Coming to Cumbria

In Scotland I've been a visitor and a student of history but as I leave Hadrian's Wall behind and drop down into the beautiful Vale of Eden in Cumbria, a mantle of dreams alights on my shoulders and the staff of destiny appears in my hand, my soul is enriched by this country for no discernible reason. I have come home in my heart.

Oh, sorry about all that waxing lyrical! But it's true! I feel like I've arrived in some familiar and comfortable place. Maybe I read too many Anglophiliac (is that a real word or some kind of disease?) books as a child. Enid Blyton, Monica Edwards, Richmal Crompton etc. etc., no one introduced me to Nan Chauncy or Ethel Turner.

Was the Eden River named so because it flows through this piece of paradise? Perhaps so, I don't know, but paradise it is. It fairly takes your breath away when you come around a bend in the road (and there's plenty of those) and there is this beautiful valley, you almost step on the brakes to take it in.

Fortunately one of those handy parking nooks appears and you can duck in and start snapping away with the camera, but it's no good, you can't capture it on film. Perhaps in wide-angle but not with my little Cannon digital. But as Wordsworth observed, it will 'flash upon that inward eye, that is the bliss of solitude'.

This euphoric mood is reduced to rubble when I decide to venture into Penrith for some supplies, not knowing how the land lies re food in Appleby. It's now late on a Friday afternoon and all the citizens of Penrith and surrounding districts are evidently having friends over for the weekend and are stocking up for the event. I finally make it out the door with a bag of essentials and some time later I manage to get out of the car park and eventually I'm on the road to Appleby-in-Westmoreland.

After slogging through the endless traffic I drive around yet another bend and arrive … in a train set! You know those villages that you see if you go to the Model Railway Club's annual exhibition? Well they're all modelled on Appleby!

I pull into the narrow driveway of two attached cottages, Pine Cottage and Oak Cottage, the former belonging to my hosts and the latter to me for the week. My host comes out to greet me and deliver the key. He hopes I won't find Oak Cottage too small.

I enter with the first load of stuff and find that it's perfect. In every way. It's so clean I can scarcely believe it's ever been occupied. Downstairs there is a spacious bedroom, a large dressing-room and a bathroom. Up stairs is the small but well appointed kitchen, lounge/dining area. A bowl in the window recess is filled with fresh Sweet-peas and their fragrance drifts in the air. For some reason today I have been thinking of Sweet-peas.

The old house, built around 1800, has been beautiful and tastefully refurbished. I compliment the lady of the house when I see her the next morning. I won't want to leave this one. The accommodation bar has been elevated to such a height that I fear the peak may have been reached.

Our cottages are situated at he top of the main street, Boroughgate, near the High Market Cross and a few steps away from the gates of the castle (now closed due to a dispute with English Heritage) which look straight down the street. As you descend the hill the houses and then shops are all out of a story book. The Low Market Cross is at the bottom of the street along with the Moot Hall, now the Tourist Info Centre, built in 1596, and St Lawrence's Church closes off the street end.

Turn right and cross the River Eden over the arched bridge and up the hill to the station which is part of the famous Settle to Carlisle Railway, running steam trains for tourists to enjoy. It's also a regular stop for the commuter trains. The station has been dipped in 1920s aspic (sorry Lonely Planet, had to borrow that catchy description) and is the show piece of this train set village.

Appleby is well known in these part as the venue for the annual Gypsy Horse Fair. The Romany and Travelling People come, during the second week of June, to trade horses, meet relatives and friends and provide fair-ground activities. The town is besieged by thousands of tourists as well, all come to enjoy the fun of the fair.

I am reliably inform by a kindly local, who takes me home for coffee, that this seemingly romantic event is rather a nightmare for the residents of Appleby who have to lock up their daughters (and possibly their wives?) and other possessions during this week each year as there is a noticeable spike in the crime rate.

He tells me that some of the local publicans shut up shop and take their annual holidays to avoid the trouble which is destined to occur. To be fair though, says he, petty thieves from other areas have been known to target the town at this time knowing that any criminal activity will be blamed on the Gipsies.

All that aside, horse fairs have been around since ancient times, and you have to admit that a Gypsy Horse Fair is pretty romantic.

You'll have to excuse me now while I just slip off and buff up my rose-coloured glasses.

South of the Border Down Appleby Way

It's farewell to bonnie Scotland and hello Appleby-in-Westmoreland where the Lake District is one way and the Yorkshire Dales the other.

I have this train travelling lark down to a fine art now and I plan my journey to Carlisle, to collect another car, with military precision.

As previously discovered, negotiating one's way through Edinburgh's rail station with a bike bag and other accessories is not for the faint-hearted. Not that I'm faint hearted of course! But why not make life a little easier and travel from Stirling to Haymarket? Nice little station just outside Edinburgh, connecting train to Carlisle. Easy-peasy.

They are unfortunately a little short of lifts and my next train leaves from over there. Do I detect a slightly malicious gleam in the eye of the Scotrail attendant as he says 'no lift'?

This is really a mere trifle to me by now, and I start on my routine of ferrying several bags to the top of the stairs, returning for bike bag, and so on until I reach the bottom of the stairs on the other side.

Now my good friend, Lex (refer to the Dorchester post), asked me where I would find a Passepartout (the man-servant of Phileas Fogg for those who need to brush up on their 'Around the World' trivia) to assist on my travels. I must report that he is everywhere. Whenever I need him he steps out of the crowd, wearing a different disguise each time, he renders assistance, then melts back into the passing throng. Lex himself, you will recall, was the first Passepartout, stepping up to the plate at Heathrow airport.

I'm about halfway through my bag shuffle at Haymarket (do I detect a smirk on the face of that Scotrail bloke now?) when the trusty man-servant pauses on his decent of the stairs saying 'can I help you with that?'. Thank you my good man, just the bottom of the stairs if you would.

A different world is in operation on this platform, and the Scotrail attendant here can't be more helpful. He tells me which carriage will have luggage storage for the bike bag and just where it will be when the train pulls in so I don't have to gallop halfway down the platform to reach it. I look across to the other side with the intention of making a rude gesture to the grumpy-guts attendant over there but he's disappeared, and jolly good riddance to him.

A kindly taxi driver in Carlisle gives me very clear directions to Hadrian's Wall, which I must take a peek at before heading to Appleby.

At the Eurocar office I ask to have the extra insurance which will reduce my liability to zero if anything untoward should happen to the car whilst in my possession. I chose not to do this when I picked up the Peugeot and I can't tell you how nerve-wracking it is squeezing down those narrow lanes trying not to scratch the duco, as you must pay the first 500 pounds for any repairs.

I had to reach for the smelling salts when I heard how much extra it would cost but there was nothing to be done about it, I wasn't planning to spend eight weeks in a perpetual state of nervous anxiety. I paid up and loaded my luggage into the little Ford Fiesta, a cheerful mid blue in colour.

The fact that one of my nearest and dearest is in the employ of the Ford Motor Company has nothing to do with my opinion of this fantastic little car! It is a gem! You can keep your Peugeot 207, this little Ford runs rings around it. On a steep hill you might consider changing down to third, and only an extreme gradient will require a change to second. I wonder if they'd like to use me for an advertisement? You know, something like 'Super Gran Takes to the Hills'. I'll see what Kate can arrange.

And so it's off to Hadrian's Wall to sit for a moment and ponder the hands that placed these stones nearly 2000 years ago.

A Day in Glasgow

What is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Glasgow (if indeed you ever think of Glasgow at all)?

Ship-building? Slums? Buildings covered in centuries of soot?

Forget all that, Glasgow is beautiful! And in fact is the cultural hub of Scotland I venture to suggest.

When I hop off the Hop-On bus at the Kelvingrove Museum and Gallery, well that's it, I just can't leave. It is the most wonderful collection of paintings, photographs, statues, stuffed creatures of every kind (including a stuffed elephant!), a spitfire hanging from the roof, all manner of antiquities, design styles, clothing through the centuries, rooms of French art, Italian art, Dutch art, on and on.

All the usual stuff you say?

Well maybe it's the magnificent Edwardian building housing this collection that makes it different. Or perhaps the presentation which displays just enough and never so much to be boring. Then at one o'clock an organist arrives and seats himself at the gigantic organ in the upstairs gallery and begins to play so the entire building is alive with music which draws everyone to the balconies to listen and applaud.

There is a special exhibition running featuring the work of 'The Glasgow Boys' a group of artists working in the period 1880 to 1895. Wonderful stuff.

I have only one day in Glasgow so after three hours I drag myself away to find the Mackintosh House.

The Mackintosh House is a recreation of Charles Rennie Mackintosh's Glasgow home the original of which was demolished. You access it via the Hunterian Museum and Art Gallery. It is easy to see why this revolutionary architect, artist and designer was ahead of his time. I'm sure art-nouveau was all too much in the Britain of the1890s. As with many great 'artists', they're long dead before someone notices their genius.

The 'house' reflects his work in every detail. It is light, bright, mostly white, geometric, modern, arty, simple, uncluttered, just about the polar opposite of the Victorian house.

Fortunately enough people appreciated his work to keep him busy architecturally until 1914, leaving a legacy of outstanding buildings which are now the Glaswegians pride and joy. The latter years of his life were devoted to his innovative furniture designs and art work.

No Mackintosh-Glasgow experience would be complete without afternoon tea at the Willow Tea Rooms, designed from floor to ceiling by the great man, and still to be seen in all it's glory. The waitresses wear black with white collar and apron. You feel like you've stepped off the street and into the 1920s. The Devonshire Tea I think, thank you so much.

My feet are now ready to give up and go home but there's one last item on the list: The Tenement House administered by the National Trust for Scotland. By some stroke of luck this house, which was the home of an unmarried lady, shorthand typist, Miss Agnes Toward, who lived here for over 50 years, was left exactly as it was when she vacated it (in the 1950s I think) and came into the possession of the National Trust in 1982, after her death.

Glasgow is famous for its Victorian era tenement houses which were the homes of respectable working class people who rented them as a long term arrangement from a landlord. This particular tenement was built in 1892.

The house is a treasure trove of early 20th century domesticity. A most interesting feature being the bed recesses, cosy, curtained alcoves containing just a box bed, off a main room in place of bedrooms. Don't ask me what they did with their stuff, if indeed they owned any stuff. I've left my run too late and only have a half hour to take in the well preserved detail of this exhibit before they close for the evening.

So much to see, so little time in which to see it.

A New Twist on the Water Wheel

And now a leap into 21st century Britain. As part of a millennium project the 230 year old Forth & Clyde Canal, which was originally built to link the Irish Sea with the North Sea, has been restored and now provides 35 miles of boating, cycling and walking opportunities for thousands of holidaymakers.

A splendid feature of the project is the is the engineering marvel, the Falkirk Wheel. My photo does not do it justice. Try Googling it.

The Wheel is the world's first and only rotating boat lift and takes the place of eleven locks to transfer a vessel from the Forth & Clyde Canal to the Union Canal. When it opened in 2002 it linked the two canals for the first time in 70 years.

The idea is that a boat (or boats) motors into the lift from the Forth & Clyde at the bottom, and another motors in from the Union Canal at the top (assuming there are boats wanting to go in both directions). The gates close behind them, the water in each gondola is equalised and the massive wheel rotates thus transferring the one boat up and the other boat down using no more energy than it takes to boil eight kettles! The trip from bottom to top takes only four minutes and the boats motor away along the connecting aqueduct to the Union Canal, grateful no doubt to have avoided a substantial number of locks.

Having decided I must have a ride in the tourist boat, Archimedes (named for obvious reasons), that does regular trips up and down, I buy my ticket and wait for the next trip. A large number of American tourists (from a cruise ship I discover later) are milling around as we line up to board.

There is a gentleman who looks for all the world like Dracula in a flowing black cape, black stockings and a ... kilt, and has a Transylvanian accent (sort of like the Count on Sesame Street). He's at the front of the queue taking tickets and when I get mixed up in all this lot he says bus 16? and whips away my ticket. No says I, and there follows a rather protracted discussion where he thinks I belong to the bus 17 group, while I try to wrestle my ticket back and get it into his head that I'm not on either bus.

Another character appears in the crowd, he looks rather like Toad of Toad Hall. Same sort of dimensions as Toad, and wearing a flowing tweed cape, a tweed deerstalker, stockings and a kilt. It turns out he's in charge of bus 17. Between them they manage to herd their charges on board with no loss of life, I've grappled my ticket back, and we're ready to go.

Our captain, Fred MacGregor, gives up a few interesting facts and figures about the Wheel: It boasted a construction staff of 1000 and cost 17.5 million pounds; we will travel 24 metres up in the air and then go through a 180 metre tunnel under the Antonine Wall, built by the Romans 20 years after Hadrian's Wall.

I've positioned myself where I can watch the massive cogs turning as we go up. It's all very smooth and quiet, and because the water around you stays in place it's rather strange to see the countryside and the people on the ground getting smaller as you travel up.

Next thing we're motoring away through the tunnel to a sharp bend in the canal where boats going on will negotiate two more locks to take them up an extra 11 metres to the Union Canal while we turn around for our journey back to base.

This state-of-the-art construction is a joy to behold as well as an marvellous engineering feat. I'm snapping away with my camera, capturing it from all directions.

Then it's on the bike for a closer look at the Roman Wall and the remains of the Roughcastle Fort.

The bus group and their eccentric guides are off in that direction too. I reach the 'wall' before them (they are old and on foot, where I'm … on a bike) and am sitting on a stile eating lunch when they arrive.

I've found it's very handy, one way and another, to tag along with a tour group, you get to hear the interesting snips of information but don't have to actually travel with them.

Dracula tells us that this wall, as we can see, is a turf wall rather than a stone wall like Hadrian's. It looks now like a rounded grassy mound running in a straight line towards the fort. Apparently by the time this fortification was constructed the Romans were loosing their enthusiasm for the far flung reaches of their empire, having more pressing problems closer to home no doubt. The forts along this wall were abandoned twenty years after construction.

We all troop off the see what's left of the fort, not much, and then they must away as their bus is waiting. Toad suggests they might like to stage a re-enactment of a storming of the fort: Bus 16 rushing up the hill shouting and hollering, Bus 17 hurling missiles at them.

Dracula who likes to be in charge and do all the talking (and get all the laughs), looks scathingly at poor Toad, the Americans just don't quite get it (possibly think he's serious) where I think it's hilarious then discover I'm the only one laughing.

They set off for their cruise ship where tonight's cocktails will be doubly welcome after all this hill climbing, and I set off for a delightful afternoon cycling along the Union Canal.

Edinburgh at One O'Clock

Here I am in Stirling, and I've given the gutless Peugeot back to Eurocar and will be on the train for the remainder of the week. You'll need to look lively if you're coming to Edinburgh with me in the morning.

Here we are on the train to Edinburgh with all the early morning commuters. When we arrive I seek out the Hop-on-hop-off bus for a getting-to-know-you tour. I do the full circuit and, as in London, money well spent.

Next stop the Australian Consulate with the intention of voting but, no sorry, you can only vote in London. Okay, I surrender. Tried to vote in Australia before I left: papers not out yet. Postal vote? No fixed address to receive mail. In London: too early. Now no voting in Edinburgh. I shall send an apologetic email.

I've wasted at least thirty precious minutes doing that so I hasten on to the business of the day: Castle, Royal Mile, Holyrood House Palace, and the best I'll save for last.

The queue at the Castle is long. I'm entertained by a pair of Americans, a young man and a young woman, behind me in the line. Actually they are pointing out to each other that they are Texans first and Americans second. I discover that Texas used to be part of Mexico and the predictions are that by 2050 it will be 90% Hispanic. They are related somehow but I can't quite figure out how. They're delving into family history. Cousins perhaps? If we're in this queue much longer I'll just have to ask them!

At last, we're in. Not long until the One O'clock Gun which has been fired every day, except Sundays and during the two World Wars, from the Half Moon Battery since 1861. My audio guide answers the inevitable question of why one o'clock? The suggestion is that, being Scots and famed for their thrifty ways, a one o'clock gun will use a whole lot less gunpowder than any other o'clock!

BANG! Oh, wow, yes, that was fun!

Around the castle grounds I see the simple little chapel of St Margaret, the oldest building in Edinburgh; the enormous Mons Meg cannon which is over 550 years old and fired stone cannon-balls weighing 150 kilograms; Scotland's crown jewels and the great wooden box they were sealed inside for 100 years; and finally the ancient Stone of Scone, Scotland's pride and joy returned to its rightful home.

Then it's off for a stroll down the Royal Mile to the Palace which is situated at the opposite end from the castle. But who the heck are all these singers and dancers and street performers cluttering up the roadway, and their audience filling every other space?

Ah, the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. All very entertaining I'm sure but I can go to Adelaide for this sort of thing.

I pick my way through the crowds and head for Holyrood House. It's quite a domestic size for a palace and you can imagine the Royal Family comfortable ensconced here when they visit Edinburgh. The most outstanding feature of the decorations to be seen here are the wonderful and enormous tapestries which cover the oak panelled walls.

And now, strangely, the best bit of the day, was a detour to the Greyfriars Kirkyard to visit the memorial to Greyfriars Bobby, the little Skye terrier who lingered near the grave of his master, John Gray, for fourteen years.

He became a legend in his own time, his picture was painted (now hanging in the church) and, not long before he died the Baroness Burdett-Coutts asked permission to erect a granite drinking fountain with a statue of Bobby in bronze. It stands at the corner of Candlemaker Row just outside the Kirkyard. It is the second most photographed attraction in Edinburgh after the Castle!

Bobby's story has a link to the One O'clock Gun at the Castle. It seems that a sergeant of the Royal Engineers trained Bobby to go for his dinner at the eatery in Candlemaker Row each day when he heard the one o'clock gun.

When Bobby died in 1872, he was buried in a flower bed near the church wall because it was not deemed proper to bury him in the consecrated ground of the Kirkyard. But today the first stone you see as you enter the Kirkyard is a red granite memorial stone for Bobby erected by the Dog Aid Society of Scotland in 1981. Was this when it came to the attention of the movie-makers?

A matching stone was erected marking the site of John Gray's grave by 'American Lovers of Bobby'.

The story of Bobby is also the story of the people touched by it, those who offered him food and shelter in the cold of winter, and those who parted with their cash to erect memorials that would ensure the faithfulness of a little dog would always be remembered.

Chitty Bang Bang, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang...

Several recent dispatches from the antipodes have inquired as to how I was getting on with the driving.

Modesty prevents me from going on and on but I have to tell you that I'm a STAR!

I've whizzed past countless bicycles (and even a little white van one day), and I haven't had more than ten vehicles queued up behind me at any one time! When they do manage to get past they're still quite cheerful and give me a little wave. It's a funny sort of a wave though, it's done with the fingers closed. Must be a local thing.

For those hapless tourists not as skilled behind the wheel as myself, driving in the UK can be a hair-raising and frustrating experience.

I mean to say, you can be driving along a perfectly normal road, white line down the middle, adequate shoulder, not too many curves, when suddenly some malevolent engineer has decided to play funny buggers and turn this ordinary road into a bitumened goat track wide enough for a small car going in one direction or the other with a six foot hedge on either side.

Every so often there's an elbow sticking out into the hedge where you can seek refuge from on-coming traffic, but no opportunity to turn around, retrace your steps and catch the first plane home.

So here you are, sneaking along this winding country lane telling yourself that this is what England's all about, when suddenly you round a bend and coming towards you down this green tunnel is the biggest tractor you've ever seen!

The owner of this agricultural monster is evidently late for an appointment (to rake the hay perhaps?), because he's hammering down the lane like the Grim Reaper is after him.

Just as you're wondering how quickly death will come under those giant wheels, you spy one of those little kinks in the road and in you dive.

When your heart stops hammering in your ears you realise that good old St Christopher has done it again!

I could devote the rest of my life to having him reinstated? I foresee an internet campaign, signatures, marches, placards, a trip to Rome even!

Oh, um, none of that happened to me of course, it was a story I overheard on the train.

Sail Bonnie Boat...

We are going to fly swiftly now, perhaps on the wings of the red kite I saw from a hilltop, high above the Royal Burgh of Dingwall, and look down, as we pass, on the beautiful Glen Affic with its lush greenery and the lovely Dog Falls. Then the dark and mysterious Blackmuir Woods and on to Rogie Falls where we'll hover for a moment to watch the salmon jumping before sweeping away down the stunning west coast of Scotland with its towering peaks and beautiful lochs and views of the coastline.

Having bid farewell to the kindly folks at Lodge Barn in Fodderty, we finally alight in Mallaig a tiny fishing village on the coast best known as a stepping off point for the Isle of Skye. That isle is my destination on the morrow.

My accommodation here could be described as adequate. It is, after all, a B&B and I'm used now to a whole cottage to myself.

Breakfast at the B&B is a communal affair and my hostess seats me at a table with a gentleman in his late forties perhaps. We chat about what we've been up to and I discover he's staying here for a fortnight! He can evidently afford a slightly better room, with a sea view perhaps.

I ask him what he does for a living and after a slight hesitation he tells me, in what I think is a slightly apologetic manner, that he's a Catholic priest from a big parish in London. A 'late vocation' as we say, says he. Oh, says I, endeavouring to put him at his ease, I know all about those, I'm one of the faithful don't you know! (Didn't actually mention how faithful but.) Best priest I ever knew was a 'late vocation' says I. Irish fellow by the name of Joe Dargan.

He says they have a Kenyan priest on loan in their parish because 'vocations' are a bit thin on the ground in England these days. I assure him that we're in the same pickle in Australia, and resist the urge to say that if we were to embrace a married clergy and women priests then the current problems may not exist. We are, after all, just having breakfast, not a deep and meaningful theological discussion.

I'm diverted from the possibility of moving into these potentially turbulent waters by the arrival of a young German couple. She's studying medicine (loves it, can't believe how lucky she is for the opportunity) and he has qualified as an mechanical engineer. They're very sweet. They are loving Scotland and plan to return. They've been walking in the Trossachs and around Glen Coe and are enraptured. I may check out Glen Coe (where those previously mentioned pesky MacDonalds got their comeuppance from the Campbells) on my way to Stirling tomorrow, thanks for the tip.

But it's off with me and my bike, I have a ferry to catch 'over the sea to Skye'.

Nessie Where Are You?

Loch Ness is possibly not the most picturesque of all Scotland's lochs, but for shear hype and razza-mataz it takes the cake.

The Visitor Centre at Drumnadrochit has an audio visual tour which pretty well debunks the 'Nessie' myth. Hey, we're here to see that monster, how dare you let science get in the way of such a good story! Oh well, it still might be true. Maybe. The gift shop is doing a roaring trade in 'Nessie' paraphernalia, so I'm not the only one who thinks those scientists are a bunch of spoil sports.

Eclipsing everything in the Visitor Centre is what's going on in the car park. I'm parked next to a gorgeous cream coloured Morgan sports car belonging to an ageing German couple. They say yar, I may take a photo. Strapped on the back is real leather luggage! The whole affair is terribly Gatsby! I'm hoping to visit the Morgan factory in Worcestershire when I'm in that direction. You can watch them at work on these hand-made beauties and put in an order perhaps? Delivery time ? One year!

A little further down the loch is the romantic ruins of Urquhart Castle situated right on the loch-side. A piper in full kit is setting the mood and you can almost imagine yourself back to the 15th century when feasting and banqueting were interspersed with fighting off enemy attacks from those pesky MacDonald lords of the Isles.

A trip to Loch Ness would not be complete unless you did the whole length of it and the A82 keeps it in view from top to bottom. Fort Augustus is situated at the southern-most tip of the loch and, leaving Urquhart Castle to watch over the loch for another few hundred years, I proceed forthwith in that direction.

In line with my policy of never paying for parking I ignore the Pay & Display park and sniff around until I find a quiet street to leave the car and haul out the bike.

I cycle along the road that takes you around the bottom of the loch, and there I find a most beautiful picture looking back up the loch where the mountains form a V down to the water. The only residents enjoying this view are a field of sheep and I doubt they appreciate the value of this piece of real estate.

Cycling back into town I cross a bridge which I discover is crossing the Caledonian Canal. Adjacent to the bridge are the Caledonian Locks and I am beside myself with excitement because the roadway is about to be swung out of the way to let a large yacht into the lock. To see a lock in operation is high up on my list of things I must do before I die and here it is, all happening!

The boats motor into the bottom lock, the lock gates close and water pours in until it's level with the water in the next lock, the gates to the next lock open and in go the boats and the process is repeated through five locks until they have 'stepped' up the canal and can sail away out of the top lock and off up the canal. The process is reversed if you're going in the other direction.

The Caledonian Canal connects the Scottish east coast at Inverness with the west coast near Fort William, 100 kilometres in all, utilising lochs as well as man-made canals. Over the length of the canal there are 29 locks, 10 bridges and 4 aqueducts.

I am just one of many onlookers watching this fascinating process. Eventually I cycle away up the canal tow-path keeping pace with the first boat out of the top lock. Holidaying on the canals is very popular and I can understand why, the countryside is quiet and peaceful and the pace leisurely.

Reluctantly I turn back and with a fair breeze aft I hoist the spinnaker and set sail for home.

In Search of a Local Hero

I am determined to see the tiny fishing village of Pennan which was the site for the filming of the 1983 film, Local Hero, featuring that wonderful music by Mark Knopfler. It is located on the north east coast of Scotland near Banff.

I get slightly off course on the way and stop for lunch at Forres where there is a beautiful park teaming with flowers. This country is a floral delight, every other house and business has baskets of trailing petunias, lobelia, tuberous begonia, geraniums, barcopa etc., hanging from decorative hooks on the front of the building. There are wine barrels full of flowers, window-boxes, troughs, barrows, all a perfect cornucopia.

A sign to a Pictish stone has me off on the bike once more, and after marvelling at this huge and ancient relic, I just have to cycle on a bit further, to the next village in fact. And then back along a quiet road with farmland on either side. How easy it is to get distracted!

I arrive back at the car to find there is now a piper playing under a tree in the park. It's all a big story book!

Off again to find Pennan before they turn the lights out.

I have been warned that Pennan is at the bottom of a very steep hill but when I see just how steep my courage almost deserts me.

No, I've come all this way, I'm going down! And I do. When I emerge at the bottom of this treacherous descent, in the tiny village which consists of one street backed into the cliffs, I find the place full of visitors. Hardly a parking space left. Someone has even driven a boat on a trailer down that hill!

It's all here, just as it was in the film, with the exception of the telephone box which was moved for the filming and then put back in its rightful place afterwards. The beach scenes (Ben's beach) were filmed a long way away on the west coast near Mallaig.

I stroll along the beach and poke around the little harbour and look at all the picturesque houses then pour a cup of tea from my Thermos and sit beneath towering rocks looking out to the North Sea and wonder what it could possibly be like to live in such a remote place.

My landlady tells me later that the village was almost wiped out in a landslide in recent years. I can well see how that could happen.

I make it back up the hill without meeting anyone coming down, a piece of good fortune for which I am most grateful. The thought of having to back down to let someone pass was giving me palpitations.

On the subject of hills, I must report that this Peugeot 207 is a gutless affair, I'll be glad to return it at the end of the week. I think Jeremy C. would be scathing in his criticism.

I crawl exhausted into bed after twelve hours of driving, cycling and dilly-dallying around. Tomorrow it's off for a bit of 'Nessie' spotting at that most famous of all lochs, Loch Ness.

Of Bikes and Battles

We're so far behind, I must make an effort to speed things up. But in the words of John Marsden I just have 'so much to tell you'.

For those of you who haven't seen the UK from a bike please get back here and do it again! There was a general feeling that I was slightly mad bringing a bike with me (a feeling that perhaps extends a little further than the bike?) but I am vindicated! The bike rules!

I start the day on Sunday 1st August cycling along the River Ness, in Inverness, when the majority of the populous are still abed. Trees line the banks and there's a little chill in the damp morning air. Picturesque foot-bridges cross the river here and there and the castle can be glimpsed in the distance. All is peaceful and quiet and I could ride on for miles but I am away to the battlefield of Culloden today, so must bid the Ness farewell.

The visitor centre at Culloden has an excellent account of the events that lead to this bloody battle and of the battle itself, telling the story from the Government perspective on the left wall as you made your way through, and the Jacobite's story on the right wall. Various artefacts are displayed in glass cases as you progress.

You then collect a headset and make your way to the battlefield for an audio tour of the site. This bleak and sombre field still retains the echoes of that terrible day, and it's not hard to visualise the noise and confusion of the battle.

In 1881 one, Duncan Forbes, erected a 20 foot high stone memorial cairn in honour of the fallen, and placed stones engraved with the clan names at the mass burial site of each clan. He placed one marking the last resting place of the fallen English as well. These simple stones are poignant reminders of the high price demanded by war.

A garden is needed after that so I make my way to Cawdor Castle, familiar to students of Shakespeare's 'Macbeth', and wandered among the trees and flowers and manicured lawns. Parts of the castle date back to the 14th century and it has a real working drawbridge (handy when the in-laws call around unexpectedly).

My landlady, Maire, has suggested a trip to Chanonry Point to see the dolphins come into the Cromarty Firth with the rising tide. A study of the tide chart suggests that late afternoon would be a good time to arrive. I'm evidently not the only person in the area with access to a tide chart because, when I make my way down a narrow roadway to the point, I find many other dolphin spotters gazing out to sea. I squeeze my car into the last available parking spot and wait for the show to begin.

The dolphin spotting tour boat is on the water and probably hoiking a few sardines overboard to attract the dolphins and justify their fees. The dolphins naturally have no problem with this arrangement and very soon they are leaping and cavorting and playing follow-the-leader in the vicinity of the boat.

Watching the dolphins in the Cromarty Firth? Priceless!

All Aboard!

That wee drop of red did me the world of good and next morning I'm up with the birds (Chaffinch, Coal Tit, Blue Tit) and on the road to Ullapool, Wester Ross, to catch a ferry to the Outer Hebrides.

The bike is unpacked, tyres inflated, and it's in the boot. By my reckoning I'll have about an hour to poke around the Island of Lewis, the southern-most tip of which becomes the Isle of Harris, whence the famous tweed originates.

An hour later I arrive at Ullapool on the shores of Lochbroom on Scotland's beautiful west coast and leave the car in a free car park. I haul the bike out of the boot for its first outing and cycle down to the harbour to purchase my ticket for the ferry to Stornaway.

It's going to take a day or two to get my ear in, I know the Scots speak English but I'm struggling to keep up. I manage to buy my ticket without having to beg the young man's pardon more than two or three times.

On board. The bike is tied up downstairs and I'm comfortably ensconced in the large lounge area. I've packed the new Thermos I bought in London and some supplies to keep the wolf from the door so I sit back with a cup of tea and watch the harbour slip away as we put to sea.

When I arrive at Stornoway after a long and pleasant sea voyage, I discover that I'm classified as a vehicle for the purpose of loading the ferry and must be at the front of the line for the return trip about … now! But I've only just got here! Do they care? Well, no, they've got more things to worry about than dumb tourists I'm sure. I sneak off for a quick ten minute ride then come back and chat with a young couple, also on bikes, who have been riding around the island for a week. A week? Yes good idea, beats ten minutes hands down.

A cold glass of Sav Blanc from the bar seems in order for the return trip and I comfort myself with the thought that I have at least set foot on the islands which were the inspiration for Lillian Beckwith's novels.

Several hours later we regain the mainland and I have time for a leisurely ride around the pretty little fishing village of Ullapool. Paint, it seems, comes in two colours around here: white and royal blue. And why would you want any more because this is perfect.

The sun is westering as I take the A835 back to Lodge Barn for a late supper. I'm beginning to think that maybe I can do this after all. I've spent four days in London without being run down by a taxi or a bus; I've completed a train journey from one end of the country almost to the other; and now I've journeyed to a remote island and back again.

Good on you Chrissy, you're a legend!

To Scotland For a Wee While

A first class seat on the train to Scotland. Ah, it's a great way to travel. Nine hours to relax and enjoy the countryside slipping past. I've almost recovered from the shock of a 16 pound taxi fare to drive around the corner to the station at five o'clock in the morning with next to no traffic. I'm also endeavouring to be philosophical about leaving the octopus strap for my luggage trolley in the afore mentioned cab. Lesson 1: All loose items to be placed in bag.

The day flies by too fast, so much to see, towns and villages all lifted straight off the lid of a chocolate box, sheep and cattle grazing in lush green fields, rivers and streams meandering between tree-lined banks, and then we're over the border and into Scotland. The North Sea is stretching to the horizon and cliffs cascade to the waters-edge. Forests of conifer march up steep hillsides while heather covers yet more hills with a hint of the colour to come, shallow streams ripple over a pebbly beds, and yes, there's a highland coo! I'm in Scotland!

I'll spare my readers the dramas of changing trains at Edinburgh, suffice to say that a large bike bag and a rather full sports bag on a trolley with no strap …

When I arrive in Inverness I've abandoned all thoughts of taking a bus to pick up the car, and grab the first taxi I see as I walk out the door.

Into my little black Peugeot 207 and off to Strathpeffer. I'm a nervous wreck, first roundabout and I take the wrong exit. Up the road, do a U-turn at the next traffic light, and now I'm off to Strathpeffer. There's a Tescos as I go through Dingwall so I stop to pick up some groceries for the week and a bottle of wine because I SO need a drink!

One or two more wrong turns and I'm out of Dingwall and by some miracle arrive at Fodderty Lodge (built 1730) to take up residence in Lodge Barn for a week. Fortunately the barn has been converted to a charming cottage which looks out into the garden and has every modern convenience... including a corkscrew. Here's to a week in the Highlands!

Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square ...

A final day in London with Regent's Park and Westminster Abbey on the list.

Regent's Park is just one of the extensive areas given over to parkland in London. In fact, said our guide on the Big Bus Tour, London is officially a forest, so many trees does it have. Hyde Park alone covers 500 acres.

Regent's Park is a quiet oasis next to the hustle and bustle of Marylebone Road. Yet another place where it is easy to get lost. No straight lines in this country with the possible exception of the odd Roman Road.

I found Queen Mary's Garden, a horticultural treasure trove complete with a squirrel, a lovely rose garden, a cascade and a pond. A turn around the Boating Lake where white swans drift by then over a flower decked bridge which takes you to the Regent's Park Zoo. I don't have time for the zoo so reluctantly I turn back and head once more into the tumult of London at work.. There is much in the way of road work and building repairs under way in London, no doubt inspired by the up-coming Olympics, but Londoners take it all in their stride.

If Saint Paul's is a place where one might find the spirit of God, Westminster Abbey is where one finds the wealth and power of kings. Do I remember correctly that Jesus said something about putting aside your worldly goods and following him? Well, I can tell you that nothing has been put aside in Westminster Abbey. It is the most extraordinary building I have ever seen. The scale is overwhelming, the opulence and the decoration could hardly be rivalled. How wonderful it must be to hear the exquisite voices of the choir ascending to that distant ceiling.

The little chapels skirting the main alter contain the remains of kings, queens and noblemen from centuries past, all remembered with the most elaborate tomb decorations, and there's scarcely a square foot of floor that doesn't have some important personage under it. The Poet's Corner is one place everyone wants to visit to find the graves or remembrance stones of favourite authors.

The only tomb that you are not permitted to walk on is that of the Unknown Soldier which has pride of place inside the main entrance. Winston Churchill was offered a place nearby but declined as he felt that more than enough people had walked all over him in life and he preferred not to have it repeated in death!

It takes me 2 ½ hours to complete the tour and I still feel that I should return for another look in October when I come back to London.

I light some candles once more then head home to pack my bags for the early train to Scotland.

The Cabinet War Rooms

Visiting castles built in the long distant past is all very well but for something a little closer to our own times then the Cabinet War Rooms is not to be missed.

At the end of WW II this underground bunker, from where Winston Churchill conducted his war (I think we can call it his war), was closed up and virtually forgotten. Situated in the basement of the Whitehall Building it was a time capsule waiting for the deprivations and horrors of 'the war years' to morph into nostalgia and fascinating history.

And fascinating it is. You can almost smell the cigar smoke hanging in what must have been a claustrophobic and airless space. The Cabinet Room is here, where crucial strategical decisions were debated into the night, and the Transatlantic Telephone Room a space about as big as a broom cupboard, that's because it was in fact a broom cupboard before being commandeered for a higher service. The Map Room is just as it was when they walked out and closed the door in August 1945. No need to recreate it, maps, charts, books, all still here.

A suite of private rooms known then as the Courtyard Rooms provided safe shelter for Churchill, his wife Clemmie, and other important staff members when bombing made it unwise to venture out. These rooms have been recreated as faithfully as possible and it is quite touching to see this humble domestic side to the otherwise businesslike world of men at war.

You could spend hours in the Churchill Museum area where it's all state-of-the-art, hi-tech, multi-media, interactive displays and where we can find out everything we ever wanted to know about this one-of-a-kind human being. Delightful little things like a letter from his beloved Clemmie warning him that he was becoming rather boorish as the war dragged on!

A special exhibition – Life in Churchill's Bunker – features interviews with his staff members of the time, most of whom never actually saw him in person. Hundreds of people worked long hours in this subterranean world and each would have their own stories to tell. We hear a few of them. We've probably heard these stories on television documentaries but they never lose their fascination. For many people the war was the most exciting time of their lives but they were not allowed to discuss the nature of their work with anyone or even that they worked for the government. One can only imagine how difficult it was to keep that secret.

Out of the bunker and back to the year 2010. What manner of world it would be if Churchill and his Cabinet had not succeeded in their quest, albeit with the belated help of the Americans, we shall never know.

Feed the Birds - Twopence a Bag...

No, sorry, you can't do that any more. Except for one spot in St James's Park. Possibly an area that needs fertilising?

But the image of the old bag lady from Mary Poppins is with me as I approach the steps of St Paul's from Fleet Street.

I've walked over from my digs near the British Museum with two other destinations to visit en route. The first is located just around the block on the corner of Great Russell and Bloomsbury Street. Those devotees of Helene Hanff's charming books, 84 Charing Cross Road and The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street in particular, may just remember that she stayed, during her much awaited trip to the UK, at the Kenilworth Hotel at the above mentioned address.

Yes, there it is! Today it's the Radisson Kenilworth but it's still the same old facade. I'm thrilled there's something of hers left after the disappointment of finding that number 84 Charing Cross Road has been demolished and is now a hideous Pizza shop! The bookshop of Marks & Co I knew had long since gone, but where do they get off tearing down iconic buildings!

Next address on the way is Chancery Lane where poor old Hughie meets his 'particularly tasty piece of crackling' for lunch at the Dolca Vita in John Mortimer's, Summer's Lease. Well if the Dolca Vita ever really existed, it doesn't now. Never mind, it's fun just walking down these famous streets.

I'm at St Paul's by 9 o'clock which is a very wise move as the peace is not yet disturbed by the thronging masses. I light candles for my nearest and dearest and marvel at the exquisite architecture and the sense that this is indeed a holy place. Christopher Wren's great masterpiece, and it's a pleasure to know that he did actually live to see it completed. Not the usual state of affairs for cathedral designers. How fitting that he lies at rest in this beautiful place.

The audio tour guides me through the centuries and invites me to climb the 259 steps to the Whispering Gallery way up in that fabulous dome.

Up I go. And up... And up... But it's worth it to look way down into the magnificent nave below where the people who are now gathering look like dolls, and you feel like you might burst into a few verses of Amazing Grace at any minute. Some of the other visitors to the Whispering Gallery think they must try some whispering to see if it actually does travel around the dome. (O ye of little faith. Chapter ? Verse ?) And yes, we're all thrilled to find it does. We can hear (I'm eaves dropping) perfectly what is being whispered way over there!

Next challenge is the Stone Gallery, only another 200 odd steps. Well why not. This takes you outside to the balustrady looking bit on the dome where you can get a pigeon's eye view of the city. I catch sight of one of my favourite modern buildings: the Gherkin, which looks like a glittering Faberge egg.

The Crypt is the final part of the tour. One could spend hours here. I see Horatio Nelson's magnificent tomb and Christopher Wren's very modest and simple one. Also a memorial to that illustrious forbear of my good friend David Duff: George Duff, killed at Trafalgar in the service of king and country. Actually we don't know if he really is related but that's neither here nor there.

I feel the need for coffee after all that and a cafe is at hand right here in the Crypt, next to the gift shop. I have a vision of Jesus over-turning the tables of the commercially motivated in the temple. But, they have to keep this show on the road somehow so I guess if you're into tacky little mementos then it's all in a good cause.

I enjoy my coffee next to an enormous marble statue of the slain figure of Major General Ponsonby and his horse with an angel come to claim him at the Battle of Waterloo. I have no idea who this gentleman was but his passing certainly generated a steady income over quite a long time for some lucky sculptor.

The Big Bus Tour

If you've not been to London before then The Big Bus Tour is a great way to get your bearings and view the city from the dizzy heights of the top of a double-decker. The ones with a red sign have a live commentary and the guide regales you with snippets of history, anecdotes, facts and figures etc. as you go along, e.g. all park railings are painted black by order of Queen Victoria after the death of her beloved Albert! Your ticket lasts the whole day so you can hop off and on at any time. There are also some guided walks and a river cruise thrown in. The trouble is there's not enough hours in the day to fit it all in!

I do a full circuit then hop off to touch base at the Reform Club from where Phileas Fogg started his epic (albeit fictional) travels. The Reform Club is one of two male only London clubs still in existence, and one needs to be registered at birth if one ever hope's to sip a whisky and soda (or whatever is the favourite tipple at the Club), and do a bit of male bonding inside these hallowed walls.

Back on board the next passing bus and off to the Globe Theatre. In luck, a play about to start! Out of luck, all sold out. I look around the exhibition, and a young German couple, an Asian girl student and myself take the guided tour of what's left of the old Rose Theatre. Not much as it turns out. What is left of the Rose is under water so to acquaint us with the lay-out, a series of lights are strung out in the shape of the stage areas. The room is very dark to enable us to see the lights. I could perhaps sneak out now, this is not the most riveting tour, but the young couple have already dropped off because the wife's English isn't up to it. So I take pity on our guide who will surely be downcast if she arrives at the end with only one out of four.

Next stop the Tower. If it were the 16th century and someone said 'off to the Tower with you', you'd get a horrible sinking feeling in the tummy. Today the citizenry flock to the Tower of London in droves. And no wonder. This fascinating place of history, mystery and myth is a wonder to behold. It's like stepping into a fairy-tale. To touch a wall that has stood in this place since the 12th century, to imagine the little princes imprisoned and murdered here, to see the spot where Anne Boleyn was beheaded, and then to stand in a queue for ¾ of an hour to see the crown jewels. Oh well, even that didn't take the shine off it all. My favourite piece in the fabulous collection was the dear little diamond coronet that Queen Victoria wore in one of her most published photographs.

Just time for the river cruise before heading home. On board near Tower Bridge, an entertaining commentary as we pass various landmarks. We pass under the ill-fated Millennium Bridge (it was closed for structural amendments a few days after opening) and our guide points out that this tribute to a new millennium obstructs the view from the river - carefully maintained until this point - of St Paul's Cathedral. Oops.

All ashore at Westminster Bridge where we can marvel at the tower of Big Ben, everything in perfect proportion. An architectural delight.

I set off up the street sure that I'm heading in the general direction of Bedford Avenue. But evidently not because a large park has appeared. Consult map. St James's Park. Charming pond, beautiful trees, pretty flowers, but not near Bedford Avenue. Never mind, it's not every day you get to stroll through St James's Park on a summer's evening!