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.

 

 

 

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/