Unwanted calls

My mobile phone rings. Before answering it I glance at the screen. It says "New Caller". I answer it. I hear the dread words. My bank want to have a chat with me. Not now, they want to prolong the agony. They want to know if it will be convenient to make an appointment to call me next week. I hesitate trying to think of a reason why it won't be. "It is really important that we have the opportunity to discuss your account. You are due an annual review". So it will have to be convenient and I agree a time and a day. Apparently I have a new manager. My old one has retired or moved on somewhere. Shame! He was okay. He understood and seemed to have some sympathy with the eccentric and chaotic way my finances operate. Now I have to explain it to someone else. I have four days to think about it. Maybe I won't take the call.

A Brief Escape

Sunday afternoon, post lunch, snooze time! Except the sun was shinning and Mrs BW was restless. She wanted to go out, for a stroll around town. The fledglings were observing an uneasy truce cemented by jointly watching the “Matrix”. They flinched at the word walk.

“Shall we pop out for an hour or two?” “Anywhere in particular?” I asked tentatively. “Well we could pop into M&S and see about getting you a new pair of trousers”. My heart sank. I used the – but it would be better to wait till the summer when I have lost a few pounds – gambit. It worked. “Okay maybe a coffee in Caffe Nero. I think it will be okay to leave the young ones at home for an hour or two. They seem quiet enough.” The fledglings unflinched .

Thirty minutes later we were seated in the “Slopes” Just Mrs BW and me. I had a beer and she a G and T. She put the Observer review section down for a moment. “When was the last time we did this? You know just pop out for a drink on our own?” I shrugged. I hadn’t got a clue. Too long though. The bar man at the Slopes decided that Mrs BW and I did not warrant him staying open. We moved onto the Old Clubhouse. The beer was good, but the cigarette smoke hung in thick clouds. We did not hang around.
We strolled back, past brave hardy souls sitting out side in the weak spring sun determined to prove that Buxton too has its pavement café society. All was well at home. The fragile truce had held, Star Wars had replaced the Matrix. Perhaps we can do it again, someday.

Winter returns

I spoke to soon about spring. It has been cold this week, with snow and a biting wind. The Goyt was silent. Only the owl quartered the hillside fruitlessly searching for prey. Wrapped up against the cold I trudged down into the valley, seeking solitude from the torments of the day, and feeling the gloomy oppressive mood lift with each step that I took. I was grateful for the cold, it mean't that I would be alone. I could shout out, rage against the frustration, open my lungs and scream. I heard them first, a clanging sound as pots and pieces of tent banged against their bodies, then saw them. Twenty of them. A forlorn, bedraggled hunched little group, shouldering heavy rucksacs and wearily plodding up the hill towards me. Had they heard me? Had my cries carried to them on the chill wind. Had they been stirred from their thoughts, to glance about fearful of the banshee screams? Politely they passed me. Twenty salutations, some spoken, some smiled, then they were gone. Alone again, I descended deeper into the valley. I decided to stay silent.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.

Well maybe not quite yet but the Goyt has broken its winter silence. The curlews cry floats across the valley. A daffodil has flowered in our back garden, blackbirds sing in the early morning mist, the sun is out and it’s warm outside. (Well warmish!) Spring appears to have arrived! Everything looks brighter, the light is softer, and it’s good to get up in the morning. Much as I enjoy winter, you can have too much of it. For us its been almost unrelenting grey, windy and wet for the past month or so. If its gone and spring really is here then good riddance I say.

Four Days in Scotland (Alone and Without a Leader) Part Four

I got up early for breakfast. To be honest I did not need my alarm clock. I had been awake most of the night, firstly trying to turn down the heating in my room (I had to give up and open the window) and then listen to the sound of the heating system as it gurgled and chuckled its way through the night. I reckon I got two hours sleep. It was a dull cloudy day. There was a hint of rain, and as I walked into Fort William to get some laces for my walking boots, I could see that Ben Nevis, was shrouded in cloud. I did consider whether it would be better to do something else, but we Birdwatchers are made of sterner stuff so I stuck to plan A.

I have been up Ben Nevis before. Thirty three years ago. It was summer and I was a younger (obviously!) and fitter BW then. When I got to the Nevis visitor centre there were very few people about. Those that were had ropes and crampons and ice axes and looked serious about the whole thing. I trudged across the suspension bridge, feeling slightly self conscious in my odd assortment of ill matching walking clothes. The first bit was easy. I made good progress and stopped at a bench to have a coffee and to look at the scenery. I was feeling good. A robin flew in and joined me. I decided to have a second cup of coffee. A party trudged up the path and stopped to chat. Did I know where the summit was they asked. I waved my stick vaguely in the direction of where I though it might be, explained that I had not been up there in thirty years. They asked me if I was going all the way. I said that I might but that it looked as if the ziz zag bit of the path was covered in snow and might be a bit tricky without the proper equipment. So I probably would only go as far as the lake. I turned to look at the view and they were off. Funny I thought to myself because at this point the path curves back on its self, a bit of a hairpin. They had gone straight on, following a sort of sheep track. I began to feel uneasy. When I had waved my stick in the general direction of the summit I had not been indicating the route, but maybe they had thought that I had been. I decided to follow them and call them back to put them on the right route so to speak. Now much as I love mountains, I have to confess that I suffer from vertigo. It seems to be getting worse the older I get. Soon off the main path my vertigo kicked in. I stopped. Clearly this was not going to work out. I had better go back. I felt a little guilty about the people that had gone on before me, but they were adults and should know better than to follow the advice of a badly dressed forty something.

The weather wasn't very good. The summit enveloped in fog, mist and snow. I trudged onto the loch, but decided that it was not worth going any further. So I turned round and with a slightly wistful backward glance wimped off back down the mountain. I made good progress and passed quite a lot of people coming up. I avoided eye contact though so as not to have to confess that I had not got to the summit.

I was half way across the suspension bridge at the end of the trail when I saw a small terrier like dog coming towards me. It had two sticks in its mouth, one small one and one large one that was sticking out to such an extend that it spanned the whole width of the bridge. It clearly had no intention of stopping or slowing down. I had two options, to turn tail and run back off the bridge, or to carry on in the hope that the dog would stop or if not then leap the stick. The dog clearly had no intention of stopping despite the giggled commands of its owner, an attractive young woman and her two companions. I was going to have to leap. In the end it was more of a sort of hop. Either way it was undignified, and the giggling intensified. Of course they apologised for the dog. Not that it was bothered. We turned to look at it. It had reached the end of the bridge and was impatiently waiting for them, still holding on to its sticks. Good luck to them! I did not here of any dog related injuries on the mountain so I presume it must have got bored with the sticks at some point.

Having failed to "climb" Ben Nevis, I decided to do a different walk back to Fort William. It felt good to be out on the hills. I watched a couple of buzzards hunting, and followed the trail to Cow Hill. The views of Loch Linnhie were wonderful. Even Fort Willima had a sort of grim charm about it seen from this distance.

As I walked down the hill into Fort William, the back way, just as grim and unpreposesing, as the main way in, I kept being stopped and asked what I was doing in Fort William. I had a fascinating chat about the impact on the local ecomony of the hydroelectric scheme, at least that is what I think we chatted about. To be fair I did most of the listening and gazing back at Ben Nevis which appeared to be coming out from behind its cloudy shroud.

Back in Fort William I decided to have a beer. Standing at the bar, the bloke next to me turned and said "so what brings you to Fort William then." I was dressed in walking gear with walking boots. I had a rucksac on my back and a walking pole as I believe they are called, dads stick the fledglings call it, next to me. I stared at him. I was going to say " I have come up from England to steal your sheep and take them back South of the border."

"Walking" I said. It was a good call, I learn't moments later that he had just got out of prison for GBH.

Gobbledygook

I have been on a course for a couple of days learning how our new customer relationship management system works. (Scotland seems an age away!) There have been a lot of problems with the Wi Fi connections. We keep losing internet access, which, as the new system is web based makes it difficult to train. The fourth time it happened to me I asked the "trainer" why it kept happening. He replied;

"The reason why it keeps dropping out is because of the status of the training environment."

I think he mean't that there were too many laptops for the connection? Why could he not say that?

Four Days in Scotland (Alone and without a leader) Part three

The 12.38 to Oban and Fort William. I locate it at last. The front two carriages go to Oban the rear two to Fort William. Eventually after some indecision, I decide where to sit, where to put my case and settle down. Deciding where to put my case had caused me quite a lot of difficulty. The logical place was the luggage rack. But this was some way from where I was sitting. So having at first put it there, and found my seat I began to fret about it. Suppose someone mistook it for theirs and got off with it? I got up and moved it. I tried stowing it on the rack above my head. It was too big and stuck out quite a lot. "I hope you have got a hard hat" This from the helpful bloke in the seat opposite. "It won't stay up there if we come to a sudden halt." I thanked him for the advice. He shrugged, I noticed that he had a 1998 Scout Camp Tee Shirt on. Just though I'd mention that. So I moved my case from the overhead luggage rack and tried to put it in the gap between the seats. After a lot of faffing about, grunting and breaking into a sweat I got it in. I wiped my fevered brow. Unfortunately I have the sort of helpful subconscious that just cannot let things go. "Supposing you can't get it out again?" It helpfully, suggested to me. I stood transfixed. A small furry animal in the face of oncoming traffic. Should I try and remove it? Just to check that I could? And then what? Put it back again? I glanced round the carriage. I was self conscious enough about being on my own. I did not want to get labelled as an idiot as well. Perhaps I could just try and shift it a bit just to see if it moved? I decided to leave it and sat down. The smug scoutmaster smiled to himself and went back to his telegraph. I tried to casually check that my tickets that I checked five minutes previously had not mysteriously disappeared. I am not cut out for this, I decided. Too much stress.

Bang on time we leave Glasgow Queen Street. As we head out through the suburbs of Glasgow it has started to rain. It is an urban landscape, blighted by sixties trainee architects, their experimental playground. Soon we are following the Clyde. I am struck by the rubbish that litters the shoreline. Tons of it. Plastic of all sorts, shapes and sizes. But amongst it all I see Curlews huddled on the shore line. I wish I could lower the window and hear their cries. They seem unconcerned by all the rubbish. Soon we leave Glasgow and its suburbs and rubbish strewn shore behind.

What can I say about the landscape that the West Highland line passes through? It is a dramatic, head turning, block buster of a landscape. Remote,wild, glacial, scary even especially on this grey wet day. But it pulls you, calls to you, beckons you, urges you to wander into the hills. We stop at small unmanned stations. It is hard to remain on the train. I want to get off to strike off into the glens. As we move deeper into the Highlands the mountains become snow streaked. The grey black of the hillside merges with the grey black of the sky. It is hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. The colours are slate grey, lead blue, inky black, faded greens and browns. The further into the Highlands we go the more relaxed I become. I am starting to realise why I needed to do this. As the landscape expands so do the boundaries of my thinking.

We get to the Bridge of Orchy. Soon after the landscape changes. The mountains recede and the landscape opens out in to a jumble of hillocks and drumlins, boggy water logged ground. Rannock Moor. 12000 years ago or more before man returned to these islands, ice stripped the landscape, plucking rocks from the mountains and depositing them miles later, era tics, leaving piles of debris, gouging out depressions. It is a truly wild place.

After almost four hours we reach Fort William. First Impressions? Why did I come here? I leave the station and turn left. The pedestrian crossings talk to you. A mans voice booms out telling you that the lights are red and the oncoming traffic has right of way. I decide to go anyway as there is no traffic. I am sure that a woman's voice commands me to stop and wait for the correct light, tells me that I have violated a road traffic bye law. Its probably all on CCTV anyway so I continue on my way.I find the hotel, its okay, it will do. Its 5.30pm on a wet Monday. I decide, to go and explore Fort William, at least buy a map so that I can plan a walk. My first impressions were wrong. Its okay. I find a pub. I sit in a corner, map spread out, my second pint half drunk. I am starting to warm to this. Tomorrow, I decide I will have a look at Ben Nevis. Better have another pint though, now I'm here.

Four Days in Scotland (Alone and without a leader) Part Two

The 9.14 (actually it was the 9.25 as it was running late ) Virgin Pendolino service from Euston glided into Preston Station. I boarded and found my seat. I had reserved one and found myself sitting next to another passenger. Around me were empty seats. Empty and unreserved seats. At times like these, there is a distinct disadvantage to being English. The logical thing to do, the European thing to do would have been to get up from my cramped reserved seat and to have gone to the wide open spaces of the table seat opposite. Everyone would have been a winner. My fellow passenger could relax and enjoy the extra space in his reserved seat and I would have had a nice big table seat to sit and read and write at. But of course being English it is not as simple as that. I do not want to cause my fellow passenger any embarrassment, by switching seats. (Of course deep down I know that he would be delighted!) So I sit there, occasionally casting a wistful eye at the empty table seat. It was hard to read. Hard to concentrate on anything.

Outside the stale and tired industrial landscape gives way to gentle countryside. We leave Lancaster behind. I pluck up courage and muttering something about the chance to spread out go and sit at the empty table. I stretch out my legs in the acres of space and start to relax. The man in the seat across the way buys himself a drink from the steward and drops his change and tries to retrieve it. He fails to find it all and for the next twenty minutes casts occasional glances at the floor. The drink that caused him to almost choke at the price of £2.50 has become alot more expensive. We fringe the Lake District. The countryside changes from pastoral and gentle rolling hills to more mountainous, wilder landscapes. I think about the next few days and look forward to doing some walking tomorrow. Its starting to feel like I am getting away. I wonder what the hotel will be like?

The hotel in Fort William, that I booked last Friday. A sudden cold sensation creeps down my back. I have forgotten the name of the hotel or how to get to it. I search through my notebook, nothing there, no clues. We are coming into the outskirts of Glasgow. I will have to phone Mrs BW. There is no signal. I stare at the phone. A signal briefly flits across the screen but by the time I have dialed the number it has gone. "Emergencies only" it says on the screen. Well this is fast becoming an emergency. Even though I have another five hours of railway journey to go most of it is on the West Highland line and I have no idea whether there will be a signal available . I try again and get through. Do I detect a certain frostiness? "You can't remember the name of the hotel that you booked? So you want me to find it for you?" I agree that that is the jist of it. When I suggest that she puts accommodation in Fort William in the search engine there is along pause. A very long pause. The bloody signal has gone again. We are pulling into Glasgow Central when eventually Mrs BW comes up with the goods, and finds the name and number of the hotel for me. Apparently I had saved it in favourites. For once my hording instincts have been worth it.

Glasgow looks like any other city seen from its main railway station. In the greyness of this wet winters day, I am glad that I abandoned an earlier plan to stay overnight here. I now have thirty minutes to get to Glasgow Queen Street. You can walk it in ten, but its raining and I have some heavy luggage. I decide to take a taxi. I go to the nearest one and ask to be taken to Glasgow Queen Street. The driver is not happy about it. He would prefer a trip to the airport, much more lucrative. He says something to me. I cannot understand a word he says. I get in anyway and sulkily he takes me to the station. I am in plenty of time to catch the 12.38 to Fort William. But is it on the lower or higher platform? And why is it not showing on the screens? In fact nothing is showing on the screens. There are a lot of people milling about and quite a few trains waiting but not many clues as to where they are going. I ask someone. "Platform four, but you can't board yet." So I wait.