Winter Girders

A familiar path, upstream, from shingle to viaduct.  In unfamiliar winter guise.

The dense foliage of summer has long been dropped; the rosy hips and bright haws stripped bare.  The woodland opens, with views through to the river.  

The woodland floor shows signs of life returning.  Clumps of snowdrops, bright and cheery in deep, grey thicket.  Thick greenery heralds what will become a carpet of bluebells, wild garlic.  In the months ahead.  Absent are the pinks and violets of balsam and willowherb.  Winter die-back, to return.  With a vengeance.

Streams of striated sunlight strobe my path, finding routes through the sleeping trunks of alder and sycamore.  The return of spring remains but a rumour.

I close my eyes and imagine the howl of the alpha-male drifting from distant hills.  My mind’s eye sees the pack languidly loping between the grey timber, camouflaged in all but amber eyes.  One day.

Wild grasses are leached of colour.  Aside from the snowdrop cheer, only whins on the fringes, some dotted with early yellow blooms, bring colour to the woods.

Across the path a gathering of godwits peck at the ploughings.  Other than a few woodpigeons the woods are quiet.  Soon there will be a chorus to mark the rising of the sun, and the sap.  One day.  But not yet.

Even the viaduct is quiet.  Only two feet echo across the sleepers as I reach the great central span.  Gone are the regular walkers, with or without hounds at foot; gone are the cyclists.  I cherish selfishly the treasure of solitude.

At 350ft the central span is a fair chunk of the 947ft long bridge.  That span rises to over 40ft, on a girdered bowstring.

Almost a century and a half ago pairs of cast iron cylinders, each 14ft in diameter, were filled with concrete, and sunk 52ft below the ever-shifting riverbed.  Water pumped out, replaced by 150 tons of metal blocks, bases dismantled manually, to settle deeper yet.

Before the bridge opened 300 men rebelled, marched to Garmouth Station; assaulted the timekeeper.  130 returned to work, but without the extra penny per hour they sought for work on new embankments to divert the water course.

As it happens the river won - water usually does - returning to its old course within a year, having broken the new gravel embankments.

It is no surprise to find that the gentry were concerned.  After four years the Duke of Richmond and Gordon had his claim for £21,000 of compensation dismissed.  His concern, just the opening of the salmon season on 1 May.  A lot of money in 1886.  Fishing; ahead of industry, and employment.

The vision, in bridging the Spey, extending the Great North of Scotland Railway, in turn saw the end to the shipping industry that had built up in Kingston over 200 years.  Pine logs were floated down the river.  Shipbuilding followed.

In spate, rafts were guided all the way from the Abernethy forests to the estuary, peaking at 30,000 logs manoeuvred by just 80 men.  The majority went for export.  The river trip took 12 hours.  The largest vessel built at Kingston, the 500 ton Duke of Gordon.

Then came the railways.  Thankfully the viaduct remains, vital for those of us who walk and cycle; providing still a route from one bank to t’other

I return to the shingle estuary.  The wind-whipped rollers mingling with the currents to form saltflats, spread far and wide.  Shifting.  At Spey Bay the shingle sings.  It is a song of turning stones, whistling and whispering as the tide recedes on steep banks.

The woodlands may change with the seasons, but the song of the shingle remains the same.  Without ships.  Without trains.  The osprey will return.  One day; soon.

And Who Will Play the Lead Roles?

 There is always a frisson of excitement when you start a new book, from an author who's name you were never previously aware.  Then you reach the end, dig in a little deeper.  There's a trilogy; two more to immerse into.

That in itself is quite remarkable, for The Wolf and The Watchman is not just the first in a trilogy, it's the author's first book.  We start in 1793.  Subsequent volumes will take me to 1794 and then of course 1795.  Interesting times.  Revolutions.  Workhouses.  Fledgling police.  Surgeons too.  And so much more.

 

If it were even remotely possible I see Alan Rickman in a certain role.  That probably says more than enough of my knowledge of all things thespian.  Living in the past, sell by date long expired.  But there are cracking roles to be cast.

Niklas Natt och Dag is the man responsible for this masterpiece, and the hopes I harbour for the next two volumes.  He takes us to Stockholm, late 18th century Stockholm, and various other parts.  We relive the horrors of those days.

Our crime-buster has consumption, a man of the times, a man with little time.  I'll tell you no more, won't spoil the fun.  The tale grows arms and legs.  Woven around characters with so much interest, if not charm.

I'm heading off to 1794.  Can't wait.

What's the Greek for Enchanting?

 Maybe we should be asking Emily Wilson.  For she, it was, who inspired Laura Coffey in those dark days of lockdown.  And Laura in turn enchants us to extreme.

In her case the Author's First Book goes straight into my Reads of 2025, and if it's not still in the top three by the end of the year then I'm in for a fine old reading year.  As it stands Enchanted Islands is richly deserving of a place.  Such beautiful writing, such raw emotion.

 

Despite travel restrictions, and we all remember them, Laura managed to get to some hugely interesting places.  From Italy, to Sicily and islands off; ditto Menorca.  Alone, distanced.  Places to see; people to meet.

That inspiration from Emily Wilson allowed her to weave through her traveller's tales legends from 3,000 years before.  Emily you see, had translated Homer's Odyssey, and Laura assures us that she did so with a light and sympathetic hand.

Together Misses Coffey and Wilson takes us into distant coves, around isolated shores, and into the very waters.  We feel the pain of every medusa sting, immersed in Laura's enjoyment of cold water.  A swimmer, cyclist, wanderer, perhaps a dreamer.  And a daughter.

In the background there is pain.  Some we have experienced; some we hope we may never endure.  I'll give no spoilers here.

The references through the journeys, the day to day life, back to tales of Odysseus, are such that I immediately sought out a copy of Emily Wilson's translation.  Never having read The Odyssey, it's long overdue.  And poetry is very much on the agenda these days.

 

However.  But, even.  I find the publication, by Norton Critical Editions, to be very user unfriendly.  Wafer thin paper, and a tiny print font are not easy on the eye.  And when your eyes are old, the lids prone to gravity on late night reading sessions, I fear that I may not get beyond the Introduction any time soon.

The Odyssey could be left as reference work, on the shelf beside Wordsworth's Prelude.  Something to dip in and out of from time to time.  A volume to note interesting elements, perhaps even to deface with marginalia.  Ssh, don't tell.

And If I find an Odysseus shaped itch with an urge to scratch, then perhaps I'll go back to the wonderful Christopher Rush's Penelope's Web from a decade ago.

 

In their defence Norton's publication may be intended for scholars, young folk, with young eyes and insatiable desires.  Right now my eyeballs are being sucked into their sockets, topped by furrowed brows and the onset of a headache.  Such is the price of old age.  It didn't have to be that way Norton.  You didn't have to squeeze 500 pages into 13mm.  There's a limit as to how much I'll endure.

Whatever, that wont spoil the recollections of Laura Coffey's enchantment; or the magnetic pull of Christopher Rush, who has such a catalogue that I may even embark on them all.  If only I didn't keep finding new stuff to read.

That list of mine continues to be updated, and can still be found at https://laidbackmuse.wordpress.com/the-bookshelf/

 

Spot the Dinosaur

 No, not the old git on the bike; the other one:

Oh it's been a fine day to get the wheels turning, if a little chilly. Three degrees the weather app said, adding 'feels like 1'.  It wasn't wrong though it probably warmed up another one or two degrees by the time I returned.

Through the woods, the sun failing to rise above the ripe timber, it was certainly on the cool side.  However the point was to ease in those muscles brought out of hibernation yesterday.  Get some miles in the legs.  Even if they were slow ones.

And taking the camera along, meant an excuse to stop, though I left that until the final leg, over Cullen's viaducts.

I'd done some finger exercises earlier in the morning, involving keys and buttons and bellows.  Now there's a project for the Great Retiral Plans.  Trying to get different fingers on opposing hands to do things in harmony might be a challenge.  It might become a bit Rab Bruce's Spider.  Perseverance; at least whilst there's no one around to complain.

Anyway, best just to concentrate on the shutter finger, and the sunshine, for now

And with the sun still gracing the day I might just head out on foot, re-trace some of those steps.  Bow Fiddle Rock; Jenny's Well, then along the shore to the 9th Green.  But not as far as The Dinosaur.  Did you find him?

Back in the Saddle

 It's been a while, I knew that.  Perhaps a few months.  But the wheels needed to turn, and to do so the legs had to start working.  Muscle memory will kick in quickly, won't it?

Then I switched on, and saw the Odo reading.  I remembered that day.

That was the day when the reading clicked over to give me 45678 just as I turned in at the gate.  A number-cruncher's dream; rare material for a wordsmith.  I quite liked it too.  Serendipity in the unplanned timing.

19 September, that was when that snap was taken.  Close on five months without turning a wheel.  A long list of perfectly valid reasons - health, weather, work commitments.  Every excuse you can imagine.  Lethargy too, perhaps.

This was going to be painful.  The old legs turned to jelly at the very thought.  Extra dollop of Chamois Cream, for those delicate parts.

Unforgivingly cold, never rising above 4 degrees.  Fortunately the wind of the previous days had calmed, a little.  An uphill start, of course, just to warm up.  I had had my eye on a variation to my regular ride, with a mile or two through the forest before joining the cycle paths.  It's likely to become a regular, especially after the buzzard perched to watch the fun.

I joined the cycle path above Findochty, and thence on to Buckie.  A downhill stretch from the forest to join a short passage of what can be a busy road.  That was when I realised that five months out of use did nothing for the brakes.  And the brakes were doing little to slow me down as the junction approached.  Perhaps some brake fluid needed, if only I knew where it goes.

Remnants of station platforms the only reminder of what was once the Great North of Scotland Railway.  1886 it was that they opened the station in Portknockie.  And in 1968, on 4 May, the last train left the station.  Still I'm sure Beeching's Grand Plan was a network of cycle paths, and they do them so well in these parts.

Those paths allow those of us who wish to walk or cycle to do so free from the scourge of traffic.  And there's little in the way of gradient as we take to the clifftop above the coastal villages.  Buckie was my turnaround point for this one, keen to make sure I didn't overdo the outward, and had enough in the legs to return in one piece.

Back through the forests, where there's a bit of harvesting underway and buzzards might be concerned about next year's perches.  The Odo recorded pitiful mileage, and despite the return leg being into the wind I opted to carry on a little further eastwards.

On to the viaducts.  Views over Cullen Bay, from above the golf course as the surf surged in frothing white crescents.  A little downslope to ease the way into the breeze, all the time thinking I had to to return uphill.  The coloured rooftops of Seatown, then the harbour.  And the dinosaur.  Time to turn for home.

And so a gentle, but cold, ride.  The Odo shifts 15 miles or so.  The legs complain.  Dinosaur.  But it's a start, and Beeching's legacy is just grand in these parts.  It feels good to get those muscles working again.  Perhaps a repeat on the morrow.  Might even take the camera.  And a special word for Madison Lobster gloves - toasty hands, despite the chill and the icy breeze.  Hot lunch required.

In The Woods

All a bit experimental, obviously.

Testing to see how easy it may or may not be to get photographs from camera to blog page.

A random grey, from a recent walk at Baron's Haugh

But the Lossie reds are much more fun.

And a random puffin, as there should always be a puffin.

 With a bit of practise adding pictures should become more regular.  Despite the antics of the red squirrels, and I haven't included shots of the crested tits, there was one certain highlight from today's little wander.  Much like the tales of your fishermen friends, it's all about the one that got away.

Scurrying around in his winter coat, which he wears so much better than others who wrap themselves in ermine, was a black-tipped stoat.  Out to play after the camera had been stowed for the walk back.

We're anything but moribund, at Moray Bound.  Might even give the wheels a trundle soon.

Beginnings

Whilst not quite in The Twilight Years, I am now at the stage where the local barber insists on the concession rate applying.  I counter with confirmation that I am still working, and yet to receive my state pension (though I'll own to counting down the months).  Although I still pay full fare at the football, for home matches, I have no qualms of using the concession gate for away games.  I'll put money into my club, but limit my funding of others.

Life in general moves on, and we begin to gaze ahead.  Looking and longing to those days when work commitments come to an end; when days can be filled with other things, put off for too long.

As the title says we are on a journey, a move from Peelhill to Portknockie.  For now we are in the transition years.  By the time the physical move is complete we will have more than 30 years at Peelhill; and have begun however many we may have left, at Portknockie.  The journey has started, a foot in both camps so to speak.

For too long I have neglected my dabblings with the written word, and become unfamiliar with the processes in putting blog posts together.  Uploading photographs, editing into articles; writing book reviews, or perhaps recipes.  However, thanks largely to the patience and the promptings of the delicious Angela Locke, I am getting ready to write again, to explore the form of words, the sounds and the colours.

And that is very much part of the thinking as we gaze ahead.  From our base at Portknockie, I hope to do a bit of cycling - it's largely flat lands along the coast, rather than the hills of Avondale.  As I trundle around I may have a camera with me, a notebook too.  I hope to slowly swap the sights and sounds of Peelhill, for those on the Moray Coast.  Farmland to cliffs and beaches; Loudoun Hill to Bow Fiddle Rock.

I may return to periodic book reviews, perhaps even attempt some poetic forms as I keep an eye on life around me.  I'll swap buzzards and jackdaws for ospreys and gannets; and sheep for dolphins.  And if I can find the right words, perhaps a picture or two, I'll try to show how it goes.

Join me, for whatever lies ahead, as we gradually move From Peelhill to Portknockie.  Treasured memories may crop up, and new discoveries are waiting to be made.  Between times there will be much reading, of course.  And much pain, for the accumulated library will not all be able to come with us.  Book-selling, painful though it is; some charities may benefit.  Reading by e-reader, as I change to collecting the right to read rather than sourcing that precious first edition.

That said my reading habits have changed in recent years.  Of course I still read travel, and nature, but crime is a much expanded genre, on the shelves and on screen.  Most of that crime comes with a travel element, following as it does my viewing habits.  Watching with sub-titles, has become reading in translation.  From Icelandic, or Scandinavian, heavily Nordic biased.  They do crime so well.  So too though, does Allan Martin, with his DI Angus Blue from his base in Oban to islands and beyond.  Scotland will always feature heavily.

In travel, on nature, and in crime.  But not in politics, which has become too depressing, so it is banned from these pages.  Unless something exciting happens.

Onwards, and into future.  As we learn to live with, and enjoy, streetlights, and neighbours.  It's been a while.  Let's see how it goes shall we.