End of July so it must be time for air and agricultural shows and lo and behold there they were.

The East Fortune Air Show and the Border Union Agricultural Show clashed on the Saturday – so it was a choice of the Red Arrows or the Lurcher and Pigeon race. Kim chose the former, I chose the latter – but who was going to spend the least money?

Kim armed with a disabled friend and some stand passes got into the East Fortune Air Show totally free and enjoyed the air display (albeit not being able to hear the commentary as the penalty of having a stand pass was to stand on a stand nowhere near the PA speakers. It also rained.

Mike faced an immediate problem – a 10 pound per person entry fee and an unshaven Stuart and tall Steph no longer looking like 3 pound entry fee children. This was solved by clambering through the woods at the back of the showground and jumping over the mud to make our way through the horseboxes and gain entry free of charge. We did have to pay a 2 pound parking fee though – so Kim was winning on the cheap show day (although technically she only saved 20 odd quid on a ticket and parking whereas we saved 30 quid on tickets and only paid 2 pounds on parking so I might be winning after all).

We won on the entertainment though with a racing pigeon and a lurcher – a cross between a greyhound, outlawed by King Canute under penalty of death (the tide thing must have really pissed him off to do that), and other things including a bearded collie. The race across the car circled main ring at Springwood Park took under 10 seconds and saw the lurcher grab the fake hare well before the low flying pigeon battled to its yellow van in a headwind.

Otherwise the parade of the ancient farming equipment, live stock and fluffystock (cuddly pigs, sheep and cows to win if you throw the oversized ball into the tiny mouth of the milk churn) didn’t float my boat. No real ale in the beer tent and an absence of anything remotely exciting to eat finally led me to the overcrowded labyrinth that was the Food Fayre, where everything was more buy than try and there was the disturbing image of Gary’s Chocolate Orgy surrounded by children. Still it was nice seeing folk that I still can’t recognise and the Hook a Pikachu girl was more attractive than the Pikachus. Stu and Steph decided to test out Centripetal force on the fairground ride as I tried in vain to find something interesting.

I ended up on a pub crawl in Yetholm (there are two pubs, one per village but it did require a walk between them) with friends who had come hill walking and we watched the aircraft flying over from Sunderland Air Show en route to the East Fortune one. One of hte chap’s works on the weapons radar systems for the Eurofighter which we all agreed was a splendid plane.

We went to the Sunderland Show the next day which had the attraction of being seen from a beach and cliffs and was free. The show was two days but it couldn’t compete with the lurcher and pigeon on the first day so we gave it our full attention on the second. Lunched at Marsden Grotto, although the cliff walk was closed so we were stuffed into the tiny and slow moving lift with a bunch of Koreans who were possibly trying to decipher my ‘I am looking for a Japanese girlfriend’ T shirt Japanese symbols. We parked at Whitburn rifle range and enjoyed a Chocolate Covered Marshmallow and Fudge kebab (less of a Chocolate Orgy and more of a quick grope) which was the difference between the far away parking space and the closer one.

HMS Albion sat in the sea with its landing craft zooming around and lots of boats around – this was looking less like an air show and more of a boat one. But then an F16 screamed from out of Sunderland harbour and the game was afoot. Catalana Seaplane flew down the beach followed by a constant set of aircraft and helicopters culminating in the Red Arrows who performed with a glorious rainbow over the sea. The tannoy announced that the Blade Babes, dressed in hot pants and little else were available for volleyball matches – apparently they weren’t at the more refined East Fortune Air Show the day before. The Eurofighter put on an impressive performance and I was sure that I wouldn’t stand much of a chance dog fighting with it in my microlight.

With Sunderland folk in bikini’s and swimming in the sea as the planes roared overhead – it was quite a surreal experience and one definitely worth repeating. The rain poured down at one point and most of the beach emptied into our bus shelter – if only there had been a Guinness Book of Records chap there.

Kim decided to put on her own air show and is acting as navigator and radio operator on a flight down south (Scilly Isles would be an appropriate destination). So I had to do the single man shopping at night amongst all the other singles with meals for one and small orange juices, and on waking to the radio this morning hit the unsnooze button to keep me awake to get some dick telling me to fall asleep again with relaxing music to help – it was Kim’s Paul McKenna relaxation CD (must remember to take that out otherwise early morning flights are going to be missed). I woke again at 10 to nine.

The round Britain team did well – they got fantastic weather and were in Bodmin airfield camping for the night on the first day, along the south coast to the Isle of Wight and up to Wales over thousands of scouts at Stonehenge to Caernarvon Airfield the next night, returning byt he next evening after flying up Crosby Beach and over the statues (not recommended for emergency landings). She returned after 1,300 miles with 6 photos, one being a cat (not the Beast of Bodmin). Fortunately they did not visit Surrey where a foot and mouth outbreak is now causing panic across Britain – otherwise landing in a field of drooling cattle then visiting fields all over the country could have caused a puzzling spead of the disease.

With Harry Potter’s last book safely delivered and nursing a hangover from a night with Ian and Jenny, it was time to head north and west to see Ali’s chum Ben and his dad’s band ‘Deep Blue’ at the Clachaig Inn, Glencoe. Avoiding the disaster that is the Forth Road bridge at weekends, we routed Dalkeith (admiring the Harrow Inn exterior of sandstone, cream and green), via Stirling, lunching at Tyndrum at the fabby Good Food Place for haddock and beer. We also spotted a hotel at Tyndrum in identical colours to the Harrow Inn at Dalkeith (perhaps they shared the same decorator/architect).

Through Rannoch Moor to the Rannoch Rowan, a heritage tree and alone by the side of the road, further on there was evidence of mass deforestation with a van full of folk picking up dead wood. Glencoe has a viewpoint now, last time we visited it was under construction and causing large delays – now you can park and stop to see the three rivers and the waterfall pool amid the busloads of german tourists. Glencoe village has a folk museum with a busty attendant in a low cut dress – Kim saw lots of the exhibits and I seemed to have missed lots but now have her chest burned on my retina. Those I saw included pictures of Hagrid’s Hut, as the Harry Potter movies were filmed around Glencoe, a Kidnapped and Massacre setting with mannequins in olde dress rivalled with the fertility goddess (no not the attendant) and the tales of slate mining where Ballachulish roofed the world.

Booked into the Scorrybreac Guest House where we had the last room (a twin with an ensuite bathroom which was outside the bedroom and down the hall), but it came with a friendly and helpful chap who gave us advice on eating and walking to the pub. Read more of Harry Potter (more deaths…) then we wandered for 45 minutes down to the Clachaig for dinner and lots of real ale. We were tabled in between table 10 and table 12 together with another table, so in Harry Potter mode it was possibly Table 11 and 3/4. It certainly confused the waitresses. Meal over a quick dander to work up an appetite for pints we saw the Hard Rock Challenge 2007 (since last time were at the Clachaig it was a gay stag party I had to take a second look at the name).

It was standing room only in the Boots Bar with Deep Blue tuning up (being a lover of contemporary music I tend to prefer that bit to the actual performance). So it was huddling round a barrel with regular trips to the toilet and bar, ogling the glaswegian slappers in mini-kilts, and amazed at how many dogs there were in the bar (hidden under chairs everywhere and on knees). Deep Blue did another tremendous performance – warming up the bar and dragging a, probably planted, woman up who turned out to be a wonderful singer. In any case the audience loved it, with Ben on lead guitar bashing out Gun’s and Roses and older favourites. We then had to stagger back after working my way through the entire wide range of real ales and back again, in pitch dark with a head torch. I spent the night doing bladder emptying trips to the ensuite bathroom (down the corridor if you recall) naked.

Breakfast time in Guest houses is always a case of working out who is gay and who is having an affair over the creamy porridge. I didn’t finish my porridge and the cheery chap was not taking it away – you’re not getting your main course till you finish your porridge sort of stance. With yet another hangover the plan was to head south via the picturesque road to Oban. Kim had a friend on the Isle of Seil (or Seil Island depending on who you talk to) so we decided to take the road optimistically labelled ‘Bridge over the Atlantic’ after Knipoch – all road signs are now being dual signed in Gaelic for no good reason and this causes road delays and also a diversion of funding from the awful pot holed highland roads to brand new road signs.

The Bridge, designed by Thomas Telford, is a high arched bridge to let larger boats through the narrow tidal channel (hence the Atlantic) filled with coach parties queueing up for the tiny village gift shop.
Over the bridge is the white ‘Tigh an Truish’ Inn or House of the Trousers named when the kilt was forbidden during the Jacobite rebellion (kilted soldiers changed into trews before hitting the bright lights of the mainland and before returning home changed back into their kilts).

Met a couple at a viewpoint who had met a photographer who eschewed the landscape for close ups of the water where he was going to spend all day until the lighting and water was perfect. Me, I just snapped and headed straight to the Oyster Bar where the taster tray awaited. Corryvreckan and Old Tosser disappeared too quickly followed by some others with oysters and a crab pasty. Kim enquired about her friend Janet, and we were then greeted by Ali’s school guidance teacher who recognised her voice. We were also told where her friend was (at the Willowburn Hotel on the way off the island).

Ellenabeich is also home to the somewhat incredible Highland Arts Exhibition – the brainchild of C J Taylor (poet, artist, entrepreneur) with an exhibition of his art and listings of his poems which read like McGonaggall on Mescaline. His paintings look drug induced too – which is not necessarily a bad thing. The serendipitous feel of browsing around a shop that has a model of a stegosaurus above a gently fairy on a rock next to a jewellery holder wearing suspenders – is often too much for the mind to grasp, and this is conjoined by staff wandering around offering free coffee, tablet, shortbread and everything to actually make ‘Welcome Host’ seem a real term. Browsing through the purple sheepskins and the badger fountain it was just too difficult to resist buying something – so I ended up with a book of poetry and shortbread to munch if we got stranded on the Bridge over the Atlantic by grounding the TT. In fact I would be tempted to say that a visit to Seil would be a worthwhile diversion JUST to see this place – unlike the John O’Groats Shop O’Tack which is just awful – this has a ’so bizarre, it is so good’ feel to it – and the friendliness doesn’t go amiss either and the scottish music and tartan carpets, tartan curtains, tartan products and tartan trews lends a Lynchian feel to the whole thing. It even has a stuffed seal with a friendly welcoming smile and a free car park with friendly ‘Please do not park here coaches, park here thank you’ signs.

We finally popped into Kim’s friend and she wasn’t there, but her parents were who we meet last at Kim’s father’s funeral. So back over the Atlantic and southward to the stone circle mecca of Kilmartin. Stone circling has really been taken seriously finally by the tourist industry and there are signs, car parks and a museum (funded apparently by a chap who bared all on a moist evening and was paid per midge bite).
Templewood and the Great X are magnificent and the whole area has a stench of magic in the air – very peaceful and flat (being a valley) with ancient trees. Further south more stones and the old Scot capital of Dunadd, surrounded by The Great Moss, which necessitated a clamber up to the top of the only hill in the valley and a squint at the carving of a boar on a rock. The views are spectacular over the flat flat plains with mountains in the distance. Our feet were getting fairly tired by now and we popped back into the car for a slow and windy drive up Loch Awe, tried to get accommodation at the Kings House Hotel near Rob Roy’s grave but there was no room at the inn so we headed to The wonderful Lade Inn at Kilmahog for more microbrewery ale and wonderful food. Then the long road home whilst I read Harry Potter by maplight and Kim avoided Muggles and spotted even more hotels in the Harrow Inn colour scheme.

Back to Max the big friendly golden retriever we are dog sitting for a week, with his dog plushies including teddy bear, with chewed ear (back from Bear Hospital) after a contra taunt with Max’s jaw, and banana with a face. Cara has turned extra friendly as jealousy creeps in and Professor Moriarty, our black cat, has left home.

And back to the wonderfully sleazy tale from Coldstream of the 60 something guy who was telling a Portugeuse woman that he was from the Secret Police and sending her emails translated using babelfish telling her that she had to do everything that he said or her family would suffer, and if she left Scotland her train or plane would be under terrorist attack. This escalated into meetings in a Secret Place (Oxenrigg where the hens run free) where she had to perform sexual acts upon him. Only in the Scottish Borders.

And back to the rain and the complete TV series of ‘The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe’ from my childhood with the timeless and wonderful music (English edition only the French one was dreary), great film production, inept pirates, humorous racial stereotyping with a capital R and as far as I can tell sticks fairly close to Defoe’s book, based on the tale of Alexander Selkirk from Largo in Fife. Selkirk liked dancing with cats and goats and was thrown off his ship for being ghastly, rather than the more romantic ship sinking scenario. The Island is off the coast of Chile and is named after the fictional character rather than the chap who actually got stranded there.

And back to find that our cleaning lady Alison had a near death experience. Her neighbour’s house caught fire and no-one was sure if anyone was in, in particular the youngest boy, so Alison in the heat of the moment strode up to the back door (with smoke gushing out everywhere), felt the handle was roasting so used a towel off the washing line to wrap it and tried to open the door. Fortunately it was jammed. The intense 1000 degrees heat inside (no visible flames as there would be little or no oxygen inside now) cracked a double glazed window and Alison stepped back and decided against rescue. If she had opened the door it would have exploded, the fireman explained that she would have been badly burned and blown over the fence from the explosion. The little boy turned out to be out playing after all and no-one was hurt, although the family are now homeless with no accommodation in Kelso (filled by our errant son).

From Fire to Water and the film Evan Almighty, about building an ark, releases in Britain coinciding with most of England being several feet deep in water, flooded power stations in danger of closing down and a clean water crisis with England reflecting scenes of third world aid in the flood waters. Smugly typing this from the top of a 600 foot hill the unseen effect is going to be in inflated insurance premiums after a 3 billion pound payout. Ten percent of new homes built on flood plains in the last 3 years with home owners losing their gamble.

Twas doon by the inch o’ Abbots
Oor Johnny walked one day
When he saw a sicht that troubled him
Far more that he could say
A fanatic muslim b@stard
Wiz doin what he’d planned
And intae Glesca’s departure hall
A Cherokee he’d rammed.
A big Glaswegian polis
Came forward tae assist
He thocht a wumman driver?
Or at least someone half-pissed
But to his shock nae drunken Jock
Emerged to grasp his hand
But a flamin Arab loony
Frae Al Qaeda’s band

The mad Islamist nut-case
Had set hissel on fire
And swung oot at the polis
GBH his clear desire
Now that’s no richt wur Johnny cried
And sallied tae the fray
A left hook and a heid butt
Required tae save the day.

Now listen up Bin Laden
Yir sort’s nae wanted here
For imported English radicals
Us Scoatsman huv nae fear
Oor hame grown Glesca Asians
Will have nae bluidy truck
So tak yer worldwide jihad
An get yersel tae F***

–

Some nice Muslim boys were planning a big picnic for their chums on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, went down to the hardware store and packed their 4×4 with enough propane and fuel and humous for their journey up the east coast of the Loch to watch the West Highland Way ramblers struggle in the rain. Their new sat nav was installed as they weren’t too sure where they were heading in this wilderness and off they set from Glasgow Green. Mohammad at the wheel was a wee bit nervous, he had only just passed his test and had borrowed daddy’s car but he was really intimated as the posh English voice barked at him from the wee machine on the dashboard. Right, left, merge at next exit – he was all in a whirl. It didn’t look very loch like but Achmed, his buddy, was busy trying to place where they were on his AA map book and was on the Birkenhead page and knew that that was wrong. The first thing Achmed knew was when the AA book, on the Lake district page now, flew forward when they crashed through the doors of Glasgow Airport with the lady barking reverse, then forward, reverse, then forward like some demented harpie and Mohammad obeying her to the letter. The AA book dissolved into flames, along with the box of houmous and as the boys were trying to get out they found themselves being attacked by a policeman, wrestled to the ground and nutted by some chap in a high visibility vest who didn’t appear to speak English at all. The lady was shouting now ‘ALA ALA ALA ALA’ as her speaker warped in the heat. Mohammad awoke in hospital, sore all over and was being spoonfed what he thought was dry porridge. The nurse explained it was haggis and neeps. After the 4th day of being spoon fed he asked if he could have some weetabix but was refused so he asked the matron why he could only get haggis and neeps. She said he had to have that because it was the Burns ward.

–
O John of Smeaton
When will we see your like again
That fought and panned in
two al qaeda men
And stood against him
Osama’s army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

The airport’s bare now
And cherokee’s lie burnt and still
O’er land that is saved now
Which brave sir smeato held
And stood against him
Osama’s army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

Those days are passed now
And in the past they must remain
But we can still rise now
And be the nation again
That stood against him
Osama’s army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

–

Welcome To Glasgow; We kick the F*** oot o terrorists — maryhill graffiti

John Smeaton (Baggage Handler) Quotes

“What’s the score? I’ve got to get this sorted -
He was throwing punches like a prize fighter. So I ran to help the police and I took a flying kick at him – this is Glasgow, we’ll set about you.”

“The man then egressed the vehicle”

“You’re nae hitting the Polis mate, there’s nae chance.”

“Glasgow doesn’t accept this. That’s just Glasgow; we’ll set about ye.”

“If any more extremists are still wanting to rise up and start trouble, know this: We’ll rise right back up against you. New York, Madrid, London, Paisley – we’re all in this together and make no mistake, none of us will hold back from putting the boot in.”

“Nobody gets between 10,000 Weegies and a £99 week in Ibiza booked on Thursday night through Barrhead Travel”

“I was havin’ a fag, I heard a commotion…”

There isn’t a route 66 through Scotland but there is an interesting set of road trails which combined with the TT’s back seat filled with the Heritage Trees of Scotland book, Julian Cope’s stone circle book, the Good Beer Guide, Best of Scotland and two OS maps (North and South Scotland) with a mysterious gap between them – Kim and I set off after gutbusting on the Saturday morning with a rough itinerary and an intention of getting back home Monday night.

First stop was Cairnpapple, north of Bathgate, where a lady originally from Hawick sold us tickets and some chocolate fudge and left us to wander around the 5,000 year old stones and tomb and enjoy the fabulous views of the entire Pentland range, over to Arran, up to Ben Lawers and across the Forth to the Isle of May, Fife and East Lothian. Kim, newly started on her SSRI anti depressants, was listening to a radio article on how hard it is to get off anti-depressants, although at least she was telling jokes so they seem to be working.

Through Linlithgow (fictional birthplace of Scottie in Star Trek) where the ‘Black Bitch’ pub is (albeit named after a dog which is the town’s coat of arms, a greyfriars bobby type of tale, and not the landlady). Onward to the unmissable Pineapple building with huge lawns filled with running dogs and shouting owners, and over the Kincardine Bridge (new railway bridge being constructed alongside the road bridge with a worrying gap in the middle) to Clackmannan, named after a stone, the Clack, worshipped as the Celtic sea god Manann – mounted on a pillar is looks like a giant phallus. I had never thought I would be a tourist in Clackmannan photographing a giant phallus representing a sea god when we were lots of miles inland. It hadn’t started to rain yet so it looked like we had no excuse but to walk up Dollar Glen and see the waterfalls and the Castle Campbell (which I kept calling Glen Campbell) known as Castle Gloom with the burns of Care and Sorrow around it – Kim cruelly suggested this would be a great place for her unmedicated depressive sister’s wedding as we watched limousines filled with strapless dressed wedding guests waiting to whirl under the green men. Dollar is from Dolor meaning Grief so perhaps her sister should move there after all.

Racing to Aberfoyle for ice cream and a dander up Doun Hill where the Fairy Tree grows festooned with wishes, coins pressed into the bark and statues of fairies around the base. There are lots of other trees around the summit of the wee hill similarly decked out. With something, or someone, buzzing around my head we ran back to the car, before we were forced to take the ‘Thomas The Rhymer’ side trip to Fairyland for a few years, getting back just as the rain pelted down – it stopped two days later. Over the Dukes Pass with the views obscured by low cloud and to Loch Katrine with drenched tourists waiting for the Sir Walter Scott steamer. Brig of Turk has the Bicycle Tree, where the legend has it that a chap leaned his bike against the tree, went off to war and was killed and the tree and bike become one. The local tale is that the local blacksmith used it as a dump and the tree grew around the metal refuse. In any case it is an interesting sight, and a bugger to find a single tree in a wood when you have NO directions but are trying to work it out from an old photograph.

Up to the Falls of Dochart at Killin and over the steep and winding Ben Lawers road to the lovely, long and legendary Glen Lyon. Down the Glen is the most picturesque village in Scotland, Fortingall, where the church hosts the oldest living thing in Europe (or the world depending on who you read) – the Fortingall Yew (sadly depleted by tourists carving large chunks off its trunk for drinking vessels). We were too late for the Crannog Centre but we passed through Aberfeldy to see the Obelisk bridge and Black Watch status (with an electrical cable going up the highlander’s kilt for some reason). Pushing the itinerary to the limit at 7:30pm we got to the Meikleour Beech Hedge – the highest in the world and most magnificent. There was no room or dinner table with local beer at the Meikleour Inn, due to the Game Fair – so we headed north but found the Braemar road closed due to a fatal motorcycle accident so stopped off for the night at The Bridge of Cally – along with 26 Rolls Royce and Bentley owners and a gun dog trainer.

The Rolls Royce owners were all well turned out for breakfast, gentle souls who were too afraid to ask when the milk, grapefruit and orange juice ran out, but suggested shooting the terrorists (or possibly all Muslims it was difficult to tell) who rammed Glasgow Airport with a 4×4 filled with propane. There were also a pair who could be your atypical lottery winner dressed in T-shirt but the only one lovingly wiping the torrential rain off his car.

Northwards to a snow free Glenshee Ski Centre and thus to Royal Deeside, an ancient forest and traditional place fit for the Royals. Licking our Braemar icecreams we wandered around the tourist packed centre, passed Balmoral, with No Stopping signs which Kim suggested because Charles was a poor shot, since Lizzie wasn’t in residence we decided to pass the opportunity of tea with the queen and headed to Ballater – a town where every store seems to be By Royal Appointment, some to the Queen Mother who must be accumulating bread in her tomb. An ancient bus in the Bluebird garage had Tarland on its destination sign – and curiously enough that was where we were heading to see the recumbent stone circle at Tomnaverie (with passing places on the pedestrian walkway) and the Twin Trees of Finzean – two separate fir trees joined by a single branch growing between them.
Driving back we passed through unlikley named town of Kincardine O’Neil

We wanted to drive along the Cockbridge to Tomintoul road, which appears regularly on Radio Scotland traffic report as closed, and we could see why – steep ascents and descents and a high exposed mountain road with the Lecht Ski centre in the centre. We came across the village of Lost and at Bellabeg there was an moated motte – the Doune of Invernochty which was used as a radio bunker in the war – it was wet, steep and boggy and there was a ‘danger chemical spraying in progress’ sign but we marched on and got soaked. There was an avenue of lime trees planted in remembrance of 42 radio operators who died in the war, and a memorial sundial.

Duffton to Keith railway is a private concern but we couldn’t find any information on it (it was missing off the tourist boards and there was just an answering machine) – so we drove up to Fochabers and the ghastly Baxter food village to queue for some tinned Baxter’s Haggis broth.
That refuelled us to face the Moray coast and starting at Spey Bay we traversed each of the fishing towns all with welcoming marketing tags such as ‘Aye Afloat’, ‘Home of Cullen Skink’ and the baffling ‘Welcome Knockers’ at Portknockie. Buckie, formerly Buckpool, filled in its harbour to make a play park and we walked the Speyside way by passing through the Start marker and turning round and passing through the Stop marker (on the rear of the Start one), I needed a beer after that. Portsoy had a festival on with old boats in the harbour, folk singers and a drunken woman rolling on the street in a large puddle being laughed at by her friends. We walked along the cliffs to see the open air sea pool and the Serpentine rocks.

Gardenstown and Crovie cling to cliffs with a steep winding road down to the harbour and Pennan is where the film Local Hero was filmed, albeit not in the welcoming inn where the landlady was coping with calls after her assistant put an advert in the paper saying – ‘Own car? Good stamina? call Linda’. The phone box was also not the one in the village, and the beach scenes were filmed in Arisaig – but in any case it is a picturesque village and harbour.

Fraserburgh, which should be twinned with ‘Belfast during the troubles’, was a bit depressing so we headed southwards to Peterhead (a bus passed with a direction indicator of HM Prison), through Aberdeen to Marycoulter, near the unrelated Petercoulter) and the Old Mill Inn, which was friendly, comfortable and the food was good. After some real ale and a bottle of claret I was ready to ignore Kim’s snoring and watch the dreadful Concert for Diana, where the princes were doing a good job of making Gordon Brown sound eloquent. Sort of Dead Aid, except there didn’t seem to be an obvious charitable recipient. Pretty soon I joined Kim in a symphony of snoring on our creaking and squeaking bed.

The plan was to swim at Stonehaven’s open air heated pool, but they covered up the ‘we open at 10am’ with a ‘we open at 1pm’ sign. We spotted a sign to the Highland Boundary Fault which we were wandering around as I took pictures of empty clothes poles in the mist, when I was accosted by a lady with a large boxer dog who seemed to think I was a paedophile photographing her caravan site. When she could see that I was more interested in her breasts she seemed to be a bit more friendlier and showed us where you could see the boundary fault if it wasn’t completely fog bound. The original plan after swimming was to visit my mother. however with the pool closed we called her and she was out. I remembered she gets her hair done on Monday so got my son to call up all the hairdressers in Arbroath to see if Muriel was there. The first one said it was impossible as it turned out to be a gentleman’s barber but after he skipped all the ones who close on a Monday – he finally got her.

We visited the sculptured stones at Aberlemno – pictish stones covered in carvings of people, angels and symbols. Fabulous and difficult to find on the OS map we have as the stones are marked on the wrong road just before the mysterious missing part of Scotland between the two maps. Once we got the church though it was easy detective work to find the others.

Lunched at the Old Brewhouse with Arbroath Smokies, with a cannonball that was apparently fired through the wall by a French pirate and some chap capitalising on its value grabbed it with his shirt, burning his shirt, hands and on dropping it broke his foot. Following the tradition of injuries a window pelmet swung down narrowly missing another diners head. Arbroath harbour is now a marina, none of that pesky fishing stuff in the inner harbour, with a seafood restaurant and startling shopping mall which will look great as an architectural model and less great after the seagulls have deposited all over it. A quick walk up the cliffs to read the Danger signs then it was off on the inlaws trail to see Kim’s mother crossing the Tay Bridge (which is tolled as it is free to get into Dundee but you have to pay to get out).

Balmerino Abbey is a splendid ruin but more splendid is the Spanish Sweet Chestnut Tree – a huge sprawling mass of tree with branches held up with metal scaffolding and its innards filled with concrete. Walked down to the silvery Tay before setting off homebound and tired and splashing through flooded roads through Fife and the Borders – the rain stopped when we got to Kelso.

So what have I learned over the long and tiring weekend -

Glasgow Terminal has very strong doors;
Tully means hill and there are lots of places starting with Tully or Pit which means village or Pictish place;
You can intimidate Rolls Royce owners easily, especially if you are carrying a copy of the Koran;
Don’t get blind drunk in Portsoy with friends like that;
Never write any book exposing the truth about faeries unless you want to disappear;
Space Kitchens continually cold call in breach of TPS and even call phone boxes (I am looking forward to the designer visiting our local red telephone box to measure it up).