An idea

Last night when I was trying to go to sleep I was hit by the most brilliant idea. You see how there’s an IMDB (International Movie Database), well couldn’t there also be an International Music Database? Listing all the songs ever, and getting people to rate them.

Thing is, i’m not really that much of a music fan, in fact the ‘my music’ folder on my laptop is empty and I haven’t put headphones on since I lost my Ipod in Prague 3 years ago, so I reckon someone else should take on my great idea. They could pay me loyalties.

They might want to change the name though, two IMDBs might get a little confusing.

Scottish road trip 2011.

A fiat panda, 2 boys, me, some midges and 2 disposable cameras.

Day 1. Edinburgh to Altandhu.

We started off in a giant Tesco, discussing the relative merits of jarred cornichons, a swede and a digital camera. I settled for a disposable but the cornichons and swede were bought and stayed with us the whole trip.

Time before a dip before dinner.

Day 2. Altandhu to Balnakeil.

We took the tourist route north along the west coast. Stopping whenever we fancied a smoke, piss or wander.

Clachtoll, a crofting township. Nice little museum here as well as beautiful beaches.

The Laxford bridge.

Trooping along Balnakeil beach in search of the perfect camping spot.

After a dinner of fresh limpets washed down with lashings of ale, wine and whisky we stumbled up the cliff to the most northerly point of the UK (almost) and watched the sun go down. Apart from the solitary lighthouse there was no sign of another soul for miles.

Nothing out there till Iceland.

Day 3. Balnakeil to god knows where.

In the morning we took the ferry and the jittery jittery bus to the actual most northern point of the UK: Cape Wrath. The wonderfully disdainful bus and ferry drivers amused us with their sarky commentary as we sat squashed next to american tourists and families who seemed far less impressed by our guide’s rustic charm.

On the ferry.

Cape Wrath. 920 foot cliffs.

After we had been dropped safely on dry and lower ground we drove south east towards the Kyle of Tongue.

This was our car by the way.

This is the boys somewhere between Loch Eriboll and the Kyle of Tongue.

I would really recommend the A838 road to tongue. Very varied, empty and beautiful. We then cut back and took a turn south, a small road which followed the east coast of Loch Hope. After a while we found a Broch.

A broch.

We then continued on our way, now with an eye out for a place to stop for the night. The roads were empty and it was all a bit apocalyptic, as the light started to fade we found ourselves driving through endless forestry commission sights. Plains of burnt and lumbered wood. Eventually we realised we were ignoring the piles of pre gathered, cut and – for the most part – dry firewood. So we scrambled out of the panda and quickly loaded it with as much wood as the poor beast would carry. But we still needed a camping spot. The road continued to follow marshes or FC land for quite a while, neither which are idea camping ground. With each new horizon we promised we’d stop at the next. Passing through Syre we felt we’d arrived in some american frontier/ wickerman settlement and hurried on disconcerted.

Just as we were about to give up and drive to a hotel, we saw paradise. I shan’t tell you where it is for it must be discovered by accident rather than sought.

After this for 2 hours...

...we saw this, and running up the overgrown drive...

...we found an abandoned crofters cottage with un spoilt views which spread over the moors for miles.

So we had our dinner.

Then chased the sunset.

Day 4. God knows where to Applecross.

This was another long day, with rain and thunder all morning. Stopped at Helmsdale for breakfast, then followed the east coast down towards Inverness. All a little melancholy – feeling the shift from the vast and empty bright skies of the highlands and west coast to the granite clouds which sat claustrophobically around us as we headed south.  But as we traversed west once again we felt the cloud lighten and the landscape tumbles out beneath it. Unfortunately I ran out of film this day so the only shot we have is this rather dreary one, looking across Loch Kishorn from the most dangerous road in Scotland: Bealach na Ba. (I hate Top Gear but this shows the road: http://www.streetfire.net/video/topgears-greatest-roads-applecross-pass-scotland_689006.htm}

Road to Applecross

Applecross is a nice wee place. Brilliant pub with outstanding seafood. We had a moonlit swim after dinner and were then warmed and dried by a local burning his bed on the beach.

Day 5. Applecross to Glenbrittle.

First stop Eilan Donan castle where I bought a new disposable and we read lot’s of facts. Strange place; recent family photos of the owners are on display next to viking helmets, i’m not sure which were more interesting.

Eilan Donan Castle. It may be a reconstruction but it's a jolly good spot.

We then continued across the Skye bridge.

After an hour or so we saw a big waterfall.

We found another Broch, though this one had stairs.

A broch, for those who are interested, is an Iron Age structure thing. Debatable whether they were  used as forts or houses or  keeps or all but they are usually round with very thick walls which contained internal rooms or stairs. That is a lousy definition, google it if you’re really interested.

We then made our way to Glenbrittle campsite. There was a little tension over where to find firewood and have our dinner, but after some pacing we were happy again.

The boys walked off their differences.

And we lit a beacon.

Day 6. Glenbrittle to Dufftown.

We had to say goodbye to one of our party. We put him on the ferry at Armadale and wished him well.

Into the mist.

After that we decided that we were a little underwhelmed by Sky and decided to head into the highlands again. We took a brief look at Loch Ness from Fort Augustus which we found a very strange place. Then back down the A82 till it hit the A86 which we took towards the Cairngorms. After failing to find lodgings in the Cairngorms, and finding it a little too much like Centre Parks anyway, we powered on through into whisky country and took a room in the sleepy Dufftown. Once again hit by a melancholic nostalgia for the empty views of the north west.

Day 7. Dufftown to Edinburgh.

Whisky tasting at Glenfiddich. Pork pie in a charming little town called. Past Balmoral Castle. Beautiful drive through the high Cairngorms. A few more castles and forests. No photos.

Then a wonderful ruin in Fife.

Windows and turrets.

Sunlit through shadowy doorways.

Inhabited only by trees.

And that was the end of our trip.

Crumbs

Crouched below a castle bare; 
Hidden, is a painted lair
From which our young dreamer does stare
To her horizons squinted glare.

Skipping down the measured steps
This shy maiden soon forgets
Her smiling dolls, their soft ringlets,
The toffee pie, and many pets.

An unkempt land ahead is seen,
Just a haze, in futures gleam,
Shadowed by the gentle past
Which makes this world seem more a dream.

Striding forth in daylight's cold,
Now warmed by neither new or old,
Cautious yet we see her bold,
Anticipating all she may behold,
Biting lip in mind of gold.

And soon behind her we must trace
For she must lead in times cruel race,
And thus she grows with every pace
With flowing hair and thoughtful face.

Like snowflakes, light begins to rest,
Dappled like a rivers crest
On her soft goose pimpled breast
Which tempts her from the sheltered west.

To the mountains does she stumble,
Beneath her feet the soil does crumble,
Over molehills does she tumble,
With her laces does she fumble.

The fields now sometimes seem less bare,
Although before not quite aware
And thus before without a care
Of what was here and what was there.

Ahead a forest, now she spies,
And such trees she thinks are wise,
So tall they stretch her fresh young eyes,
Tempting her to climb, and pick their lies.

But no canopy does her surround,
Nor can branches here be found,
But a church bell afore does sound
Which beckons to the higher ground.

Scattering leaves in her hurry,
Thoughts of treetops fall in flurry
Around her, others seem to scurry
In the chaos the cross stands sturdy.

Watching closely the many feet,
So she might pick up their beat,
With sweaty psalms, does each man greet
Like greedy lambs does each voice bleat.

But though she tries to keep in line
She loses patience with such slow time,
Can't help but think outside their rhyme
Still seeks a deeper crag to climb. 

Fernsehturm Berlin

What an evening that was

Stilettos and a safety pin

She was 25 but her eyes were creased and her skin was tough. Her shoes didn’t fit, the gravel teased her toes through the thin soles but she’d be fired if she took them off. As her lungs filled with cold smoke there was a laugh and a shimmer of blue silk stumbled out from the main door. An overweight woman on stilettos tottered towards her across the wet ground, recoiling slightly as she noticed the blank faced waitress observing her from the darkness. The waitress watched the powdered face as the fire from a lighter made it glow. The eyes were drunk, the lipstick smudged, the diamonds real. They smoked in silence. A cloud passed across the moon and both women shivered.
‘Bloody stillettos.’ The woman in diamonds bent to loosen the straps of her shoes and the seam on her dress gave way and ripped down her back.
‘Fuck.’
The waitress didn’t try to hide her snort.
‘Funny ?’ The woman stubbed out her cigarette ‘Well aren’t you going to give me a hand?’
The dress had slipped, revealing over tightened bra straps and sun damaged shoulders.
The polish lady snorted again and looked away.
‘I can’t go back in there like this, for gods sake.’ Her hair fell out from its tight bun, graying roots cutting a crude line round her scalp.
The woman with no makeup slowly turned her head.
‘What can I do? I have no needle, you want me to fix your dress with cigarette, eh?’
Dismissing the idea with her untapped fag.
The lady in the torn dress winced and muttered;
‘What are you doing out here anyway? you’re not being paid to smoke and stare at the moon, if you can’t help me go and find someone who can.’
The waitress tightened her apron before walking back in through the kitchen. As she passed a window she frowned at her reflection. All she saw was bored resignation. She took a safety pin from a box next to the pile of white tablecloths and went back outside.
The moon had been rubbed out of the sky, leaving a smudge in the clouds.
‘Do you know why they make you wear black? Its so you disappear, so you don’t taint our party.’ Slurred the fat lady holding together her dress with one hand, smoking with the other. She still stood awkwardly though she had removed her heels.
Without the moon the dress looked black. The coarse fingers of the waitress delicately pinned the tear together. She paused, handling the fabric. Fabric like grease. She felt the hostile pull of the shoulders. The safety pin twinkled seductively. Then she noticed the tag, still attached by the label, tucked into the sleeve. She smiled, biting her lip.
‘Hey lady, you’ve left your tag on, you want me to cut it off?’
She had a slightly American edge to her accent.
‘NO! I mean, No, I don’t want those dirty fingers of yours on MY dress any more than they need to be’.
‘You’ll not get your money back with this rip..’
‘Bitch! its not like you own anything, I can’t afford Gucci for every party I go to! At least I get invited, anyway it’s none of your business,’ She trailed off drunkenly.
Before stepping back inside the waitress paused,
‘Get a larger size next time, it may not rip so easily.’
A cars headlights briefly illuminated white, swollen feet stumbling through the night. The safety pin lay among the gravel beside the forgotten shoes.

Mother’s response.

My overly liberal mother’s response to this: http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/sep/02/secondary-school-teacher-soldier

Me: Hey, did you know there’s a new scheme which plans to put a few people from the army into really troubled schools to help out…
Mother: WHAT?!? Thats absolutely DISGUSTING. (Infact, it’s sick, just wrong so wrong) OH I just can’t believe it. That makes me feel ill.OH OH. The army should NOT be allowed near children, they shouldn’t have ANYTHING to do with children.
Sister (quietly): Like pedophiles?
Mother: WORSE!! Think of the HITLER YOUTH. Raping the poor little working class minds with SICK ARMY PROPAGANDA.
Me: I’m not sure it’s quite like that…
Mother: SO YOU WANT SCHOOLS TO BE RUN BY THE BNP???
Me: It’s the army, and they’re not invading the playgrounds, just helping out
Mother: ‘Just helping out’???? LIKE THEY DID IN IRAQ EH? They are trained to KILL. Do you want TRAINED KILLERS patrolling schools corridors??
Me: (feulling the fire a tad) Maybe it’ll work, give kids a sense of discipline and pride.
Mother: DISCIPLINE? Do you know how the army commands DISCIPLINE?(she’s seriously hysterical by now) TORTURE AND BRAINWASHING!
Me: The army have led several succesful initiatives which got kids off the streets giving them something to do and a sense of commun..(She cuts me off)..
Mother: CAN’T THEY JOIN THE SCOUTS OR DO A D of E?? There are plenty of other opportunities for kids to do outdoorsy fun things which don’t involve KILLING PEOPLE.
Me: (I rant about how ridiculous this statement is)
Father: They should all really join the young conservationists (Mother nearly explodes thinking he’s said ‘Young Conservatives’, but realizing her mistake, just shakes her head and sips her chamomile tea.)

Me and my sister exchange exassperated glances and run off to raid the chocolate cupboard.

My mothers still fuming, I think she’s rang up a sympathetic friend as wisps of:  ‘Oh it’s TERRIBLE, terrible. But what are we to do??’ and ‘Well of course her close friend is in the OTC (pronounced in a whisper like ‘you-know-who’)…Absolutely charming boy…Yes, I know, it’s sad.’ (like you’ve died)

Father’s started whistling, peace has been restored.

Why i’m here.

I was hoping to escape as soon as I could after graduating this summer, but alas it was not to be for I broke my foot on a trampoline. I spent the first week of immobile life watching Brideshead Revisited, imagining myself at Brideshead with an inexhaustible supply of champagne and cigarettes. But unfortunately Jeremy Irons can’t keep me company until Christmas and watching TV during the day starts to make me feel like an alcoholic, or worse, a pensioner, so I have decided to use the internet to indulge my self indulgent and gratuitous scribbles. Let’s see how long this lasts.