BCK 33

 

A solitary whaup rises, disturbed as she pecked

at blibbans of green gaw, exposed after the

ebbing of the tide. A trio of eider paddle by.

She sat as a bright star among ten. Dressed

in the colours of the local XI. Black

as tar at the waterline.

Her green clinkered hull sandwiched between

white strips, shimmering in the ripples.

White wheelhouse standing proud, in the watery glass.

A look back from the clifftop, and through the glasses

her name is revealed. Pisces.

And the eiders paddled away, in search of their own.

 

 

On Crisp Mornings

 We begin to notice that spring is slowly emerging.  The maple hedge is filled with birdsong.  The robin trills away early, drawing me away from slumber in that half-waking period before one cat wants out, the other fed.

These are days when the early frosts dissipate as the sun rises, when the bike calls from the shed.  Fresh from going through the gears on The Grasshopper, it's the turn of the Big Black Beast.  This is a different type of trundling round very different lanes.

No gears, an automated box; no chain to care for, a drive belt doing the hard work.  An upright position, hands above the hips, sitting tall.  Seeing over the hedges.  Familiar roads, after near thirty years, and I realise that I start to view them with a slightly different slant.

Not yet saying farewells, just noticing all the things taken for granted.  In a new light; filing away into future memories.

The field in front of Robert's farmhouse is grazed by several hundred pink-footed geese.  Not long ago we remarked that there were a handful.  Now there are skeins in the skies, gaggles on the ground, and a new stopping point on the migratory route has been established.

I see online that the osprey has landed, NC0 at Loch of the Lowes; puffins have made it to the Forth, ready for landfall on the Isle of May.  Spring is most certainly in the air.  My next trip to Spey Bay will be one where I scan the skies as well as the waters.

Meanwhile The Beast heads out on the back roads of Avondale.  Into town for a new prescription, a pretty crucial one, and one not free from anxiety.  We take the long road, the high road.

Past the wee primary school, packed with unforgettable memories, and hitting the headlines of late with a quite brilliant performance review.  Not sure whether the roll remains below 30, though there was a bumper intake looming, last year, perhaps this one.

We climb, painfully.  Past the alpacas, whiz downhill past the monument, where the covenanters fought.  And won.  And climb again.  And again.  The edge of the windfarm, into the wind. 

Mature timber, awaiting the logging machines and those lorries that hammer along the roads with trailers of cut pine.  Scaring cyclists.  Beside the burn, where the heron watches, and waits.  Herdwicks, a rare sight in these parts, thriving on rough ground and heather.

The long drag into town, the little airfield's windsock pointing towards me.  Past the milk farm and the duck pond.  No longer can I fill my bottles with fresh, award-winning, Jersey milk.  Lactose, one of the concerns with those new tablets I am about to collect from the chemist.  The town is quiet, I have managed to avoid school lunch hour.  There is little traffic to be wary of a rogue cyclist.

Homeward, to complete a roundabout route knocking on for 25 miles.  Climbing again.  And again, and again.  I stop, pull over, to give a tractor and massive trailer more room. My mind drifts wistfully northwards, to traffic free cycling sans climbing.  Coastal views.

For now though, over the hedges, from the elevated position I don't get on The Grasshopper, I rejoice as the first of the lambs discovers grass and freedom, scurrying back to the teat when strange creatures happen by. The fields are alive.

And so am I, as take that final painful climb, through the bends to Peelhill.  Making memories to take with me.  Eventually.

 

The Slow Road

 Out of hibernation it came, tired, a bit dishevelled, and in need of some TLC.  Thanks, as always, to the assistance of Ben at Kinetics in Glasgow, and then a bit of cleaning and oiling, the Old Grasshopper turned a tentative wheel.  It's true what they say about riding bikes.  I didn't fall off.  And once I'd been through the gears a few times, it all came back to me.  Slowly.

It must be about four years since these wheels last turned, usurped by that big electric beast that gets me up the hills and into the winds of Avondale.  However, with a need to trundle the fairly level roads and traffic-free cycle paths on the Moray Coast, a plan emerged.  The Grasshopper could find a new home, and the legs could find old muscles.

Eventually, we set off, a bit shaky to begin and an uphill start.  By the time we entered Bauds Woods it was beginning to come back.  Slowly.  Lie back and think of, eh Scotland.  The scent of the pine woods; three white-docked deer bouncing between the trees, a wee fleg at the strange creature rolling by, with a wee flag.

And on we went, it became fun again.  On the flat.  Ever so slight gradients, just enough for a wee twist on the gears, and a little ache in those muscles that don't come into play on a regular bike.

And before we know it the cycle path comes into view, above the golf club at Strathlene, between Findochty and Buckie.  Further than planned, must have been good.  How far is the return?  The return was great too, safely home, and The Grasshopper purrs as the de-greaser eases through the chain and she gets tucked up in the shed.

I think she liked it; I think she'll enjoy the new paths, new views.  As everyone stops and stares.  Wheels turning, again.  Slowly.

Windswept and Interesting

Typical 17th century mantling.  That's what catches the eye as I rest in a 21st century folly.  

 

Castle Hill rises above Cullen's viaducts, where the cycle path today echoes to the grunts of the fireman and the steam whistle  as the engines of yesterday pulled up the slope towards Porknockie.

 I take some shelter in the circular folly, buffeted by the wind.  That same wind had whipped the surf on my walk round from Bow Fiddle Rock.  Although I had allowed an hour or so for the tide to ebb, it had been a very high tide peaking shortly after lunch.  As I headed for the cliffs I had passed fresh spring budding on the rosa rugosa.  Leaves to unfurl as the days stretch, temperature nudging upwards

After passing Jenny's Well I'd had to resort to a little rock scrambling to reach the golf course with dry feet; dry knees even on that particular day.  It was either that or wait; and wait.

With the surf breaking yet at the top of the beach my walk had to continue through the golf course.  Golfers were hugely outnumbered by lapwings.  

 

With only two pairs on the back nine I was in little danger from a misplaced hook.  My approach to the 11th highlighted the variables this links course offers.  

 

The vast crescent beach marked Out of Bounds, though for a course built on sand few bunkers dotted the fairways.

 Instead we have sandstone stacks; mirroring The Three Kings on the beach.  Some holes have tees and greens on vastly different levels, cliff faces to play up, or down, or round.  A certain level of fitness is required.  For golfers the course is a bit special.  Designed by the legend that was Old Tom Morris, it is one of only 260 True Links courses in the world (amongst 38,000 courses), and shortest of them all.  Scotland plays host to 90 of those True Links.

I wandered past the beach sauna, promenading past Seatown with its coloured roofs, to the harbour.  Up the hill to the Mercat Cross.

 

From there it was a short walk to join the cycle path on the middle of the three viaducts, reminders of the Earl who refused to permit the new trains to run through his policies. 

 

 Fine landmarks they are today.  And a huge asset both to the town itself and as a walking and cycle route along the coast.  We should all be grateful today to that Earl.

The Castle Hill Project began in 2016.  Removal of the whins and the gorse which had spread widely over the remnants of what had once been a royal castle was the first task.  Between the 12th and 14th century earthwork castles were built, Cullen's having been one of ringworks crowning a low knoll.  With the foliage cut back accessible paths were made, which today allow us to reach the folly and its flagpole.  Built into the folly are those weathered carvings, the mantling.  Shield with Boar, Ogilvie Arms, rich in heraldic symbolism.  Crowned lion passant guardant, cross engrailed, demi-lion.  The mind turns to lives lived in days of yore.

I looked down over Seatown, and the harbour; out to Bow Fiddle Rock, and the houses of Portknockie.  I would return over the viaducts, on that cycle path.  Walk home.  And the skylarks would sing as I walked.  Welcoming me.  And a life to be lived in days ahead.