Journal Entries
What We Did on our Holidays (Edited)
Posted Jul 27, 2005
What we did on our holidays, or "Round Scotland without an opposable thumb"
Monday
Set off from Huddersfield at 10AM having spent most of Sunday packing the camper. Sunday was a fine day, but of course on Monday morning, as we pulled out of the driveway, dead on cue, a light drizzle started. Slightly dispirited, we drove through the rain to Keswick, and did some shopping in Booths supermarket, also taking the opportunity to break the journey. The original idea had been to get to the Kayak Rack Manufacturers in Coylton, near Ayr, early in the afternoon, but we reckoned without Scotland. Scotland is much bigger than you think it is. That is the first law of Scotland. The second law of Scotland is that for every midge you despatch to the happy hunting grounds, two hundred more take its place.
As the weather improved, our spirits sank, as we had a miserable drive through the central Scottish wasteland, following the motorway up from Moffat towards Glasgow, willing the turning for Ayr to come in sight. Unfortunately, roads in Scotland follow the valleys, which can lead to some spectacular detours, especially further North in the Highlands. Having reached the turnoff and with the Tannahill Weavers on repeat on the CD player in an attempt to get us in the mood, we trailed along the road leading out West towards Ayr, passing through a seemingly endless succession of small towns consisting of two identical rows of bungalows lining a main street, with a shop and occasionally a post office. At the edge of each of these was invariably a school with a speed warning sign: "Twenty's plenty". After three or four of these I took to reciting it aloud in the voice Janet used to use when offering Dr Cameron his tea. Debbie was not amused.
At 4.45PM (so much for "early afternoon" we finally arrived at Coylton (basted in bright, warm, sunshine, unlike England) to fit the kayak bars. The people at Kari-Tech could have been forgiven for having given up and gone home but in fact, once summoned down to the yard by the friendly local farmer with his mobile phone, they mustered around the camper and set to work with a will. And struggled with the job til 8PM at which point we all agreed it had been a long day and it would be much better if we left the kayak with them (until then it had been occupying most of the inside of the camper) found somewhere locally to doss, and came back in the morning.
So it was that we motored on out to the heads of Ayr and stayed the night at Dunmure, watching the sunset over the Isle of Arran. After toasting the fact that the weather had turned with generous slugs of mead, Debbie gazed out over the Firth of Clyde at what she said was a single tree that she could see on top of Goatfell, the tallest mountain on Arran. It turned out that the "single tree" was in fact a dark cloud, and flew off into the sunset to a height of 2000 feet. Obviously confusion between "little" and "far away" is not confined solely to the annals of Father Ted.
Tuesday
After a slow start, we wended our way back to Coylton, arriving as promised, "first thing" at 12PM! During the three hours struggle that followed, the kayak bar fitting was finally subdued, at the cost of one thumb (mine) which I hurt badly during the shenanigans with hammers, stepladders, spanners, planks and other various assorted items of kit necessary to get what is in effect a large pointy plastic washing up bowl with a seat in it, hoisted 9 feet 1 into the air and sitting atop a VW Transporter. Having spent most of afternoon getting the kayak bars fitted we then paid (I had previously thought this would be the most painful part of the exercise but no, it was definitely my thumb) said our goodbyes to Coylton, and then set off for northbound, over the Erskine bridge, up the side of Loch Lomond, and into the Trossachs, Aberfoyle and Loch Ard. Thumb not v. well, hurting a lot and swelling up. Would be useful for hitchhiking though, if the need arose. No motorist could ignore its angry majesty.
During one of the many breaks while we were struggling with getting the Kari-Tech bars fitted, I was talking to the dairy farmer at Coylton who rents them the space they use to make the bars and other kayak accessories. He's getting out of dairy, and now organises and annual country and western festival instead. It's much, much, more profitable. Last year the local Castle complained about the sound, he said, but it was probably just because they weren't invited.
As we left Ayr on the coast road we were uncomfortably jerked back into the real world by the sight of patrols of armed police, conspicuous around the perimeter of Prestwick airport, coupled with reports of expected rioting and protest at the G8 summit. Coincidentally, I found I was wearing a gillet. Perhaps I could have a summit all of my own.
Deb meanwhile was having a disaster day. We finally got to the shores of Loch Ard and almost the first thing she did was to nearly lose a shoe in a bog having a pee. I know that you normally pee in bogs, but this bog was actually a bog, if you see what I mean. She then came back from her little foray into the woods, changed her shoes, and almost immediately broke one of the curtain holders in the camper, finishing off by dropping a light on my head.
The only adjective I can use to describe the mountains round Loch Ard was that they were very Trossach-y. And there were lots of them, all named improbable things like Ben Lomond, Ben Doon, and Ben Vorlick, which sounds like it ought to be a Scottish bedtime drink. Anyway we soon got fed up and decided it was easier just to call them all "Ben Affleck." A) it saves having to look on the map and B) It suggests the interesting question "who was the first man up Ben Affleck?" [Anyone who answered "Tom Cruise" risks the wrath of m'learned friends, and since there is obviously no truth in such a scurrilous assertion I will pass on. ]
Loch Ard had a Crannog in it. Mind you, we decided also that the Ordnance Survey probably just insert them at random all over maps of Scotland (ooh look, a Crannog): see also Castle (or "not ANOTHER bloody castle" to quote Debbie).
Wednesday
Woke up with thumb angry, swollen and purple - this is generally held to be a bad idea if it's your thumb, but a good idea if it's any other part of your body. Also had a stiff neck. What a crazy mixed up kid I am.
Watched the geese beside Loch Ard. Later, did a painting of Loch Ard, while Debbie paddled it. A French lass from the hotel came to watch. Apparently lots of French people come to Scotland to work in the catering industry all summer (why?) I suppose she had never seen a guy without an opposable thumb doing a painting before. Maybe she thought I was an impressionist (wanna see me do Marcel Marceau?) Anyway Deb had her paddle, and Tig had a contretemps with some fierce Scottish ducks who tried to waddle out of the water just at the point where she was sleeping. Neither party saw the other until they were about an inch apart, and both were equally astonished and quick to retreat. We now have to add ducks to the long list of things Tig is scared of, which also includes Rabbits (especially Scottish ones) and Sheep. So far I have resisted the temptation to shoot the sheep and then explain to the farmer that they were worrying our dog.
Having packed up at Loch Ard, we tootled back to Aberfoyle to the tourist info, where we also took the opportunity to fill up the water carriers from the tap in the disabled toilets. In fact, a very nice lady seeing me struggling with my thumb, took them off me and did them for me. I thanked her profusely, explaining that while we were self-sufficient, we needed the water "for the dog". And the kettle, and the cooking, and the washing. Aberfoyle boasts, among its many attractions, "The Wee But a Ben Bistro"! Yes, folks, that whirring noise you can hear is Sir Harry Lauder, revolving in his grave at 78RPM.
Now that we were back in (relative) civilization, we found that the mobile phones worked again, (mobiles were a no-no while we were in the shadow of Ben Affleck, which sort of made me wonder what people use to make all these hoax calls that mountain rescue keep complaining about - smoke signals?) When I dialled in to my urgent three now voicemail messages I found that our tender for a major charity had been accepted and there was to be a presentation the day I got back in the office. Argh. Power point by proxy! More work. It makes you wonder why we bother with holidays.
Left Aberfoyle for Loch Lomond via Balmaha (gateway to the south?) and Rowardennan (immediately christened by us "Rhododendron") where the road up the Eastern side of Loch Lomond stops. Deb asked "did they run out of money?" I answered "no, they ran out of destination".
We heard there that President Bush had collided on his bike with one of the thousands of policemen sent to protect him. The President, out for a bike ride (in the middle of a summit intended to change the world, he goes off for a bike ride, what is he playing at?) had collided with the policeman (who had probably been drafted in from somewhere like Balamory and never seen anything move faster than a hedgehog trying to escape the deadly syringes of Scottish Natural Heritage before now) sustaining a hand injury and broke the cop's ankle. Thank God for a leader of the free world who is able to see disaster coming and avoid it. Er... oh.
Wednesday night was spent by the shores of Loch Lomond with the midges - I have become convinced that midges are the origin of both all the moves in Scottish Country Dancing (especially the Highland Fling) AND Tourette's syndrome. Also there was no way I could get into the gents at Rowardennan (too many steps, too few rails, not enough thumbs to grip with) and there was no disabled bog so I had to use the (fortunately, at that time of night, deserted) ladies (sorry, Ladies of Rowardennan).
That night the camper's bed broke and we had a domestic about it. I can strongly recommend melamine plates to the married couples of England, as they can be thrown over and over again without breaking!
Thursday
Next morning at Loch Lomond we had an early start, courtesy of the broken bed, and saw the sun rise at about 5AM. Deb was out on the water by 8.15 and I spent an idyllic two hours tidying up and catching up on lost sleep. Then I phoned the mobile phone company and (after negotiating their choices of menus and options, specifically designed to deter people less bloody-minded than I was feeling right then) spent a further hour arguing with someone called Jiten about whether or not the 14 day peace of mind guarantee started when I got my new phone or when they first thought of ringing us up, even though they didn't get round to sending it to us for days afterwards. I don't want to be unkind to people who work in call centres, but they picked the wrong person to argue with that day. I ended up screaming down the phone to them that they were a useless bunch of oxygen thieves. If you are interested, the company is called Dial-a-Phone, and no barge pole known to man is long enough. I would rather sniff a steelworker's jockstrap than have any more knowing contact with them. They make Russ Abbot look like an MBA.
Because of the conversation with Dial-a-Gooby, lunch was a bit delayed, so I rang home and spoke to Deb's Mum, who had been feeding the cats. She told us of the bombs. I put the BBC on and listened with a mounting sense of anger and hopelessness to the reports. It had to come, sooner or later, our blind support for Bush would come back to bite us on the bum, and now it seemed it had happened. The G8 faded like Shakespeare's "insubstantial pageant". All yesterday's buffoonery (Geldof, concerts, protests - themselves tinged with an edge of frustrated violence at the heavy handed police tactics) all diminished when overtaken by the plain factual truth that someone (and we assumed straight away it was Al-Qaeda) had let off four bombs in London, killing dozens of people. We listened to Blair making his statement, with those odd pauses in. between. the. words. Sadly, the word "sorry" did not feature. In fact it was nothing to do with Iraq. So that's alright then. Must've just been a coincidence.
Sobered, chastened, we headed down from Loch Lomond, back over the Erskine Bridge, heading for Ardrossan and the ferry to Arran. God, what a place. Ardrossan I mean. Still the lady there in the Calmac Terminal did offer to post my postcards for me when I couldn't find a post box, and she was as good as her word, because everyone got them the day after. Strike one for the Royal Mail. It won't happen when it's been privatised.
People have unkindly said that if you want to know what the Isle of Man was like fifty years ago, go to Arran, but I quite like the "timeslip" quality of the place. After landing we went into the Co-op at Brodick, taking care to walk down the aisles the right way so we could read all the signs (they have gaelic on the back) Gaelic may be incomprehensible but at least unlike Welsh, it was still in use til relatively recently (Welsh is of course made up on the spot, to confuse the English) Gaelic was still in conversational use on Skye as recently as 1984, I can report, having sat and listened to two crofters discussing I know not what in Gaelic, to a background of Barry Manilow, in the pub at Carbost.
I bought a bottle of Skye Whisky (established 1933) by Iain MacLeod - purely as thumb anaesthetic you understand - and came to the conclusion as I drank it that all Scottish place names are interchangeable (DunDonald Macdonald Dunmure Dunromininthe gloamin etc)
Leaving Brodick, we stopped off at Lochranza, where the ferry comes in the other side, from Clanaoig on the Mull of Kintrye, for water (from another public bog tap) then drove on down past Pirnmill on the coast road. The weather had dulled and Kilbrannan Sound was a flat calm. Last time we saw seals swimming here, and we were not to be disappointed, as they made a reappearance, swimming around just off shore and hauling out on to the rocks. While we were parked up watching them, a school of porpoises went by, doing perfect synchronised leaping out of the water and then reappearing again a few yards further on. Both of us were pinching ourselves. (Although with my thumb I wasn't being very effective). No, we were not dreaming, we had both seen a school of porpoises just swim by, from left to right in perfect order. The seals were unfazed, they have seen it all before.
That night, having fixed the bed, fortified by Mead and by nips of "The MacLeod" we slept sounder than a sound thing in the layby at Pirnmill. The phones had stopped working again.
Friday
Began with a slow start and then we spent the afternoon having a prolonged lunch on Pirnmill Beach, discussing (amongst other things) Platonic archetypes, and how it was impossible to disprove Bishop Berkeley's theory that things ceased to exist when you could not see hear or feel them. We had the beach to ourselves, well, actually there was, occasionally, only one other person there, about half a mile away to the North, but for about three hours it was ours and ours alone.
A family with an improbable collection of dogs came along eventually, and stopped to chat. Were we on holiday? Yes, they thought so, because, as they said - "we've been watching you!" Shades of the Wicker Man - perhaps it was a local beach for local people, who knows, anyway they poddled off, taking their pack of various motley mutts with them, while Tig snoozed contentedly on the warm sand by my camping chair, with the superior air of a Geman Shepherd who had been there since early on and claimed her place with a towel.
I was also trying to instil in Debbie some of the rudiments of navigation prior to her embarking on her first sea-kayaking trip. We had trouble with windward and leeward. I managed to get her to recite the compass rose, but Port and Starboard also caused problems. "Why don't they call it something sensible, like Port and Stilton?" Why not, indeed.
Then she went off for a paddle while I did a very indifferent painting, and also, having given up the landscape, painted the points of the compass onto a flat pebble for her. The kayak rack was playing up again and we had to reverse back to the layby with the kayak hanging off the side so we could get it back on top properly. Fortunately you only get one car every 45 minutes along that road, or we would have been toast, wandering about in the gloom.
We drove on to Dougarie Point and found a place to spend Friday night: it was just light enough when we pulled up to see a seal basking on the rocks offshore. The seal did not bat an eyelid (actually, do seals have eyelids to bat?)
Saturday
Started with the seal of approval, and the approval of a seal. Perhaps they haul out and say "Ooh look, a tin of humans. I wonder if there is any fish in there". After another slow start, we drove round the coast road back towards Brodick and the shops. Once more (at Kilmory) the Ladies was the only bog I could use. The thumb was easing but it's amazing how much you need your thumb to haul yourself up steps.
We drove on, past the memorial to the airmen who died when their plane crashed into the Sound of Pladda in 1942, with Ailsa Craig prominent on the horizon (Or "That currant bun" , as Debbie referred to it. Clearly her navigational skills still need some honing.)
After shopping in Brodick we parked up and I sat painting a picture of Goatfell and the Arran mountains, while a man busking in the pub garden behind us sang "Amarillo", over and over again. Peter Kaye has a lot to answer for. Deb, however, had a more productive evening and paddled across the bay and saw 5 seals, one on a rock and four swimming round her as she sailed along. Perhaps they thought she was a giant orange seal. It's an easy mistake to make. I told her next time to take a tin of pilchards ("They'll be all over you like a rash")
Back at Dougarie we had a barbecue on the beach. The last of Macleod went down, the thumb was pleasantly numb, the food was vaguely warm, the only thing which unsettled me slightly was Tig's strange behaviour, frequently leaving the fire and always going towards the south west, the direction of home. I speculated at the time that maybe a Barrow-wight from one of the ancient sites had come to the edge of the firelight, drawn from his chambered tomb or cairn by the need for human company. As it turned out, Tig had other reasons to be harking towards home.
Sunday morning
Finally got one of the phones working, to find a text message "ring Mum ASAP". When Debbie rang her Mum, we learnt the sad news that Russell, the Baggis Cat, who had defied so much in the way of illness that would have killed off many a lesser mogster, had died on Saturday night.
Deb's mum had been coming round to feed the cats while we were away, and not finding Russ in his usual place, went searching and found him flaked out at the end of our bed. She bundled him up and drove him straight to the vets, they stuck him on a drip, but there was nothing they could do, this time, unlike back in February, he just didn't have the strength this time around to pull off a second miracle. He died about 8PM on Saturday night. Just as Debbie was paddling with the seals.
When Russ was first ill, I happened to be reading the Mass Observation diary of Maggie Joy Blunt, and kept this bit from when she wrote about one of her cats, on 14 March 1947:
"The cat died. Such an insignificant event. A dead cat - target for mockery, small boys, and dust. There are too many cats in the world. Why make all the fuss because now there is one less?
Every cat is a miracle of independent, loveable life, if you have the eyes and the feeling to understand it as such. I have loved many cats and I expect I shall love many more. Each one becomes a friend with a distinct individuality, and the loss each time is a deeply personal one. No one else ever replaces that person exactly, but new personalities help you to forget your grief at the loss of others."
I'm not going to re-write Baggis's epitaph now, the one I wrote originally in the Epilogue for him back then still stands, even though, cantankerous little creature that he was, he undermined it, at that time, in typical Russell fashion, by not actually dying!
Deb summed it up by saying he wasn't a good cat, but he was the best bad cat in the world, and always managed make you smile at his antics, even those he shouldn't really have been allowed to get away with, eg swiping food off your plate while you were still eating it...
We stopped briefly at the Ruthwell Cross near Dumfries on the journey home, and I couldn't help but be struck by the thought that the last time I was there, I was speaking on the phone to Ian W., also alas, no longer with us. Debbie jerked me out of my reverie by asking me if "this was that place where Jesus visited". No dear, that was Glastonbury. Allegedly.
All Sunday, on that long hot journey back from Ardrossan, down through Scotland, past the lake district and then on via Skipton and finally trundling into the drive about midnight, I was re-living all the times, good and bad, that Russell and I had been through together, me a human, him a cat. I had that old Eagles song going round my head, about "My man's got it made, now he's far beyond the pain, and we who must remain, go on living just the same."
Except it won't be the same, after 13 years, it is the end of an era. And I-church needs a new virtual cat. Russ will be a hard act to follow. In many ways. We buried him the following Wednesday, in the shadow of the honeysuckle hedge in the garden where he liked to go in the shade on hot days, and then in the evening, we lit the chiminea, filled the garden and the deck with T lights, and finished off the last of the mead.
So there you have it, small fry compared to some of the heavy stuff that had been kicking off in London during the week while we were away, but all too real to us. I am going to stop writing now and raise a glass to Russell, now feasting on chicken in aspic up there in cat heaven, along with Ginger, Silvo, Halibut, Reggie and Ossie, all purring to the music of the spheres. Which is, in itself, purring. And all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
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What we did on our holidays
Posted Jul 26, 2005
What we did on our holidays, or “Round Scotland without an opposable thumb”
Monday
Set off from Huddersfield at 10AM having spent most of Sunday packing the camper. Sunday was a fine day, but of course on Monday morning, as we pulled out of the driveway, dead on cue, a light drizle started. Slightly dispirited, we drove through the rain to Keswick, and did some shopping in Booths supermarket, also taking the opportunity to break the journey. The original idea had been to get to the Kayak Rack Manufacturers in Coylton, near Ayr, early in the afternoon, but we reckoned without Scotland. Scotland is much bigger than you think it is. That is the first law of Scotland. The second law of Scotland is that for every midge you despatch to the happy hunting grounds, two hundred more take its place.
As the weather improved, our spirits sank, as we had a miserable drive through the central Scottish wasteland, following the motorway up from Moffat towards Glasgow, willing the turning for Ayr to come in sight. Unfortunately, roads in Scotland follow the valleys, which can lead to some spectacular detours, especially further North in the Highlands. Having reached the turnoff and with the Tannahill Weavers on repeat on the CD player in an attempt to get us in the mood, we trailed along the road leading out West towards Ayr, passing through a seemingly endless succession of small towns consisting of two identical rows of bungalows lining a main street, with a shop and occasionally a post office. At the edge of each of these was invariably a school with a speed warning sign: “Twenty’s plenty”. After three or four of these I took to reciting it aloud in the voice Janet used to use when offering Dr Cameron his tea. Debbie was not amused.
At 4.45PM (so much for “early afternoon” we finally arrived at Coylton (basted in bright, warm, sunshine, unlike England) to fit the kayak bars. The people at Kari-Tech could have been forgiven for having given up and gone home but in fact, once summoned down to the yard by the friendly local farmer with his mobile phone, they mustered around the camper and set to work with a will. And struggled with the job til 8PM at which point we all agreed it had been a long day and it would be much better if we left the kayak with them (until then it had been occupying most of the inside of the camper) found somewhere locally to doss, and came back in the morning.
So it was that we motored on out to the heads of Ayr and stayed the night at Dunmure, watching the sunset over the Isle of Arran. AFter toasting the fact that the weather had turned with generous slugs of mead, Debbie gazed out over the Firth of Clyde at what she said was a single tree that she could see on top of Goatfell, the tallest mountain on Arran. It turned out that the “single tree” was in fact a dark cloud, and flew off into the sunset to a height of 2000 feet. Obviously confusion between “little” and “far away” is not confined solely to the annals of Father Ted.
Tuesday
After a slow start, we wended our way back to Coylton, arriving as promised, “first thing” at 12PM! During the three hours struggle that followed, the kayak bar fitting was finally subdued, at the cost of one thumb (mine) which I hurt badly during the shenanigans with hammers, stepladders, spanners, planks and other various assorted items of kit necessary to get what is in effect a large pointy plastic washing up bowl with a seat in it, hoisted 9 feet 1 into the air and sitting atop a VW Transporter. Having spent most of afternoon getting the kayak bars fitted we then paid (I had previously thought this would be the most painful part of the exercise but no, it was definitely my thumb) said our goodbyes to Coylton, and then set off for northbound, over the Erskine bridge, up the side of Loch Lomond, and into the Trossachs, Aberfoyle and Loch Ard. Thumb not v. well, hurting a lot and swelling up. Would be useful for hitchhiking though, if the need arose. No motorist could ignore its angry majesty.
During one of the many breaks while we were struggling with getting the Kari-Tech bars fitted, I was talking to the dairy farmer at Coylton who rents them the space they use to make the bars and other kayak accessories. He’s getting out of dairy, and now organises and annual country and western festival instead. It’s much, much, more profitable. Last year the local Castle complained about the sound, he said, but it was probably just because they weren’t invited.
As we left Ayr on the coast road we were uncomfortably jerked back into the real world by the sight of patrols of armed police, conspicuous around the perimiter of Prestwick airport, coupled with reports of expected rioting and protest at the G8 summit. Coincidentally, I found I was wearing a gillet. Perhaps I could have a summit all of my own.
Deb meanwhile was having a disaster day. We finally got to the shores of Loch Ard and almost the first thing she did was to nearly lose a shoe in a bog having a pee. I know that you normally pee in bogs, but this bog was actually a bog, if you see what I mean. She then came back from her little foray into the woods, changed her shoes, and almost immediately broke one of the curtain holders in the camper, finishing off by dropping a light on my head.
The only adjective I can use to describe the mountains round Loch Ard was that they were very Trossach-y. And there were lots of them, all named improbable things like Ben Lomond, Ben Doon, and Ben Vorlick, which sounds like it ought to be a Scottish bedtime drink. Anyway we soon got fed up and decided it was easier just to call them all “Ben Affleck.” A) it saves having to look on the map and B) It suggests the interesting question “who was the first man up Ben Affleck?” [Anyone who answered “Tom Cruise” risks the wrath of m’learned friends, and since there is obviouosly no truth in such a scurrilous assertion I will pass on. ]
Loch Ard had a Crannog in it. Mind you, we decided also that the Ordnance Survey probably just insert them at random all over maps of Scotland (ooh look, a Crannog): see also Castle (or "not ANOTHER bloody castle” to quote Debbie).
Wednesday
Woke up with thumb angry, swollen and purple – this is generally held to be a bad idea if it’s your thumb, but a good idea if it’s any other part of your body. Also had a stiff neck. What a crazy mixed up kid I am.
Watched the geese beside Loch Ard. Later, did a painting of Loch Ard, while Debbie paddled it. A French lass from the hotel came to watch. Apparenly lots of French people come to Scotland to work in the catering industry all summer (why?) I suppose she had never seen a guy without an opposable thumb doing a painting before. Maybe she thought I was an impressionist (wanna see me do Marcel Marceau?) Anyway Deb had her paddle, and Tig had a contretemps with some fierce Scottish ducks who tried to waddle out of the water just at the point where she was sleeping. Neither party saw the other until they were about an inch apart, and both were equally astonished and quick to retreat. We now have to add ducks to the long list of things Tig is scared of, which also includes Rabbits (especially Scottish ones) and Sheep. So far I have resisted the temptation to shoot the sheep and then explain to the farmer that they were worrying our dog.
Having packed up at Loch Ard, we tootled back to Aberfoyle to the tourist info, where we also took the opportunity to fill up the water carriers from the tap in the disabled toilets. In fact, a very nice lady seeing me struggling with my thumb, took them off me and did them for me. I thanked her profusely, explaining that while we were self-sufficient, we needed the water “for the dog”. And the kettle, and the cooking, and the washing. Aberfoyle boasts, among its many attractions, “The Wee But a Ben Bistro”! Yes, folks, that whirring noise you can hear is Sir Harry Lauder, revolving in his grave at 78RPM.
Now that we were back in (relative) civilization, we found that the mobile phones worked again, (mobiles were a no-no while we were in the shadow of Ben Affleck, which sort of made me wonder what people use to make all these hoax calls that mountain rescue keep complaining about – smoke signals?) When I dialled in to my urgent three now voicemail messages I found that our tender for a major charity had been accepted and there was to be a presentation the day I got back in the office. Argh. Power point by proxy! More work. It makes you wonder why we bother with holidays.
Left Aberfoyle for Loch Lomond via Balmaha (gateway to the south?) and Rowardennan (immediately christened by us “Rhododendron”
where the road up the Eastern side of Loch Lomond stops. Deb asked “did they run out of money?” I answered “no, they ran out of destination”.
We heard there that President Bush had collided on his bike with one of the thousands of policemen sent to protect him. The President, out for a bike ride (in the middle of a summit intended to change the world, he goes off for a bike ride, what is he playing at?) had collided with the policeman (who had probably been drafted in from somewhere like Balamory and never seen anything move faster than a hedgehog trying to escape the deadly syringes of Scottish Natural Heritage before now) sustaining a hand injury and broke the cop’s ankle. Thank God for a leader of the free world who is able to see disaster coming and avoid it. Er... oh.
Wednesday night was spent by the shores of Loch Lomond with the midges - I have become convinced that midges are the origin of both all the moves in Scottish Country Dancing (especially the Highland Fling) AND Tourette’s syndrome. Also there was no way I could get into the gents at Rowardennan (too many steps, too few rails, not enough thumbs to grip with) and there was no disabled bog so I had to use the (fortunately, at that time of night, deserted) ladies (sorry, Ladies of Rowardennan).
That night the camper’s bed broke and we had a domestic about it. I can strongly recommend melamine plates to the married couples of England, as they can be thrown over and over again without breaking!
Thursday
Next morning at Loch Lomond we had an early start, courtesy of the broken bed, and saw the sun rise at about 5AM. Deb was out on the water by 8.15 and I spent an idyllic two hours tidying up and catching up on lost sleep. Then I phoned the mobile phone company and (after negotiating their choices of menus and options, specifically designed to deter people less bloody-minded than I was feeling right then) spent a further hour arguing with someone called Jiten about whether or not the 14 day peace of mind guarantee started when I got my new phone or when they first thought of ringing us up, even though they didn’t get round to sending it to us for days afterwards. I don’t want to be unkind to people who work in call centres, but they picked the wrong person to argue with that day. I ended up screaming down the phone to them that they were a useless bunch of oxygen thieves. If you are interested, the company is called Dial-a-Phone, and no barge pole known to man is long enough. I would rather sniff a steelworker’s jockstrap than have any more knowing contact with them. They make Russ Abbot look like an MBA.
Because of the conversation with Dial-a-Gooby, lunch was a bit delayed, so I rang home and spoke to Deb’s Mum, who had been feeding the cats. She told us of the bombs. I put the BBC on and listened with a mounting sense of anger and hopelessness to the reports. It had to come, sooner or later, our blind support for Bush would come back to bite us on the bum, and now it seemed it had happened. The G8 faded like Shakespeare’s “insubstantial pageant”. All yesterday’s buffoonery (Geldof, concerts, protests – themselves tinged with an edge of frustrated violence at the heavy handed police tactics) all diminished when overtaken by the plain factual truth that someone (and we assumed straight away it was Al-Qaeda) had let off four bombs in London, killing dozens of people. We listened to Blair making his statement, with those odd pauses in. between. the. words. Sadly, the word “sorry” did not feature. In fact it was nothing to do with Iraq. So that’s alright then. Must’ve just been a coincidence.
Sobered, chastened, we headed down from Loch Lomond, back over the Erskine Bridge, heading for Ardrossan and the ferry to Arran. God, what a place. Ardrossan I mean. Still the lady there in the Calmac Terminal did offer to post my postcards for me when I couldn’t find a post box, and she was as good as her word, because everyone got them the day after. Strike one for the Royal Mail. It won’t happen when it’s been privatised.
People have unkindly said that if you weant to know what the Isle of Man was like fifty years ago, go to Arran, but I quite like the “timeslip” quality of the place. After landing we went into the Co-op at Brodick, taking care to walk down the aisles the right way so we could read all the signs (they have gaelic on the back) Gaelic may be incomprehensible but at least unlike Welsh, it was still in use til relatively recently (Welsh is of course made up on the spot, to confuse the English) Gaelic was still in conversational use on Skye as recently as 1984, I can report, having sat and listened to two crofters discussing I know not what in Gaelic, to a background of Barry Manilow, in the pub at Carbost.
I bought a bottle of Skye Whiskey (established 1933) by Iain MacLeod – purely as thumb anaesthetic you understand – and came to the conclusion as I drank it that all Scottish place names are interchangeable (DunDonald Macdonald Dunmure Dunromininthe gloamin etc)
Leaving Brodick, we stopped off at Lochranza, where the ferry comes in the other side, from Clanaoig on the Mull of Kintrye, for water (from another public bog tap) then drove on down past Pirnmill on the coast road. The weather had dulled and Kilbrannan Sound waas a flat calm. Last time we saw seals swimming here, and we were not to be disappointed, as they made a reappearance, swimming around just off shore and hauling out on to the rocks. While we were parked up watching them, a school of porpoises went by, doing perfect synchronised leaping out of the water and then reappearing again a few yards further on. Both of us were pinching ourselves. (Although with my thumb I wasn’t being very effective). No, we were not dreaming, we had both seen a school of porpoises just swim by, from left to right in perfect order. The seals were unfazed, they have seen it all before.
That night, having fixed the bed, fortified by Mead and by nips of “The MacLeod” we slept sounder than a sound thing in the layby at Pirnmill. The phones had stopped working again.
Friday
Began with a slow start and then we spent the afternoon having a prolonged lunch on Pirnmill Beach, discussing (amongst other things) Platonic archetypes, and how it was impossible to disprove Bishop Berkeley’s theory that things ceased to exist when you could not see hear or feel them. We had the beach to ourselves, well, actually there was, occasionally, only one other person there, about half a mile away to the North, but for about three hours it was ours and ours alone.
A family with an improbable collection of dogs came along eventually, and stopped to chat. Were we on holiday? Yes, they thought so, because, as they said - “we’ve been watching you!” Shades of the Wicker Man – perhaps it was a local beach for local people, who knows, anyway they poddled off, taking their pack of various motley mutts with them, while Tig snoozed contentedly on the warm sand by my camping chair, with the superior air of a Geman Shepherd who had been there since early on and claimed her place with a towel.
I was also trying to instil in Debbie some of the rudiments of navigation prior to her embarking on her first sea-kayaking trip. We had trouble with windward and leeward. I managed to get her to recite the compass rose, but Port and Starboard also caused problems. “Why don’t they call it something sensible, like Port and Stilton?” Why not, indeed.
Then she went off for a paddle while I did a very indifferent painting, and also, having given up the landscape, painted the points of the compass onto a flat pebble for her. The kayak rack was playing up again and we had to reverse back to the layby with the kayak hanging off the side so we could get it back on top properly. Fortunately you only get one car every 45 minutes along that road, or we would have been toast, wandering about in the gloom.
We drove on to Dougarie Point and found a place to spend Friday night: it was just light enough when we pulled up to see a seal basking on the rocks offshore. The seal did not bat an eyelid (actually, do seals have eyelids to bat?)
Saturday
Started with the seal of approval, and the approval of a seal. Perhaps they haul out and say “Ooh look, a tin of humans. I wonder if there is any fish in there”. After another slow start, we drove round the coast road back towards Brodick and the shops. Once more (at Kilmory) the Ladies was the only bog I could use. The thumb was easing but it’s amazing how much you need your thumb to haul yourself up steps.
We drove on, past the memorial to the airmen who died when their plane crashed into the Sound of Pladda in 1942, with Ailsa Craig prominent on the horizon (Or “That currant bun” , as Debbie referred to it. Clearly her navigational skills still need some honing.)
After shopping in Brodick we parked up and I sat painting a picture of Goatfell and the Arran mountains, while a man busking in the pub garden behind us sang “Amarillo”, over and over again. Peter Kaye has a lot to answer for. Deb, however, had a more productive evening and paddled across the bay and saw 5 seals, one on a rock and four swimming round her as she sailed along. Perhaps they thought she was a giant orange seal. It’s an easy mistake to make. I told her next time to take a tin of pilchards (“They’ll be all over you like a rash”
Back at Dougarie we had a barbecue on the beach. The last of Macleod went down, the thumb was pleasantly numb, the food was vaguely warm, the only thing which unsettled me slightly was Tig’s strange behaviour, frequently leaving the fire and always going towards the south west, the direction of home. I speculated at the time that maybe a Barrow-wight from one of the ancient sites had come to the edge of the firelight, drawn from his chambered tomb or cairn by the need for human company. As it turned out, Tig had other reasons to be harking towards home.
Sunday morning
Finally got one of the phones working, to find a text message “ring Mum ASAP”. When Debbie rang her Mum, we learnt the sad news that Russell, the Baggis Cat, who had defied so much in the way of illness that would have killed off many a lesser mogster, had died on Saturday night.
Deb's mum had been coming round to feed the cats while we were away, and not finding Russ in his usual place, went searching and found him flaked out at the end of our bed. She bundled him up and drove him straight to the vets, they stuck him on a drip, but there was nothing they could do, this time, unlike back in February, he just didn't have the strength this time around to pull off a second miracle. He died about 8PM on Saturday night. Just as Debbie was paddling with the seals.
When Russ was first ill, I happened to be reading the Mass Observation diary of Maggie Joy Blunt, and kept this bit from when she wrote about one of her cats, on 14 March 1947:
"The cat died. Such an insignificant event. A dead cat - target for mockery, small boys, and dust. There are too many cats in the world. Why make all the fuss because now there is one less?
Every cat is a miracle of independent, loveable life, if you have the eyes and the feeling to understand it as such. I have loved many cats and I expect I shall love many more. Each one becomes a friend with a distinct individuality, and the loss each time is a deeply personal one. No one else ever replaces that person exactly, but new personalities help you to forget your grief at the loss of others."
I'm not going to re-write Baggis's epitaph now, the one I wrote originally in the Epilogue for him back then still stands, even though, cantankerous little creature that he was, he undermined it, at that time, in typical Russell fashion, by not actually dying!
Deb summed it up by saying he wasn't a good cat, but he was the best bad cat in the world, and always managed make you smile at his antics, even those he shouldn't really have been allowed to get away with, eg swiping food off your plate while you were still eating it...
We stopped briefly at the Ruthwell Cross near Dumfries on the journey home, and I couldn’t help but be struck by the thought that the last time I was there, I was speaking on the phone to Ian W., also alas, no longer with us. Debbie jerked me out of my reverie by asking me if “this was that place where Jesus visited”. No dear, that was Glastonbury. Allegedly.
All Sunday, on that long hot journey back from Ardrossan, down through Scotland, past the lake district and then on via Skipton and finally trundling into the drive about midnight, I was re-living all the times, good and bad, that Russell and I had been through together, me a human, him a cat. I had that old Eagles song going round my head, about "My man's got it made, now he's far beyond the pain, and we who must remain, go on living just the same."
Except it won't be the same, after 13 years, it is the end of an era. And I-church needs a new virtual cat. Russ will be a hard act to follow. In many ways. We buried him the following Wednesday, in the shadow of the honeysuckle hedge in the garden where he liked to go in the shade on hot days, and then in the evening, we lit the chiminea, filled the garden and the deck with T lights, and finished off the last of the mead.
So there you have it, small fry compared to some of the heavy stuff that had been kicking off in London during the week while we were away, but all too real to us. I am going to stop writing now and raise a glass to Russell, now feasting on chicken in aspic up there in cat heaven, along with Ginger, Silvo, Halibut, Reggie and Ossie, all purring to the music of the spheres. Which is, in itself, purring. And all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
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Latest reply: Jul 26, 2005
Still looking, not finding
Posted Apr 17, 2005
I haven't written an Epilogue this week, as such. Part of the reason is that I am sitting here with a streaming cold and can barely see the screen through the haze of Ibuprofen, Benylin, Vitamin C, Sudafed, and every other concoction known to pharmaceutical science, that I have been trying to zap it with since it struck me down on Thursday.
However, if I am honest, part of the reason also is that I feel the idea may have run its course for the moment, and/or that I might temporarily have lost my way.
Over the last year or so, I have been greatly comforted by the fact that something like faith had come back into my life, albeit simplistic, patchy, and un-coordinated, and I will always be grateful for the support and prayer I got from here on behalf of Russell. You lot probably saved his little catty life.
I am also grateful for learning about the Rule of Benedict, and I am still thinking of ways in which I can use this.
However, I have run up against two big and partially connected problems of late, which I am finding it very difficult to reconcile, and which have increasingly led to me posting Epilogues containing more questions than answers. Since part of what people said they liked about my witterings in the past was that they came to some resolution, however tentative, the fact that I have been unable to reconcile these issues means that resolution has been pretty scarce, and who wants to read yet another diatribe from me with an inconclusive ending?
It's no secret what the issues are, I have been grappling with them for about four or five weeks now. They can be summed up as the conflict between Church and State and my inability to forgive people. Insofar as the State has recently followed a set of actions with which I wildly and profoundly disagree, this has brought the whole issue into very sharp focus for me. Especially with the Election being called in the UK, the start of the Uist Hedgehog Cull for the third year running and the death of the Pope which has led me to think about the place of moral teaching in a Church and to find that there as well I seem to be at odds with the established view. How can I say that the fact that everything will be alright in the next world excuses the injustice, hatred, greed and evil of the actions of our own and other leaders in this one?
Various people at various times have offered by various means to go through this with me, and unfortunately I have been so busy that I haven't been able to spend the time to take up these kind offers. I apologise if I have seemed churlish over not taking up these offers, which I know were sincerely and kindly meant. So I find myself these days preaching to people about things I can't work out for myself, and not having time to join in the debate I myself caused, or listen to the answers!
I don't like finding myself in such a false position, and to carry on down that road would be to become as big a hypocrite as those I accuse of hypocrisy, in government and elsewhere - in fact, to be a double hypocrite, because I could not forgive them either.
I have gone round and round these loops over the last few days and, for the last couple of weeks, knowing that I was going to come up against this rock face over and over, I have actually faced the task of sitting down to write on a Sunday with a mixture of reluctance and indecision, and I think when you get to that stage, whatever the task is, it's time to take a break.
So I am going to hie myself off into the wilderness for a while. Not literally, and probably not for forty days and forty nights, but for long enough to think these knotty coils through so that I become useful once more, to myself and to others.
It doesn't mean I won't still drop in, and it doesn't mean that I have gone for good. I can also use the time constructively to work on my book. But for the next few weeks, I think the Holme Valley will have to look after itself, even if I will still be looking after those who rely on me, furry and non-furry, to the best of my ability.
Happy trails everybody & happy birthday Sean if you see this.
STEVE
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Latest reply: Apr 17, 2005
Epilogue for 10th April 2005
Posted Apr 11, 2005
It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley. I became fifty. And we are down to our very last bag of coal, so I very much hope that Spring comes next week, or I will have to trouble the coalyard yet again. So far this winter, we have spent over £150 on coal. Who says the coal industry is dead! The weather turned colder again this week, so we've actually been burning more coal than would otherwise have been the case. So much so, that on Thursday night, just after I had "bombed up" the fire, we had a knock on the door from a concerned motorist who was just passing and noticed that "our chimney seemed to be on fire". I was able to reassure him that I was just me stoking up the stove and practising for when they elect the next Pope.
Well, what a week. The animals were the only beings to be unmoved by my reaching fifty. That is, unless you count being awakened at 3.45AM on the morning of my birthday by Dusty and Nigel having a nocturnal altercation that ended up with one of them knocking over the propped-up door in the demolished bathroom, but by and large I think only I saw it as somehow significant. By the time a man reaches fifty, says Orwell, he has usually achieved the face he deserves. Something I bore in mind the next morning when the alarm went off at 6.30, and I staggered to the bathroom mirror in my sleep-deprived state.
Baggis has spent the week devouring Sainsburys Beef and Liver cat food, at least we have got him back on to food for the correct species now. Next stop, KD Laing. Kitty, who will eat anything, has been chomping her way steadily through a carton of "Whiskas Senior in Jelly" (sounds like the sort of fare more appropriate for 50-year olds than cats), and it's only us humans that seem to have anything like a degree of uncertainty in our diet. Hence my surprise at the sudden appearance of pizza for my birthday tea, followed by a garishly pink-iced spongecake in the shape of a pig, decorated with mini-champagne bottle candles. The effect is better imagined than seen.
Of course, for us, it's been another week overshadowed by the death of the Pope, and the general election (zzz zzzz zzz) with all the major parties once more claiming that the British way of like encompasses stoning strangers to death and stringing up felons from lamp-posts, or so it seems. What next, Trial by Ordeal? Although I am pleased to say the Royal Wedding seemed to pass me by with barely a mention. Mainly because I was too busy working on the final galley proofs of "Hampshire at War" to pay it any attention.
At the start of the week, for some reason, I heard Jimmy Cliff singing "Many Rivers to Cross" on the radio, while I was driving to the warehouse, and somehow that seems to have become stuck on my own internal jukebox as my theme for the week as a fitting fiftieth birthday theme:
Many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover
Many rivers to cross
And it's only my will that keeps me alive
I've been licked, washed up for years
And I merely survive because of my pride
Of course, you can only survive because of your pride for so long. There's only so much "living off the love of the common people" as Prince Charles may eventually find out. On Thursday, we were watching the news, which mentioned that the Cardinals had finally read John Paul II's will. "I wonder who he left the Vatican to", opined Debbie in the background, Later, she claimed she had been joking, but I am not so sure.
On Friday, I found myself tuning in to JPII's funeral, again while driving, despite my earlier vow that neither Papal Demise nor Royal Nuptial should cross my aural threshold. Oh well, I suppose one out of two isn't that bad. Actually, I have to say that I found the event strangely moving. Once I had got over my disbelief that Big G hadn't stuck down Mr Mugabe with a well-aimed lightning bolt, I was carried along on the shifting planes of the chanting, as it rose and fell, like the tides of the sea, bearing me with it in spirit at least.
Bizarrely, just as they were singing "The Lord's my Shepherd" in Latin, I drove past a huge field of sheep, many of which were accompanied by their recently-born lambs. It always tears at my heart to see the lambs at this time of year, and to wonder what fate is to befall such innocent, trusting creatures.
While I would never personally don a balaclava or blow anybody up about it, it does seem to me to be time for a massive re-evaluation of what we are doing in terms of mechanised farming all over the world, and the welfare of such livestock. How anyone can look a lamb in the face and then order it to be sent to an abbatoir is beyond my comprehension. How anyone can then squander natural resources by freezing its chopped up remains and flying them half way round the world, beats me too. Many rivers to cross, and that's just one of them. I know that not all farmers are bad, but it's a job I could never do. And yet I have to feed my dearly-loved pets meat products because in a fallen universe, they ended up as carnivores. Many, many rivers.
Anyway, I digress. I was talking about the Pope. Or the "late Pope". I also have a problem with this concept. On the wall, in the pub I used to drink at, The Murrell Arms in Barnham, there used to be a glass case with a stuffed duck inside. This was the last remains of "Bibbler", a Khaki Campbell, who had formerly been the oldest duck in England, at the time of his demise. The problem was that the caption said that he WAS the oldest duck in England, which was clearly not the case, owing to his being, er, … dead. "Oldest former duck in England" would have been nearer the answer. Despite my mentioning it to the landlord several times, it never got changed. It's probably there to this day.
So remember, JPII was only probably the oldest "former" Pope, and as such, we shouldn't put him the the glass case of Sainthood until he's earned it. However much that process now seems inevitable.
What I meant about the Pope (late Pope, sorry, there I go again) when I wrote about him last week is that you have to admire his refusal to compromise his vision, whether or not you agree with the consequences. As someone wrote about him, very acutely, I thought, he was concerned with souls rather than bodies.
I am not sure I DO agree with the consequences, though. It's a very big problem for all religions. To what extent to you compromise on your original ideals to keep pace with the changing conditions in the world? To a certain degree all religions seem to have the same problem at the moment, in that they are seen to lack relevance to the needs, aims and aspirations of modern life, even the Church of England, which has been rather unkindly described in the past (not by me) as more of a hobby than a religion. Change has been forced by external pressures, as well, such as a society which now sees divorce as nothing special, even in its Royal Family. In some cases, this feeling of being threatened by change has led to a worrying hardening into fundamentalism, both in Christianity and Islam, though thankfully, not so much here in our little island backwater. .
JPII's answer to change was to continue to re-state the fundamental beliefs of Christianity as he saw them... regardless of the consequences. Like the man said, he was concerned wit souls, not bodies, but it was not always fashionable (or desirable) to say so, there and then.
How much and where should religions compromise their ideals, is the central paradox of JPII's life - too much, and you lose the essence of what it is that made your religion what it is, too little, and you become irrelevant to the world as it exists. The former would be like the Quakers saying "OK, we accept that there are now wars everywhere, so we are now going to start enlisting in the army": the latter would be like a church saying well, people shouldn't have extra marital sex and children should only be conceived in marriage and er ... oh. That's what makes JPII such a paradoxical character - you have to admire him for sticking to his beliefs and for standing up against the state capitalism (often erroneously described as communism) of the Eastern Bloc, particularly in its oppressive attitude to personal and social freedom and freedom of speech and worship, but the effects of his stand for traditional Catholic values in places like Africa are sometimes pretty dire (in terms of social policy, though Catholic relief organisations do a lot of good on the ground). Having said that, there are other forces (such as the status of women) than just the Catholic attitude to contraception which conspire together to create the tragic situation over Aids
After hearing all the hooh-hah on both sides of the debate about abortion, for instance I have also come to the conclusion that perhaps personal sexual/medical morailty and behaviour may be an area where the Church should not have absolute power to legislate, or rather, not have the power to legislate absolutely. simply because there are always going to be special features about individual cases that make a mockery one way or the other of any official ex cathedra pronouncements. Abortion may be right for some women, wrong for others, though in the case of abortion, because the woman invariably ends up being lumped with the job of child rearing, the woman should always perhaps have a greater say. Similarly with stem cell research. If you could save Hitler's life by using a "spare embryo" would you want to do this? Likewise, if you could save the life of a morally good person by using the same embryo, would you allow that embryo never to develop? The sort of absolutist, one-size fits all moral stance by the church totally fails to acknowledge the vast spectrum of individual human experience and need. I don't think you can say that abortion is ALWAYS wrong or that stem cell research is ALWAYS right. I am seriously confused by this. Many rivers to cross.
At the end of the day, maybe it's for each individual to reach their own accommodation with God as they see fit, and not for a Pope, Archbishop, or Imam to rule across the board in these matters - except of course that they would say that the job of the church is to give moral guidance based on the revealed truth of God as they see it, but if God really is all loving and all forgiving then God would welcome abortionist and pro-lifer alike into the fold at the end of all things, just as Jesus allowed Mary Magdalen to was his feet, as Big G knows they are all part of his/her/its great plan, which we cannot comprehend. I don't know. Sometimes I wonder why we are trying to live our lives by a book which was originally designed, in part, as a desert survival manual for the children of Israel.
Saying something is always against the will of God seems to me to be sort of reducing the ability of God to be subtle, if you ask me, and can also be used as an instrument of social oppression. This is where I think JPII was at his wrongest, but then at least he was willing to attempt this difficult terrain, whereas most modern leaders would have funked it.
So, this is what has been going through what passes for my mind this week, with not a lot of conclusion. I am sorry to anyone I have offended with these ramblings. It's my age. Like I said, many rivers to cross. Maybe Debbie's question isn't so dumb. Whoever he leaves the Vatican to, JPII will be a hard act to follow.
Whoever the next Pope is, I am glad it's not me, even if he does get to wear a jiffy bag on his head and no one is allowed to laugh.
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Latest reply: Apr 11, 2005
Epilogue for 3rd April
Posted Apr 3, 2005
It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley. If not the start of spring, then at least the end of winter. Each day I have watched from the window outside this office as yet more catkin buds open on these branches. The cats have welcomed the warmer weather, especially Nigel, who is in mid-moult, and Kitty, whose rodent ulcer condition is always improved by the coming of summer. Dusty has tended to treat the warmer days and lighter evenings with indifference, and Russbags has been stuck in his chair by the stove, still very thin and still very much recuperating.
Tig has been playing football in the park: I have been grappling with the VAT return and the print queue. Debbie has been pruning trees in the garden in the dark, because she does not like the neighbours seeing her doing it. No, I can't understand that one either.
Wednesday was a pivotal day of the week for me. Up at 5.15AM for the drive down to Chichester, for Maisie's book launch. For some reason, Wednesday slipped back momentarily to the weather of November, rather than March. I thought, as I went along, that the fog would lift when the sun came up. But no. First I had fog, then, rain, then foggy rain, then rainy fog, all the way down the M1.
The launch itself was great. People mingled, they listened to the speakers, the food was munched, the wine drunk, and I saw several people I had not seen in too long a time, spending some precious hours with them. All too soon it was time to set off on the long drive home.
I had had a bad feeling about the day, for some time now. I should have trusted my instincts. On the homeward leg, I got as far as Pease Pottage, where I was queuing at the roundabout to go across into the services. It was the sort of roundabout where if you don't wait for a gap and then go for it, you sit there all day. I saw a gap, and went for it, unfortunately, the Toyota Yaris in front of me didn't, and the end result was the loss of my headlight on his rear bumper. The car in front is a Toyota. In this case, it certainly was.
After we'd swopped details and he'd driven off, I looked at the state of my bumper. Bent almost back into the tyre, and the headlight glass completely smashed. Two hundred miles from home, and getting dark.
There was nothing for it, but to set off and hope for the best. I brought to mid all of those people who won the VC for climbing out on the wing of burning Wellington bombers and thought well, if they can do it, I can do it, so I rejoined the motorway and pointed my wheels northward.
It was dark, and rainy, and I only had half my normal headlights. By the time I got to the M1, I was ready to give up. But I kept repeating a sort of prayer to myself, that if I got home OK, I would try and be a better person. It was dark, it was rainy, and for a lot of the time, I was sailing into the unknown and unseen at 70MPH with the bumper only half an inch away from the tyre, but somehow I made it home, at 11.15PM.
Faith will get you through, I suppose. I was reminded of this by the death of the Pope. He was in a similar situation, entering a very dark time, sailing into the unknown, but praying that he would get there OK.
I was fortunate enough to hear him preach once, at the Knavesmire (York Racecourse) in 1982. I can't remember the subject of his sermon, but I can remember that it was a brilliantly hot sunny day, and that Basil Hume waved at me (or so it seemed) from the back window of the Popemobile. I also remember being in a huge crowd of people chanting "Saints of God, come to our aid" and what a profound spiritual effect it had on me.
Whatever you think about him - and he certainly had his detractors - the Pope lived by what he believed in. Living by what you believe in isn't always a good thing - one has only to think of Adolf Hitler and Margaret Thatcher - but in the Pope's case, he genuinely thought he was trying to do God's will.
Just when I am still struggling to come to terms with the ideas of forgiveness, his death - or to be more accurate, his life - has opened up another vast moral chasm for me. I can't begin to agree with some of his views on women and on contraception, in particular as they affect the developing world, but I have to admire him for sticking to his beliefs. He told it how he WANTED it to be - or how he thought Big G wanted it to be, rather than how it was. And this refusal to compromise lies at the heart of his mission on earth. If everybody lived according to the natural law of God, then everything the Pope said would have made perfect sense. The fact that people didn't, as he saw it, was OUR problem, not his. Or our problem, not God's.
So in addition to not being able to crack the idea of forgiveness, I now have to grapple with whether the spiritual life should compromise with reality as it is lived, or ignore it. Don't expect any answers this week. And in addition to that, I will no longer be able to do my Pope impersonation, by putting a jiffy bag on my head, and intoning in a heavy Polish accent that it gives me great pleasure to open this bring-and-buy-sale. An impression which is only vaguely funny if everyone else who witnesses it has had at least as much to drink as I have.
One area where I had to admire John Paul, much as I disagreed with him, was in the manner of his dying. We tend to sanitise death in our modern society, he embraced it full on, and was determined to make sure his grapple with the grim reaper was reported blow by blow, as a lesson to us all.
Next week, I hope (d.v) to attain the age of fifty. As Orwell said, by the time a man has reached fifty, he has the face he deserves. Naturally, my thoughts have been turning to the fact that in twenty years time (which seems but the twinkling of an eye) I will, if I am spared, be seventy, and have attained the Biblical span of three score years and ten. Contemplating your own bodily extinction is not pleasant. But John Paul has shown that at least it can be a triumphant experience as well as a profoundly sad one. If you have to go, what better way than on a Spring morning when the catkins are budding, your friends are all around you, and there are crowds of thousands of well wishers singing psalms outside your window.
Certainly, when the grim reaper cuts the legs from under me, I would like to have started something new that morning. If it goes on to annoy the government, even after I am gone, so much the better.
One of the things I like about the Catholic church is its clearly defined promotion path for dead people, if they work hard enough, to eventually become saints. You settle into eternity, you get to know the ropes, you perform the odd intervention here and there, you save a life or two, you stop something going wrong, and before you know it, you are officially a "blessed". Next stop, sainthood. Saint Karol Wotiljya. You heard it here first.
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Slightly-Foxed of that Elk (rational or irrational) Laird of Phelps (one foot over) and Keeper of the Privy Seal
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