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!