good idea to let someone from your hotel know where you'll be and try to choose walks initially, closer to civilisation in case of mishap. Take appropriate clothing too as the mountain mists can close in quickly, but if you stick to the walkways along the concrete levadas it's difficult to get lost. 

Wild Wood Sorrel - in January

Also take care of recent incidents that may have occurred along the way. Out of necessity these water ways are incredibly well maintained, but overnight tree falls and land slips do occur, so just watch your footing around these areas.

As you walk you will see the mountainous regions in all their glory; the bougainvillea and wild thyme, the cacti, mimosa and banana and the eucalyptus as well as all the other wonderful semi-tropical plants that abound on this wonderful island. The name Madeira means "Wood" in Portuguese. 

Other than birds and the odd feral cat, you won't see much fauna on your walks but you will see the farming layers built, in some cases, on shear cliff edges, the care and attention given to preparing the land for crops all year round is still very evident.

Take care as you go but do give them a try.

Stunning views along the Levadas

Land Rover Safaris

As the proud owner of a Defender myself, I just had to give these trips -  bookable almost anywhere - a go.

We booked two excursions; one was an out and out safari on all the back roads around the island, starting at the top of the highest mountain and hitting every puddle, every pothole and every sharp, wicked bend on the way down with stops for lunch (included) and coffee whenever our bones were too shaken to carry on.

The second was a 6 car trip up through the mountains to a linen factory and a local market, two surprisingly cheap and incongruously non-touristy stops as it was possible to experience. Lunch at the market - almost as much barbecued food as you could eat, washed down with the local beer and wine - cost only a couple of euros a head - wonderful value, and a lively local market to look at into the bargain.

Stuck in a ditch - but still immense fun!

 On this trip we also hit pot holes and ditches and yours truly had to get out with the chain saw to help clear the way when we hit a ditch the hard way and during the afternoon our vehicle suffered not one, but two punctures - great fun!

The tiered fields for crops....

The guides and drivers were friendly, helpful and full of mischief. They were accommodating, high spirited - but safe! They knew the limits of the vehicles and the terrain and we felt comfortable in their hands - as comfortable as you can in a Defender.

So if you want to get out and about, explore the island, meet the locals and see the real Madeiran wildlife - just ask your tour guide, your hotel receptionist or your local Tourist Information Office  - and go explore!

The Green Fields Of France

1914, August 4th - the start of possibly the greatest conflict of modern times - and this year we will commemorate the 100th anniversary of a World War that cost millions of lives and disrupted millions more.

There seems to be an extraordinary interest in the first World War, notwithstanding the anniversary that is now upon us. Many have travelled to Northern Europe for many years to visit the Battlefields and Cemeteries that have been maintained and preserved by local authorities, governments and enthusiasts alike. Whether to trace ancestors, to complete historical studies, to follow the footsteps of colleagues and friends, to re-visit scenes that were the most telling part of a young life or just to stand in awe of the countless white crosses that spread out from the cenotaphs, monuments and gateways - millions more have visited them over the years. The names; Paschendaele, The Somme, Ypres, Neuve Chapel - names we know so well - ingrained on our memories - their lives, our history.

And yet, this year, as we look back on the past mistakes, tragedies and life changing decisions that brought about the Great War still more will flock to France, to Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany for a plethora of reasons a myriad of memories and a whole family tree of of lost ancestors. Ask "Why" and you will receive so many different answers that consensus is impossible. Yet we go, we stand, we cry, we lay flowers and we talk in hushed voices as if the sound might still carry to the enemy. Where once guns howled and screamed, firing hot metal to kill, to maim, to eviscerate, to destroy in hurricanes of maddening noise, now silence is the blanket across the fields; quiet words softly spoken, birdsong in the summer, the lowland winds in the winter and a distant hum of traffic.

The grass is green - the mud long gone, the trees are full branched in winter and greenly vivid in the spring, poppies grow freely in summer as if to cry the blood stained tears of the past in red-petalled agony in the corn fields of new life. Yet still silence reigns, the quietness is natural.

If you would like to go to see for yourself the scenes of past battles, the trenches, the towns, villages and rivers and, of course, the cemeteries then you can grab a map, book a ferry or a Eurotunnel train and go off and explore and discover these sights for yourself. 

If you prefer something a little more structured then there are many companies who offer full guided tours to the areas that are of most interest. The War Graves Commission, Saga, Shearings, Battlefields.Com and even the Radio Times all offer guided tours that will allow you time to see and discover for yourselves the sights and history of the area - do some research to find the right company for you.

I hope you do go, but prepare to be moved....

This is a great song, written by Eric Bogle - probably the best anti war song I know of....

Lessons and Changes

This time last year I was on the wonderful Island of Madeira - a week of warmth, motivation and rest. The break seemed to set me up for the year and left me with some very wonderful memories - you can read about some of it HERE

This year, I feel just as motivated but for several very different reasons. Forgive me if I don't go into too much detail here but I promise to gradually, and tantalisingly release information as and when I feel the time is right. There are many changes happening all at once which can be stressful but I feel that 2014 is looking full of promise and hope - I certainly hope so and although it is early days I do see a good looking year stretching ahead.

I hope also to share more foraging tips as well as recipes, some fishing exploits and some gardening hints that I pick up along the way. I do hope that my readers will continue to watch this space and continue to read my inexpert ramblings, my inadequate grasp of the meaning of life and my ill-advised attempts at witty banter.

A Happy New Year to you all - again.

Skyfall IV - For Your Lies Only.

Five weeks, five days and about five hours later we were reconnected by BT Open Reach and it only took them a couple of hours to sort out the entire problem start to finish. The phone works and so does the Internet - finally.

Why it took so long, why we were lied to time and time again and why they sent a lonely engineer with a single hand held tool box to fix the fault only the day before - goodness only knows for we do not.

We received texts saying the fault had been repaired on 5 or 6 separate occasions, the engineers who turned up only to stand and stare at the broken line several meters above their heads could have made up a football team - and not five-a-side either. 

Even the CEO's office staff were lied to by Open Reach and were as perplexed as we were about the protracted delay, but we have learned several lessons: Facebook is wonderful and we have many friends who put themselves out to help us. This Blog had hundreds of hits so I guess people were interested enough to read about our problems and BT, who have spent hundreds of millions  of pounds buying TV rights to various Sports, have not set up sufficient infrastructure to serve the customers they have. Misplaced priorities? We think so and we will vote with our feet very soon. 

Skyfall III - Cry Another Day

Still no relief from Storm St Jude....

The ongoing saga of BT's inability to have the common courtesy or honesty to reconnect our phone and internet after Storm St Jude damaged the line OVER 4 WEEKS AGO!

Despite having been promised that we would be visited on Wednesday 27th November - we weren't. We were then told that Open Reach would be along on the 28th to cut trees and on the 29th to reconnect - Open Reach were distinctly conspicuous by their absence.

The lady from BTwho has stayed in touch by e-mail is now joining us in the renting of clothes, the wearing of sackcloth and hair tugging that has become part of our daily lives. She has no idea what's going on.

On Monday 2nd December it will be FIVE weeks since we lost connection - we live in the country so have no 3G or, often, even any phone signal - we are therefore often un-contactable except by text. BT are still taking Direct Debits, are still beyond the reach of normal conversation and compensation looks like a dream never to be attained - as does reconnection.

Watch this space!

Skyfall II - No Quantum Of Solace

Our seldom maintained generator

I write this post in a local shop which sells coffee and offers  free Internet access for its customers  – BT have, as yet, failed to reconnect our broken phone line and seem not to have any plans to do so in  the near future. As of today we have been 27 days and 6 hours without phone or internet access. We have called, e-mailed and texted on many, many occasions, we have been visited at least three times by head scratching Open Reach operatives, and told twice that we were back on even as the phone cable flapped disconnectedly in the breeze but as yet we have no hope of being reconnected.

UK Power Networks, having installed a generator in order to provide us with electricity after 85 hours in the dark and cold, then failed to maintain the machine, allowing it to run out of diesel - plunging us in the gloom for a further 5 hours the first time and 4 ½ hours the second time.

In fact, the second time, although we didn't actually run out of fuel, the maintenance Engineer was so late filling it up that in his panic, he accidentally hit the emergency cut off switch, turning off a generator that he was NOT QUALIFIED TO RESTART! 300 dark minutes later another man arrived to press the button!

We are not a third world country, we are not so remote that no one can reach us, no, we live next to a major arterial road to the South Coast – that is our problem.  We are alone in our plight – being the only property affected – that is our second problem. BT, Open Reach and all their engineers are unaccountable, uncontactable and uncaring – that is our third problem.

We shall continue to work in other peoples’ homes, coffee bars, restaurants and hot spots, we shall continue to pull out our hair and rent our clothing – but I can’t see any way out of this dilemma – at all.

Working to restore power - in the dark

Skyfall

The van driver blinked in the pre-dawn darkness  and leaned closer to his windscreen as the wild wind blew the roadside trees almost horizontal. He continued cautiously up the hill, vaguely aware of the lights behind him and the slowness of the oncoming traffic as those drivers also myopically peered through windscreens nervous of the flying debris and arboreal detritus that littered the road. On his way from Bexley to Hasting, he was seriously looking forward to his early morning tea - this days journey had been fraught with tension as the long predicted storm hit the south east in a fury of whipped branches and whirling leaves. 

His nose almost touching the windshield now, he flinched backwards sharply as he suddenly saw more movement than even this wind should produce; his foot hit the brake pedal and he hauled the van to the left as the falling tree toppled into his path, hitting the top of the windscreen, sliding down to remove the bumper and number plate. The van crunched and lurched to a halt, as the engine stalled, the vehicle swaying as the wind buffeted the right hand panels.The  Highways Agency Incident Support Unit that had been following the van pulled up behind and the three workmen quickly climbed out to check for injury.

The van driver breathed out in a shuddering sigh and clambered shakily from the cab as the Highways men joined him to survey the damage. As they went over the events in shouted conversation to carry the wind, one of the workmen started to pull the six inch thick tree trunk away from the wreckage and out of the road, another joined him while the third began to direct the traffic, but barely had they begun when a huge rending crashing sound caused them all to jump, spinning around to stare back up the hill as an eighty foot long beech bough was torn from a tree and smashed down through the surrounding smaller trees. Falling heavily onto the road and exploding like a grenade sending debris spinning into the air, the branch sliced through tree limbs, phone lines and the power line which split the power pole like a cheese cutter as it fell to earth. The four men stared in shock at the destruction just a hundred feet in front of them.  

"Bugger," I said as the kitchen was plunged into darkness and the spluttering coffee machine sputtered to a halt. I saw the end of the explosion as I looked out through the window at the aftermath not twenty yards from our cottage. My wife rushed into the kitchen and together we walked out into the wildness of the wind and noise to assess any damage. 

Unbelievably our property had been entirely missed by the destruction but only by a matter of a few feet, however all our utilities, apart from water, had been cut off by the fall. 

We didn't know it then but we would be without power, heating and hot water for almost ninety hours and without telephone and internet access for weeks. Tragically, two people were killed by falling trees, so our plight was minimal, if exceptionally annoying and frustrating. 

In our little incident, no one was hurt, though many were inconvenienced, there was no real damage to property apart from the van and we have some more firewood to season. But the utilities companies proved to be incompetent, unhelpful and uncaring. Happy to take our money and increase prices time after time, both BT and UK Power Net were very slow to show concern, answer phone calls, or provide assistance with any show of speed. 

No surprise there then.  

More firewood...

The Autumn Mist

...and stare with wonder...

The mist rolls across the meadow to the outer edges of the wood and as it moves, it covers, it blankets and it chills. Rabbits busy feeding on the wooded fringes flick their fur before hurrying down into the warm burrows, the sudden cold driving away all thoughts of food - warmth is all they seek now - warmth and comfort.

Overhead the mist swirls at the trees before shifting and slithering into the woods sending tendrils forth like an armed vanguard that touches and envelopes as it pushes forward. The badger that had been snuffling around the fallen horse chestnuts - sniffing for earthworms drawn to the surface by the aroma of decaying husks - feels the cold as it flows over him. His head lifts and his snout twitches at the air as he endeavours to detect any threat. Discerning none, he turns around and shuffles heavily back into the woods, away from the flowing chill, to his sett. 

Onward the fog flows, over the dying nettle beds, the sprawling brambles, their runners reaching and clawing, and on towards the largest chestnut tree in the woods. Here, in its topmost branches an old, wood-wise Tawny Owl blinks down at the wood mice as they busy themselves among the fallen conkers. Later, young boys will pick up these large kernels and stare with wonder at the deep, chestnut sheen of the freshly freed fruit, their pockets will bulge as they run back home to find fathers with bradawls and string and the talk will be of vinegar and heat and other tricks to promote longevity. But for now, the owl looks down benignly at the scurrying mice, having earlier eaten his fill and so he calls to his mate, his 'twoo' and her responsive 'tvit' deadened by the encroaching mist.

Dawn is now spreading her light through the canopy, the unveiling glow at war with the heavy damp air as they battle to claim the day, but for now the mist continues, pushing back the brightness of morning and gliding further into the wood. The dampness spreads and the wrens roosting deep in the bramble are not protected from its embrace and they fluff up their feathers, shifting slightly towards each other as they seek further warmth. The fallow deer reaching for the last leaves of birch as autumn tinges the edges of them with sienna and umber, lowers her head checking on her fawn, this year's baby but now well grown, and her nostrils twitch as the vapours of Autumn lap around her legs, she can now barely see the sulphur tuft mushrooms that kept her olfactory interest for a while before she started on the birch. The mist doesn't concern her, she has fantastic hearing and a wonderful sense of smell and she has heard already the clumping footsteps of the Gamekeeper  at the outer edge of the woods towards the farm.

He is up early to check his coverts and pheasant runs, he knows that a vixen has been checking around the birds for he has found her markings and he can smell her. He's not too concerned, she no longer has young to feed, but he never-the-less wants to be there to make sure she has no way in and no time to try.

...the Gamekeeper at the outer edge of the woods...

He lights a cigarette, leans on his stick and stands listening, waiting for the birds to increase their song into the first light crescendo he has come to know well. First the Robins fast trill, always ending with a sad note; then he hears a blackbird away overhead and closer by the loud tumbling warble of the wren - the smallest of birds with the largest of songs. He has already heard the Tawny Owls - old friends now - and he hears the badger snuffling back to his set, but the deer walk by within 25 feet of him, their soundless passage unmarked by the man.

...lifting wraith-like from the grass...

Then the mist swirls as if disturbed by some interloper, some unseen spirit pushing and shoving its way towards the seething dampness. This trespasser is the breeze and it's instigator, the sun. Rising above the distant trees, the October sunlight has brought warmth and with this rise in temperature has come the pressure that pushes the air inexorably backwards, back into the woods and beyond; back across the fields, the mist lifting wraith-like from the warming grass to dissolve into the early morning sunlight as if it had never been, until finally, the last vestiges of the early morning mist have disappeared entirely and sunlight dominates the morning, the battle is over, today the sun has won.

The Gamekeeper extinguishes his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, placing the butt in his jacket pocket, he takes one more look across the fields into the sun, squinting his eyes from the low glare before turning his back on it and melting into the wood.

...the sun has won...

Scotland 2011 - A Very Strange Day

This is an article recently published in the BSG magazine.

I have to say straight away that Scotland is my Favourite place to be. I first discovered it in 1990 – driving through the heaviness of Glencoe in a November dusk and I have returned time and time again since. I never tire of its Beauty, its diversity or the friendliness of the Scots. I never feel baulked by the long drive – there or back – and I never miss an opportunity to go.

So when Frankie was invited to Aberdeen and Moray to demonstrate and run some workshops, I had been looking forward to it all year.

This piece is not about the wonderfully friendly Sugarcraft ladies from both cities, it is not about the diversity of architecture of Aberdeen and Elgin - it is not even about the fishing. This is about one very odd day when strangeness was in the air, when the fey Scotch mist dissipated and turned one normal day into a day not to be forgotten. It is about Thursday 22^nd September 2011.

It was certainly an odd few hours - although that might be an understatement; a little like saying that the wedding of Kate and William was slightly extravagant.

Of course, it could also easily be an overstatement, my perception on these things is somewhat hazy at times – we’ll just have to see, I suppose.

The day started normally enough – we were on holiday finally, after working for a few days and the three of us (and the dog – mustn’t forget the dog!) decided that a drive to Ballater, a nice walk in some wonderful scenery and a spot of lunch would be in order.

I had found a road on the map that looked interesting; it ended up in the middle of nowhere around the back of the Balmoral Estate at a Loch called Muick in Glen Muick and was at the beginning of the eastern end of the Cairngorms. There was nothing beyond it apart from Country. Miles and miles of Country – mountains, moors, rivers and, hopefully, not too many people.

It’s not that I don’t like people, individually, but when they get together they seem to become an entity rather than just a lot of ‘persons’. It’s like one wasp on its own is sort of ok, but you wouldn’t want an entire swarm anywhere near you.

Anyway, I had found this road and having partaken of a lunch in the delightfully overestimated cuteness of Ballater - there’s a Shopping Mall there for goodness sake! Ok, only three shops in it, but a mall in a tiny village is never the less pushing the definition tourism in the wee place just a little too far – we took a leisurely drive over the bridge into what the road sign called South Deeside.

Now, to me, that just sounds industrial! South Deeside - like South Merseyside or Thameside, which always makes me think of Wapping. The truth was entirely different. We were in very beautiful surroundings of mixed woodland on a single lane road just approaching the foothills of the Cairngorm Mountains. The traffic was light and there were ample passing places along it to allow oncoming traffic to pass.

And that was exactly what I did when I saw the large black Range Rover beetling its way down the lane. The driver gave me a stunning smile, a wave of his hand and mouthed “Thank you” before driving politely past.

It was Prince Charles.

Like two gunslingers in a western shootout, Frankie and her sister Anne pawed for their cell phones, within a split second texts were on their way around the world….

“You’ll never guess who we just saw…”

My only thought, other than to marvel at the speed at which mobile phones had been located, loaded and fired, was to wonder if Prince Charles was saying “Was that Mike Kelly? It was…I’m sure that was Mike Kelly…”

The weirdness had begun.

In a few minutes though, we were really in the Country. Deciduous trees had given way to Coniferous forest which had now yielded to open Scottish Moorland. Breathtaking views around each corner became different each time the sun pierced through the scudding clouds creating rainbows on the autumn sky and coruscating across the distant loch and rivers. The girls were finally quiet which either meant that they were as gobsmacked as I hoped they would be or the mobile signal had been lost.

After a few miles we reached the visitor centre car park, even out this far there were tourist pennies to be taken, but I felt that it was ok out here. An ancient crofting village had been preserved, real people still lived and worked here, but the visitor centre was a very real attempt at education, conservation and maintenance of the area and three pounds wasn’t too much to pay for that.

As I was putting my money into the machine and marvelling at the dozen or so cars in the car park – what were all these people doing out here? – I looked down. There was a piece of paper lodged between the ticket machine and the longish grass growing tight against it. It was a ten pound note. A Scottish ten pound note, but real money none the less. That was nice, not life changing you understand, but a bit like finding money in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn for a while or discovering that there’s still one last custard cream in the corner of the biscuit tin that you missed earlier. I strolled back to the car thinking that it was turning out to be a very nice day thank you very much and a nice long walk now would be the icing on the cake. Annie asked if she could stay in the car while we took Basil the dog for a walk. She wanted to relax (sleep) and I think that she thought it might rain. Actually, that’s a pretty good mind set to have in Scotland in September – it might rain! A suitable mindset for Scotland in June and July is that there may be midges around, as well as the previously mentioned rain mindset of course. But as Billy Connolly once said – there’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes. We had the right clothes and so, leaving Annie in the car with a good book and some Scottish Tablet in case of emergencies, we set off along the track towards the Loch.

A mile or so along I spotted a lone figure walking towards us. Clad in green wellies, olive green jacket and hat she was walking with a good pace and purposeful stride.

“That’s Camilla.” I thought to myself. Frankie was pre-occupied with Basil who had yet to grace us with his daily gift of a perfectly formed poo. “That’s Camilla and I don’t know how to address her. Is that Camilla? It is, oh my God it’s Camilla – what do I say?” my thoughts continued to race as the figure approached.

It made perfect sense to me that Camilla should be out here; I didn’t once stop to think that it was strange to see her. This was where she lived and if I lived here I would be out all day everyday. If this was my back garden I would spend as much time out in it as possible – that didn’t strike me as unusual. Neither did her lack of companions, she was alone and looked hale and hearty, happy to be alive and unconcerned about her solitude, maybe she felt the same about people as I do. No, all I could think about was what to say to her. Frankie was still unaware of the proximity of Royalty right up until I said the only thing that I could think of at that particular moment, which was;

“Ooo hello, we’ve just seen your husband.”

At this point Frankie looked up expecting to see someone we knew or at the very least someone I knew. It had happened before and strangely with the same sister in the same country.

We were staying near Loch Tummel and had spent a wonderful day around Rannoch Moor and Loch Rannoch spotting salmon leaping in the falls, red deer and buzzards in the hills and many species of birds all around us. We had stopped along the roadside to fire up the KellyKettle (The most wonderful invention, ever, Google it if you don’t know what one is!) making a fresh brew of tea whilst drinking in the scenery of the River Tummel, the Queens View and the Hydro Electric Dam (much better to see than to say). Then, in the evening, we had eaten a wonderful meal and had partaken of a dram or two of various single malts and were relaxing in the afterglow verging on stupor when Annie had leapt to her feet exclaiming “I don’t believe it!” and dashed across the restaurant. She had seen a work colleague from Bexhill who was also on holiday in the same Hotel at which we were staying.

It was a touch surreal because the thing one most tries to forget whilst on vacation is work, but it does seem to be the main encroachment into sleep and thought, for the first few days at least, until one is sufficiently unwound enough to completely forget about it. For a colleague to appear in the same Hotel in the same week, to me, is the stuff of nightmares but Annie seemed rather pleased.

I notice I have slipped into using the pronoun “One” since mentioning Royalty, I wonder if I could get away with using the royal “we” on the odd occasion as well.

“What a charming dog, I have one of these too” said Camilla, with a smile. I was considering bowing, but could quite easily have slipped into a curtsey and so decided to remain upright for the time being.

“Thank you,” Frankie said, the epitome of cool “he is rather cute.”

I was trying to choose my next comment, still struggling with ‘Your Grace’ versus ‘Your Highness’ or maybe just plain ‘Ma’am’ to rhyme with jam not farm, of course, when I discovered, to my horror that Basil had chosen this moment to relieve himself of his little package right in front of the future Queen of England. Dumbstruck, I stuttered an apology, “Oh, it’s ok” said Camilla, completely unfazed before wishing us good day and striding on.

In a daze I glanced around looking for a stick to remove said package from the path swearing at the ignobility of the hound as I did so. Frankie naturally had drawn her cell phone once more only to discover the continued unavailability of any network and so our encounter went unbroadcasted for the time being.

Our own walk continued for a way further but the weirdness was not yet at an end. As we approached the Loch a piece of crumpled paper rolled along the heather pushed by the breeze. Muttering something about litter miles from nowhere, I considered picking it up whilst noticing a familiarity about its colour. It was a twenty pound note – an English one – wrapped around a two pence piece that must have fallen from someone’s pocket at some stage fairly recently as it was only a little damp.

I’m still not sure what was going on; we considered the possibility of Camilla spreading the coin of the realm to ease the suffering of us poor middle classes, but really it was an extreme case of happenstance and anyway I gave the twenty to Frankie who used three pounds of it to buy us a lottery scratch card each. The girls won nothing.

I won a tenner!

A rather poor photo of Camilla taken after the dog poo was cleared away!