Two thorns as sharp as tin tacks could not be coaxed out of the front tyre casing using conventional methods.
This included squeezing as though a pimple, twisting the pliable rubber like wringing out a towel, picking at it with the end of the tyre lever and finally and successfully, pulling the stubborn little blighters out with my teeth.
The puncture repair kit was spilled out onto the tarmac of the imposing Inversnaid Hotel as I took to identifying the holes formed by the thorns. The standard contents of a repair kit, familiar to most cyclists, used to include a bright yellow crayon with which to outline the offending hole. Mine was missing or had never been in the plastic container in the first place.
Pumping a bit of air into the sad inner tube and running its limp form close to my ear did detect one of the holes but in preparing a patch and the rubber solution glue I lost sight of it and had to go through the procedure again...and again....and once more before finally pressing the red and black self adhesive on to seal the pinpoint hole.
The second hole was also elusive but I had just about perfected the performance and within a few minutes we were ready to set off back down the track.
The crowd of walkers at the hotel picnic tables had been enjoying the fiasco of the repairs and I was a bit disappointed not to be applauded for providing their lunchtime entertainment as I rode through and past.
In my mind the return ride would be horrific given what I had gone through physically and mentally in the previous hours and with no real recuperation possible because of the repair work. Just out of sight of the walkers the front tyre felt distinctly spongy.
I was now resigned to a return walk rather than a ride and that would be even more horrific. Pushing a mountain bike is hard work especially over ground that could be well traversed on two fully pumped up wheels.
I told my son to go on ahead as he was fully mobile and plodded on, head down and determined to tackle the 10 miles of track, trail, rocky ledges and that slippery grass bank that I had slid down fully frontal. At the slower pace it was possible to appreciate the magnificent views over the tree tops down to the Loch and the rivulets of snow stuck high up on the distant peaks.
I sat down on a granite rock and thought about trying to sort out the front tyre once and for all. Throwing the whole bike into the Loch did cross my mind. The peace of the hillside was almost painful to a city dweller generally acclimatised to sirens and shouts but nevertheless welcome respite. I could well imagine that the place had not changed much over the centuries and many Scots will have passed this same way in pursuit of their livelihoods or being pursued by the English invaders.
We had seen a strange structure by the trackway on our outward cycle which I later found referred to in a tourist leaflet as Rob Roy's Prison. That great Son of the Highlands had almost as many enemies and friends. I must, sometime, watch the movie depiction of his life with Liam Neeson as the main character.
I was brought back down to earth from my fanciful thoughts by the discovery of yet another thorn embedded in the tread of the tyre and with no real compulsion to hurry and this time no audience It was an almost pleasurable task to seek it out and repair it.
Three thorns in one ride was unprecedented.
Fully inflated I could think about remounting and riding at last. I had walked about five miles by now and was pleased to get back in the saddle although this coincided with a long uphill stretch which tested my fitness and stamina in the extreme.
My son was long gone but I could make out his distinctive wheel rut pattern in the muddy patches where the surface water was in the shade of the trees and had not evaporated. He was by now back at the holiday lodge for sure.
The final, long downhill was great fun although a bit hazardous over loose gravel, potholes, rocky extrusions and projecting tree roots. I had no need to pedal for a couple of miles and felt refreshed and energised for it. The flat, smooth tarmac road just by the Youth Hostel and towards the Rowardennan Hotel was like a finishing straight and I breezed up to the lodge with style imagining the roar of a massed crowd at what was, for me, to be regarded as a small victory but a victory nevertheless.
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
Tuesday, 23 June 2015
Push Bikes
The Tourist Map gave no real clue as to the actual terrain of the West Highland Way between Rowardennan and Inversnaid on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, Scotland, UK.
Perhaps, in retrospect the outlay of a few pounds sterling for a proper Landranger Ordnance Survey Map may have been wiser but the said leaflet, one of those picked up free from a visitor centre, motorway services or library, was after all free, gratis and for nothing.
My further reasoning behind not buying a Trossachs Region Map was that so far in my lifetime I had visited the area every forty years and such a purchase would therefore appear extravagant. Nothing much seemed to have changed on the east side of the Loch since my last family holiday in 1975 and this could well be the case looking ahead to my next scheduled visit in 2055, discounting of course any effects of a rise in sea level as a consequence of global warming or alternatively the return of an Ice Age.
Anything with Highland in the title should really suggest a mostly uphill terrain but as with most people on holiday any common sense and rationality just goes out of the window. It is hard enough being sensible for the 51 other weeks of the year so, what the hell, just relax and do not worry about anything.
I set off on my mountain bike from the log cabin just next to the Rowardennan Hotel, accompanied by my son who was just a few days out of his teenage decade.
The roadway was flat and hard surfaced but covered with a fine film of pine needles and mud from Forestry Commission, National Trust and Youth Hostel traffic the only real users of what was a dead end. After passing the gateway of the private driveway leading up to the purple granite built Hostel we were onto a rough, potholed track.
It was at this point, a mere few minutes into our planned trail ride, that I realised that I had completely underestimated the geography that lay ahead. As well as the unstable ground beneath our chunky tyres it started to rise up immediately and quite steeply.
The winding nature of the track meant that there was a limited sight line ahead and with the turn of every corner it was clear that the ascent would be relentless.
My son waltzed away easily and I knew that unless I upped my pedal rate I might not see him for the rest of the day. I struggled along for a couple of uphill miles. Fortunately for me we eventually reached a flat section, a short plateau which allowed me to catch him up followed by a good downhill stretch where my body mass momentum gave me an advantage. I edged in front for the first and what turned out to be the only time that day.
The track then narrowed to little more than a footpath width and we encountered the first of many intrepid hikers and travellers. Most had obviously spent the night at the Youth Hostel and were continuing their journey on one of Scotland's long distance paths. You would think that the noise of a bike, albeit well serviced and maintained, bouncing about on a loose surface plus my groans, moans and painful breathless grimaces would alert those on foot to a need to take evasive action. I do slow down on approach as in my experience walkers can be a bit vague and unpredictable but even so it is usually necessary to ask politely to pass.
There were a few surprised expressions upon sight of two bikes so far in the wilds and a few cloaked comments that we should not really be there anyway. This type of comment was comprehensible in any language and the contingent out that day were from many countries showing the attraction of Scotland as a tourist destination on a worldwide basis.
From high up in the tree line there were fantastic views over Loch Lomond.
Disappointingly there was a rumble of constant traffic from the main Glasgow to Fort William road which runs close to the opposite west shore of Loch Lomond and we could see convoys of tour coaches, heavy goods vehicles and obviously german motorcyclists to-ing and fro-ing on this well worn route.
With each painful push on the pedals to climb we could count on a bit of a rest on the downhill sections which took us right down to the loch side. A treat was to spy a cluster of wild goats nestled on a shingle bank on the edge of a mountain stream as it cascaded from the moorland of Ben Lomond above. Their appearance was biblical with prominent curled horns and shaggy coats.
Low down the ground was boggy and marshy under that inevitable shimmering haze of swarms of bloodthirsty midges. Those chunky tyres keep us afloat over the swampy parts although progress slowed down again to almost walking pace. I fell off with poor style just after passing a couple of French ramblers. My bike had stalled on a turn at the top of a bank and my desperate attempt to put a foot down was thwarted with the consequence that I parted company from the machine and slid face down through wet grass for what seemed like a mile but was actually only a few metres. I was just soaked and embarassed rather than injured or worse.
The French were giggling a bit at my misfortune as I remounted and rode off.
The following two miles were not passable on two wheels and we had to alternately push and carry to negotiate rocky outcrops, stone dressed drainage gullies and gradients that must have been 25% or more severe.
I managed a short ride on a straight and stone-clear section only to find rapid deflation of my front tyre.
Riding was impossible and so I resorted to more pushing until we reached the Inversnaid Hotel where conditions and terrain were more friendly to investigate the puncture. Two sharp thorns had penetrated the tyre casing. I reached for one of my two spare inner tubes only to find that I had packed the wrong ones with a car type valve and not one compatible with the bike pump we carried.
This was a fundamental schoolboy type error which jeopardised the whole adventure. The only option was to try to repair the damaged inner tube.
Most of the walkers and hikers that we had passed in the previous couple of hours had now caught us up and were taking their packed lunches out to enjoy on the picnic tables dotted about on the Hotel lawn.
I would have an audience for my emergency repairs for the duration.........
(Part 2 to follow tomorrow)
Perhaps, in retrospect the outlay of a few pounds sterling for a proper Landranger Ordnance Survey Map may have been wiser but the said leaflet, one of those picked up free from a visitor centre, motorway services or library, was after all free, gratis and for nothing.
My further reasoning behind not buying a Trossachs Region Map was that so far in my lifetime I had visited the area every forty years and such a purchase would therefore appear extravagant. Nothing much seemed to have changed on the east side of the Loch since my last family holiday in 1975 and this could well be the case looking ahead to my next scheduled visit in 2055, discounting of course any effects of a rise in sea level as a consequence of global warming or alternatively the return of an Ice Age.
Anything with Highland in the title should really suggest a mostly uphill terrain but as with most people on holiday any common sense and rationality just goes out of the window. It is hard enough being sensible for the 51 other weeks of the year so, what the hell, just relax and do not worry about anything.
I set off on my mountain bike from the log cabin just next to the Rowardennan Hotel, accompanied by my son who was just a few days out of his teenage decade.
The roadway was flat and hard surfaced but covered with a fine film of pine needles and mud from Forestry Commission, National Trust and Youth Hostel traffic the only real users of what was a dead end. After passing the gateway of the private driveway leading up to the purple granite built Hostel we were onto a rough, potholed track.
It was at this point, a mere few minutes into our planned trail ride, that I realised that I had completely underestimated the geography that lay ahead. As well as the unstable ground beneath our chunky tyres it started to rise up immediately and quite steeply.
The winding nature of the track meant that there was a limited sight line ahead and with the turn of every corner it was clear that the ascent would be relentless.
My son waltzed away easily and I knew that unless I upped my pedal rate I might not see him for the rest of the day. I struggled along for a couple of uphill miles. Fortunately for me we eventually reached a flat section, a short plateau which allowed me to catch him up followed by a good downhill stretch where my body mass momentum gave me an advantage. I edged in front for the first and what turned out to be the only time that day.
The track then narrowed to little more than a footpath width and we encountered the first of many intrepid hikers and travellers. Most had obviously spent the night at the Youth Hostel and were continuing their journey on one of Scotland's long distance paths. You would think that the noise of a bike, albeit well serviced and maintained, bouncing about on a loose surface plus my groans, moans and painful breathless grimaces would alert those on foot to a need to take evasive action. I do slow down on approach as in my experience walkers can be a bit vague and unpredictable but even so it is usually necessary to ask politely to pass.
There were a few surprised expressions upon sight of two bikes so far in the wilds and a few cloaked comments that we should not really be there anyway. This type of comment was comprehensible in any language and the contingent out that day were from many countries showing the attraction of Scotland as a tourist destination on a worldwide basis.
From high up in the tree line there were fantastic views over Loch Lomond.
Disappointingly there was a rumble of constant traffic from the main Glasgow to Fort William road which runs close to the opposite west shore of Loch Lomond and we could see convoys of tour coaches, heavy goods vehicles and obviously german motorcyclists to-ing and fro-ing on this well worn route.
With each painful push on the pedals to climb we could count on a bit of a rest on the downhill sections which took us right down to the loch side. A treat was to spy a cluster of wild goats nestled on a shingle bank on the edge of a mountain stream as it cascaded from the moorland of Ben Lomond above. Their appearance was biblical with prominent curled horns and shaggy coats.
Low down the ground was boggy and marshy under that inevitable shimmering haze of swarms of bloodthirsty midges. Those chunky tyres keep us afloat over the swampy parts although progress slowed down again to almost walking pace. I fell off with poor style just after passing a couple of French ramblers. My bike had stalled on a turn at the top of a bank and my desperate attempt to put a foot down was thwarted with the consequence that I parted company from the machine and slid face down through wet grass for what seemed like a mile but was actually only a few metres. I was just soaked and embarassed rather than injured or worse.
The French were giggling a bit at my misfortune as I remounted and rode off.
The following two miles were not passable on two wheels and we had to alternately push and carry to negotiate rocky outcrops, stone dressed drainage gullies and gradients that must have been 25% or more severe.
I managed a short ride on a straight and stone-clear section only to find rapid deflation of my front tyre.
Riding was impossible and so I resorted to more pushing until we reached the Inversnaid Hotel where conditions and terrain were more friendly to investigate the puncture. Two sharp thorns had penetrated the tyre casing. I reached for one of my two spare inner tubes only to find that I had packed the wrong ones with a car type valve and not one compatible with the bike pump we carried.
This was a fundamental schoolboy type error which jeopardised the whole adventure. The only option was to try to repair the damaged inner tube.
Most of the walkers and hikers that we had passed in the previous couple of hours had now caught us up and were taking their packed lunches out to enjoy on the picnic tables dotted about on the Hotel lawn.
I would have an audience for my emergency repairs for the duration.........
(Part 2 to follow tomorrow)
Monday, 22 June 2015
You are offal..... but I like you
Scotland. Holiday and food.
McDonalds does not count inspite of what I said in yesterdays blog.
There is a great variety of national dishes and locally sourced produce to seek out and enjoy and behind every great holiday there is a great menu to be had. There is something very different to be seen on the supermarket shelves in this part of the United Kingdom even under the branding of the multiple retailers who dominate our shopping, eating and lifestyle habits whether intentionally or subversively.
Take the meat aisle.
There is the dominance of prepared and pre-packed products in pork intended for the breakfast table. Square, round and normal shapes of sausage meat with chops and black pudding. I can appreciate the logic that those battling against the Highland Climate and often highly physical workload require a huge calorific intake but not the love-affair with foodstuffs that will, eventually, clog the arteries and valves in a debilitating effect.
I avoided the temptation of a Scottish fry-up on this vacation although it would have been very helpful in getting me and my mountain bike up the tortuous West Highland Trail from our base at Rowardennan to the posh Inversnaid Hotel in reasonable style and back again with a little bit of energy left at all.
Still, there are plenty of other delicacies and treats to be had and here are just a few of them.
1) Haggis. This is a regular meal for our family every wednesday, almost without fail, although the day itself has no deep significance or symbolism. It is mainly because I can almost guarantee that the nearest Waitrose will have some in stock on that day and accompanied by mashed swede and mashed potatoes with spring onions it makes a delicious and inexpensive meal. You do have to be careful to check the authenticity of the ingredients as a one-off Tesco purchase of Haggis turned out to be made of everything apart from the proper bits of sheep.
2) Cured Salmon. The air in the Highlands is remarkably refreshing, so much so that to a townie like myself an intake of it whilst on holiday can be painful to lungs encrusted with urban grime until acclimatised and thereafter just bracing. The freshness is often mixed with that wonderful aroma of burning wood from open hearths, visitor's barbecues and the increasing number of traditional fish smoking houses. The Argyll sourced salmon pieces were amazing in a packed lunch. Soft fleshy fish, lightly smoked and so tasty.
3) White Pudding. I have written on this phenomena before being a regular recipient of it from friends and relatives returning from Scotland. It is a strange thing in form and texture but if you like, individually, oats, animal fat, rendered meat and skin wrapping then I can recommend it to you.
4) Irn Bru. It is a carbonated soft drink by Barrs of Glasgow and an iconic part of Scottish Culture. It is a drink that you either love unquestionably or, after studying the list of ingredients, make a pledge never to contemplate buying at all. There is a sort of a warning on the can that the use of certain of the ingredients can induce behavioural traits in young children. All I know is that it tastes nice and can also bring out a beautiful lustre to a stainless steel sink basin.
4) Home made soup. Many of the cafes in our holiday area championed home cooking and a particularly enticing menu item advertised an intriguing soup of the day as "Ranoot". The name, perhaps of Gaelic or Celtic derivation, gave no clues to its composition whether animal, vegetable or mineral. I had just cycled 17 miles in light drizzle and a cold breeze and the cafe was the mid point of the journey. My usual bike supplies are made up of chocolate bars and water and so the prospect of hot soup was appealing. I asked about Ranoot expecting to be given a detailed breakdown of its history and authenticity for the Highlands. Instead I was told there was none left, or as the sign clearly said it had Ran Oot.
It has been a good holiday week. Best of all the combination of good eating and harsh cycling in the Highlands has meant that I have not gained any weight at all. Perfect.
McDonalds does not count inspite of what I said in yesterdays blog.
There is a great variety of national dishes and locally sourced produce to seek out and enjoy and behind every great holiday there is a great menu to be had. There is something very different to be seen on the supermarket shelves in this part of the United Kingdom even under the branding of the multiple retailers who dominate our shopping, eating and lifestyle habits whether intentionally or subversively.
Take the meat aisle.
There is the dominance of prepared and pre-packed products in pork intended for the breakfast table. Square, round and normal shapes of sausage meat with chops and black pudding. I can appreciate the logic that those battling against the Highland Climate and often highly physical workload require a huge calorific intake but not the love-affair with foodstuffs that will, eventually, clog the arteries and valves in a debilitating effect.
I avoided the temptation of a Scottish fry-up on this vacation although it would have been very helpful in getting me and my mountain bike up the tortuous West Highland Trail from our base at Rowardennan to the posh Inversnaid Hotel in reasonable style and back again with a little bit of energy left at all.
Still, there are plenty of other delicacies and treats to be had and here are just a few of them.
1) Haggis. This is a regular meal for our family every wednesday, almost without fail, although the day itself has no deep significance or symbolism. It is mainly because I can almost guarantee that the nearest Waitrose will have some in stock on that day and accompanied by mashed swede and mashed potatoes with spring onions it makes a delicious and inexpensive meal. You do have to be careful to check the authenticity of the ingredients as a one-off Tesco purchase of Haggis turned out to be made of everything apart from the proper bits of sheep.
2) Cured Salmon. The air in the Highlands is remarkably refreshing, so much so that to a townie like myself an intake of it whilst on holiday can be painful to lungs encrusted with urban grime until acclimatised and thereafter just bracing. The freshness is often mixed with that wonderful aroma of burning wood from open hearths, visitor's barbecues and the increasing number of traditional fish smoking houses. The Argyll sourced salmon pieces were amazing in a packed lunch. Soft fleshy fish, lightly smoked and so tasty.
3) White Pudding. I have written on this phenomena before being a regular recipient of it from friends and relatives returning from Scotland. It is a strange thing in form and texture but if you like, individually, oats, animal fat, rendered meat and skin wrapping then I can recommend it to you.
4) Irn Bru. It is a carbonated soft drink by Barrs of Glasgow and an iconic part of Scottish Culture. It is a drink that you either love unquestionably or, after studying the list of ingredients, make a pledge never to contemplate buying at all. There is a sort of a warning on the can that the use of certain of the ingredients can induce behavioural traits in young children. All I know is that it tastes nice and can also bring out a beautiful lustre to a stainless steel sink basin.
4) Home made soup. Many of the cafes in our holiday area championed home cooking and a particularly enticing menu item advertised an intriguing soup of the day as "Ranoot". The name, perhaps of Gaelic or Celtic derivation, gave no clues to its composition whether animal, vegetable or mineral. I had just cycled 17 miles in light drizzle and a cold breeze and the cafe was the mid point of the journey. My usual bike supplies are made up of chocolate bars and water and so the prospect of hot soup was appealing. I asked about Ranoot expecting to be given a detailed breakdown of its history and authenticity for the Highlands. Instead I was told there was none left, or as the sign clearly said it had Ran Oot.
It has been a good holiday week. Best of all the combination of good eating and harsh cycling in the Highlands has meant that I have not gained any weight at all. Perfect.
Sunday, 21 June 2015
Mary, Mungo and Midges
Scotland....
still part of the United Kingdom and my location for the past week for an early annual vacation with the family.
It is a magical place.
Mountains in and out of the mist, lochs and glens in and out of the mist and ravenous tiny, wee insects, something certainly to be missed.
Those pesky midges.
We giggled a bit on our first morning in Scotland seeing an obviously seasoned hill walker shrouded in a fine mesh veil over his head and face rather like a shy bride but for the rest of our week our admiration only grew for the man as we found ourselves pursued relentlessly by the beasties.Hiding behind an improvised net curtain or fly screen was inspirational.
Frantic scratching and itching gave, perhaps, a millisecond of relief from the incessant irritation and we had to resort to wholesale and mutual dabbing with a roll-on type insect repellent. The small cylindrical container with the chemical deterrent had a knack of becoming lost in a cagoule pocket, in the folds of a rucksack or disappearing under the car seat. These events incited huge panic amongst our party.
There were brief moments of escape behind the firmly fastened doors and windows of our vacation timber lodge but we had to draw lots to see which hapless individual had to go retrieve any items, such as food, from the car parked just thirty feet away. In the process we felt like we were sending a family member outside to confront a herd of zombies.
Other apparent midge free zones were to be found out in the middle of Loch Lomond on a water taxi ride, in a coffee shop of extortionate pricing (Mocha £3.10), at an altitude above 3000 feet (approx 1000 metres) where, according to my wife and daughter, the intrepid climbers of Ben Lomond, the sleat and snow in mid June were just too much for the creatures to maintain a direct course to extract blood.
I felt almost justified wandering into a McDonalds fast food restaurant to benefit from the rarified atmosphere, oh, and of course McDonalds has a Scottish Heritage making it permissible .
The week was very active with adventures on mountain bikes and in walking gear.
The changeable weather and threat of perforation by midges, should any bare skin be exposed, had no real impact on our determined pursuit of recreation and leisure after a very busy first half of the year in work and home life.
As that great son of Scotland, Billy Connolly said, "There is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong choice of clothing".
I am at that age, early fifties when I have an over-active interest in and fascination of the climate.
Scotland presents a wonderful opportunity to witness this at close quarters.
In the floor of the glacial valley that contains Loch Lomond, (the largest area of freshwater in the UK), there can, in the course of a few minutes, be alternate scorching sunshine, drizzle and torrential rain, significant variations in temperature, howling gale and complete stillness. For example, a rainbow suddenly appeared to us, flat to the surface of the black cold water only to evaporate within seconds. It was a marvellous, fleeting vision against the backdrop of steep pine clad hillsides and, in the distance, some residual snow filled deep gullies that had so far resisted the spring and summer thaw. On that theme a local resident was heard to say "I love summer in Scotland....it is the best day of the whole year"
We could carry out our own weather forecasting quite easily.
If we could see the upper slopes and summit of Ben Lomond from the log cabin window, looking north, then we could usually count on a few hours of reasonably predictable weather. Just to be safe we could also see through to the Loch shore itself. There was either a glassy sheen of perfect calm on the water or a maelstrom whipped up by winds funnelled through the Glen so that the handful of boats, at anchor, danced around with the clink, clink of masthead gear in accompaniment.
Most of these sights were, unfortunately, viewed through a strange shimmering.
We had seen this before whilst on a Mediterranean holiday as a heat haze effect but in Scotland you can attribute this to the clouds of midges just gathering in the Highlands for another feast on the oh, so foolish, English tourists.
still part of the United Kingdom and my location for the past week for an early annual vacation with the family.
It is a magical place.
Mountains in and out of the mist, lochs and glens in and out of the mist and ravenous tiny, wee insects, something certainly to be missed.
Those pesky midges.
We giggled a bit on our first morning in Scotland seeing an obviously seasoned hill walker shrouded in a fine mesh veil over his head and face rather like a shy bride but for the rest of our week our admiration only grew for the man as we found ourselves pursued relentlessly by the beasties.Hiding behind an improvised net curtain or fly screen was inspirational.
Frantic scratching and itching gave, perhaps, a millisecond of relief from the incessant irritation and we had to resort to wholesale and mutual dabbing with a roll-on type insect repellent. The small cylindrical container with the chemical deterrent had a knack of becoming lost in a cagoule pocket, in the folds of a rucksack or disappearing under the car seat. These events incited huge panic amongst our party.
There were brief moments of escape behind the firmly fastened doors and windows of our vacation timber lodge but we had to draw lots to see which hapless individual had to go retrieve any items, such as food, from the car parked just thirty feet away. In the process we felt like we were sending a family member outside to confront a herd of zombies.
Other apparent midge free zones were to be found out in the middle of Loch Lomond on a water taxi ride, in a coffee shop of extortionate pricing (Mocha £3.10), at an altitude above 3000 feet (approx 1000 metres) where, according to my wife and daughter, the intrepid climbers of Ben Lomond, the sleat and snow in mid June were just too much for the creatures to maintain a direct course to extract blood.
I felt almost justified wandering into a McDonalds fast food restaurant to benefit from the rarified atmosphere, oh, and of course McDonalds has a Scottish Heritage making it permissible .
The week was very active with adventures on mountain bikes and in walking gear.
The changeable weather and threat of perforation by midges, should any bare skin be exposed, had no real impact on our determined pursuit of recreation and leisure after a very busy first half of the year in work and home life.
As that great son of Scotland, Billy Connolly said, "There is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong choice of clothing".
I am at that age, early fifties when I have an over-active interest in and fascination of the climate.
Scotland presents a wonderful opportunity to witness this at close quarters.
In the floor of the glacial valley that contains Loch Lomond, (the largest area of freshwater in the UK), there can, in the course of a few minutes, be alternate scorching sunshine, drizzle and torrential rain, significant variations in temperature, howling gale and complete stillness. For example, a rainbow suddenly appeared to us, flat to the surface of the black cold water only to evaporate within seconds. It was a marvellous, fleeting vision against the backdrop of steep pine clad hillsides and, in the distance, some residual snow filled deep gullies that had so far resisted the spring and summer thaw. On that theme a local resident was heard to say "I love summer in Scotland....it is the best day of the whole year"
We could carry out our own weather forecasting quite easily.
If we could see the upper slopes and summit of Ben Lomond from the log cabin window, looking north, then we could usually count on a few hours of reasonably predictable weather. Just to be safe we could also see through to the Loch shore itself. There was either a glassy sheen of perfect calm on the water or a maelstrom whipped up by winds funnelled through the Glen so that the handful of boats, at anchor, danced around with the clink, clink of masthead gear in accompaniment.
Most of these sights were, unfortunately, viewed through a strange shimmering.
We had seen this before whilst on a Mediterranean holiday as a heat haze effect but in Scotland you can attribute this to the clouds of midges just gathering in the Highlands for another feast on the oh, so foolish, English tourists.
Sunday, 14 June 2015
Thursday, 11 June 2015
ALlarm Bells
There is a first time for everything.
Little did I know as I made my way across the grassy paddock that I would experience the strangest of sights and sensations.
I am a town dweller through and through, I make no excuses for that, but my workload does inevitably mean that I deal with rural folk and rural properties and landed areas. I make a few jokes about my urban origins to the country dwellers which seems to make them more at ease on a first meeting. This is usually on the theme of pretending to be scared about the wide open spaces, the possibility of falling into a ditch or worse, on trespassing and being confronted by a landowner with a weapon or making a comment about nasty smells that often accompany an idyllic country scene.
The job today was to measure up a parcel of land which was to be sold to a developer who had just bought a redundant public house in a hamlet and was converting it into a pair of houses. The land in question had been leased by my client to successive pub tenant landlords for use as a beer garden but would be a desirable thing to own outright if the pair of dwellings were to be rented out or eventually sold.
I had pulled up on the road frontage having arranged to meet the client outside the former Inn .Such was the collection of builders vans, labourers cars and the impending offloading of a JCB excavator from a low loader on the narrow lane that there was perhaps the first ever traffic jam ever in that location. This would make our intended liaison impossible.
On the far side of the crowd of overall clad operatives I noticed a countryfied lady, wearing a rugby shirt, jodhpurs and with sunglasses sat atop her dishevelled blond hair. Her appearance was so alien to the surroundings that she could only be the client.
She strode purposefully over and her handshake, strengthened by endless hours holding the reins of a horse, caused me to wince effiminately. I made a mental note to work on my own handshake in such situations as rural folk do value a first impression.
The mesh fencing around the construction site and an officious Foreman in high viz vest and hard hat prevented access to measure the land from the road side and so I climbed up into a dusty and hay strewn 4 x 4 with the horsey lady and we drove around a maze of lanes and through the grand gates of The Hall.
It was an impressive manor house with a gentrified Victorian facade but with thin facing bricks to the other elevations indicating 18th Century origins. I was a bit disorientated by the tour of the hamlet and it took a few minutes for me to get my bearings. This was only by sighting the back of the old pub beyond the fencing of a paddock.
I was watching where I was placing my feet, in my city shoes, although I did have the option of my steel toe capped wellies (inherited from my late Father in Law who had worked in Construction). Ground conditions were dry and so I stayed in my somewhat unsuitable worn leather soled footwear for the duration.
There was some undulation to the patchy grass and clumpy foliage and concentrating on my negotiation through such alien territory I did not fully hear what the client was saying.
I did catch the words in the latter part of a full sentence "they are quite harmless but may make a charge at you", and "spitting is quite normal and not aggressive".
I glanced around nervously for a herd of heifers (who can be quite excitable), a gaggle of geese, an errant donkey, ramblers perhaps, holidaying circus creatures or convalescing zoo residents.
The paddock looked empty and a bit forlorn but then I saw its occupants.
Quite close up, Llamas are pretty intimidating and not the scattey but affable pack-animals that we have been educated to accept.
The appearance of two of the beasts moving swiftly towards me was striking. Their long snaking necks, heads held upright and with an inscrutable and aloof expression on long muzzles. Stocky and muscly legs supported bulky torso's with thick matted mop top type fur.
I moved with purpose towards the lady of the Manor hoping that she would not be seen as a stranger or threat by the Llama's or at least with the possibility of using her as a human shield.
There followed a bit of a Peruvian stand-off in that paddock before they lost interest and galloped away through the daisies.
I remarked that I had not expected to see such animals to the east of Hull and my client commented that they had been a recent, impulse purchase. Whoever had sold them had marketed them on unique selling points of being able to scare off foxes intent on decimating the chicken population and with an appetite to consume huge amounts of dock leaves and other intrusive vegetation.
There was no surviving poultry to be seen and I stumbled over and cursed a little about the abundant broad leaved vegetation under foot.
On both counts the Llama's had failed spectacularly but they were just not bothered.
Little did I know as I made my way across the grassy paddock that I would experience the strangest of sights and sensations.
I am a town dweller through and through, I make no excuses for that, but my workload does inevitably mean that I deal with rural folk and rural properties and landed areas. I make a few jokes about my urban origins to the country dwellers which seems to make them more at ease on a first meeting. This is usually on the theme of pretending to be scared about the wide open spaces, the possibility of falling into a ditch or worse, on trespassing and being confronted by a landowner with a weapon or making a comment about nasty smells that often accompany an idyllic country scene.
The job today was to measure up a parcel of land which was to be sold to a developer who had just bought a redundant public house in a hamlet and was converting it into a pair of houses. The land in question had been leased by my client to successive pub tenant landlords for use as a beer garden but would be a desirable thing to own outright if the pair of dwellings were to be rented out or eventually sold.
I had pulled up on the road frontage having arranged to meet the client outside the former Inn .Such was the collection of builders vans, labourers cars and the impending offloading of a JCB excavator from a low loader on the narrow lane that there was perhaps the first ever traffic jam ever in that location. This would make our intended liaison impossible.
On the far side of the crowd of overall clad operatives I noticed a countryfied lady, wearing a rugby shirt, jodhpurs and with sunglasses sat atop her dishevelled blond hair. Her appearance was so alien to the surroundings that she could only be the client.
She strode purposefully over and her handshake, strengthened by endless hours holding the reins of a horse, caused me to wince effiminately. I made a mental note to work on my own handshake in such situations as rural folk do value a first impression.
The mesh fencing around the construction site and an officious Foreman in high viz vest and hard hat prevented access to measure the land from the road side and so I climbed up into a dusty and hay strewn 4 x 4 with the horsey lady and we drove around a maze of lanes and through the grand gates of The Hall.
It was an impressive manor house with a gentrified Victorian facade but with thin facing bricks to the other elevations indicating 18th Century origins. I was a bit disorientated by the tour of the hamlet and it took a few minutes for me to get my bearings. This was only by sighting the back of the old pub beyond the fencing of a paddock.
I was watching where I was placing my feet, in my city shoes, although I did have the option of my steel toe capped wellies (inherited from my late Father in Law who had worked in Construction). Ground conditions were dry and so I stayed in my somewhat unsuitable worn leather soled footwear for the duration.
There was some undulation to the patchy grass and clumpy foliage and concentrating on my negotiation through such alien territory I did not fully hear what the client was saying.
I did catch the words in the latter part of a full sentence "they are quite harmless but may make a charge at you", and "spitting is quite normal and not aggressive".
I glanced around nervously for a herd of heifers (who can be quite excitable), a gaggle of geese, an errant donkey, ramblers perhaps, holidaying circus creatures or convalescing zoo residents.
The paddock looked empty and a bit forlorn but then I saw its occupants.
Quite close up, Llamas are pretty intimidating and not the scattey but affable pack-animals that we have been educated to accept.
The appearance of two of the beasts moving swiftly towards me was striking. Their long snaking necks, heads held upright and with an inscrutable and aloof expression on long muzzles. Stocky and muscly legs supported bulky torso's with thick matted mop top type fur.
I moved with purpose towards the lady of the Manor hoping that she would not be seen as a stranger or threat by the Llama's or at least with the possibility of using her as a human shield.
There followed a bit of a Peruvian stand-off in that paddock before they lost interest and galloped away through the daisies.
I remarked that I had not expected to see such animals to the east of Hull and my client commented that they had been a recent, impulse purchase. Whoever had sold them had marketed them on unique selling points of being able to scare off foxes intent on decimating the chicken population and with an appetite to consume huge amounts of dock leaves and other intrusive vegetation.
There was no surviving poultry to be seen and I stumbled over and cursed a little about the abundant broad leaved vegetation under foot.
On both counts the Llama's had failed spectacularly but they were just not bothered.
Wednesday, 10 June 2015
Truth and Consequence
The lady of the house followed me around incessantly.
I was not sure if she just didn't trust me in her home or if she was hanging around in a quest for knowledge of what to look for in her onward move, that is if I reported back to my clients, her purchasers that the place was in good condition and worth the money.
I would say that she did have some justification in being concerned in case I broke, damaged, disturbed or just plain fiddled with something that I ought not to.
I have been known to break the odd ornament, the emphasis being on odd, cause damage to decorative finishes, rip up tight fitted carpets and mess about with settings on boilers and electric showers.
It is not that I am clumsy, awkward, ham fisted or malevolent.
I do these things on occasion in pursuit of further information.
I am on the trail of something interesting and the answer may be in an otherwise concealed, innacessible or prohibited place. My clients, as prospective buyers, when availed of a key piece of information are usually thrilled but the house sellers are invariably far from it.
The shadowing lady led me to start a running commentary on what I was looking for in a particular room or location in her pristine home.
By way of a back story, my career in surveying started in 1985. It is true to say that at that time the only defects of note and mention were damp ,woodworm and dry rot. These horrors had captured the imagination of the house buying public through consumer programme features or articles in the media about how one's dream home could turn into a nightmare from the ravages of rising damp, the nibbling of wood to perforation by annobium punctatum (woodworm) or that phenomena of voracious fungal attack, dry rot.
In the 1980's and in my working area the cost of sorting out a damp and timber problem could be, on average, £500. In today's money that is hardly significant but bearing in mind that a two bedroomed terraced house, pre war built and that first step on the housing ladder was £14,750 the cost of the repairs was a tangible proportion of the transaction.
The now relatively paltry sum of £500 could be a real deal breaker.
But what of surveying today?
Well, I do not exaggerate by saying that I have driven an estate car for the last 15 years not out of choice, although they are useful, but mainly to cart around my equipment and a few box files of notes and information on problems to be expected in housing and environments in the modern age.
Take the beloved home of the lady trailing me through it.
It was built about 1970 in a seaside town as a true bungalow. Cavity walls, as per the norm for modern housing, tiled roof, solid floors so nothing unexpected or unconventional. To complicate matters, at some time in the 1980's a first floor was constructed.
As I explained to the lady I was checking for all manner of issues and by careful investigation these could be either eliminated as a problem or pursued, again, if there was a reasonable trail of suspicion to follow.
Take the roof, when built it was common to fit asbestos cement bonded sheets at the verge. Asbestos was then perceived and promoted as the wonder material being durable, low maintenance and cheap. I pointed it out to the lady.
The solid floors may have been laid onto rubble and waste from urban clearance sites as was the widespread and acceptable practice of the era. Over the passage of time the hardcore and any sulphates from old chimney linings could expand and push out the external walls of a house. The lady went a bit pale.
The cavity wall would be secured at regular spacings by metal ties. If as a child you ever trespassed on a building site you may have treasured the butterfly wire twists as legitimate booty. In a seaside town the salt sprays can cause the ties to corrode, expand and fracture the mortar joints.
The lady hesitated to follow me into the next room.
I explained that a first floor uplift on the footprint of a bungalow would require a lot of strategically placed steelwork to support the loadings of joists, floors, fittings, furniture and inhabitants. The lady noticeable ducked and shirked where she stood under a downstand beam in the hallway.
The upstairs floors were typically for the 1980's in large chipboard sheets. I explained to the lady that early chipboard was just not very good and was prone to sagging between the joist supports. My impression of John Cleese doing his Ministry of Silly Walks Sketch as I made my way across the master bedroom confirmed that, yes, the house contained the weak, undulating flooring.
I was not deliberately tormenting the lady but I could have written a text book on the basis of my visit to her house.
I dare not mention my mental checklist of potential problems but these included the clay subsoils beneath the foundations, the relative proximity of a crumbling cliff line, yet more asbestos in her ornate Artex decorative finishes, a few misted up and failed double glazing units, toxic mould in the shower cubicle, potential electro-magnetic fields around the electrical consumer unit, the possibility of lethal carbon monoxide from a poor flue arrangement for the gas fire in the living room and a threat to the foundations from a once ornamental tree but now oversized and sprouting from the base of the outer wall.
Similarly I did not disclose that my pre-visit investigations had considered but then dismissed such issues as radon, sink holes, mining activity, flight paths, flooding, landslip, subsidence, contaminative issues, socio-ecomomic factors and education catchment areas.
By now my host was a gibbering wreck. I reassured her that, in fact, I had not found anything unexpected given the type, age and location of her home. It was actually quite pleasant, nicely fitted out and decorated.
She did ask me, as I was preparing to leave, to give her a frank opinion as to what would be the best thing consider for her next purchase. I seem to think that I replied, flippantly, had she thought of a caravan.
I was not sure if she just didn't trust me in her home or if she was hanging around in a quest for knowledge of what to look for in her onward move, that is if I reported back to my clients, her purchasers that the place was in good condition and worth the money.
I would say that she did have some justification in being concerned in case I broke, damaged, disturbed or just plain fiddled with something that I ought not to.
I have been known to break the odd ornament, the emphasis being on odd, cause damage to decorative finishes, rip up tight fitted carpets and mess about with settings on boilers and electric showers.
It is not that I am clumsy, awkward, ham fisted or malevolent.
I do these things on occasion in pursuit of further information.
I am on the trail of something interesting and the answer may be in an otherwise concealed, innacessible or prohibited place. My clients, as prospective buyers, when availed of a key piece of information are usually thrilled but the house sellers are invariably far from it.
The shadowing lady led me to start a running commentary on what I was looking for in a particular room or location in her pristine home.
By way of a back story, my career in surveying started in 1985. It is true to say that at that time the only defects of note and mention were damp ,woodworm and dry rot. These horrors had captured the imagination of the house buying public through consumer programme features or articles in the media about how one's dream home could turn into a nightmare from the ravages of rising damp, the nibbling of wood to perforation by annobium punctatum (woodworm) or that phenomena of voracious fungal attack, dry rot.
In the 1980's and in my working area the cost of sorting out a damp and timber problem could be, on average, £500. In today's money that is hardly significant but bearing in mind that a two bedroomed terraced house, pre war built and that first step on the housing ladder was £14,750 the cost of the repairs was a tangible proportion of the transaction.
The now relatively paltry sum of £500 could be a real deal breaker.
But what of surveying today?
Well, I do not exaggerate by saying that I have driven an estate car for the last 15 years not out of choice, although they are useful, but mainly to cart around my equipment and a few box files of notes and information on problems to be expected in housing and environments in the modern age.
Take the beloved home of the lady trailing me through it.
It was built about 1970 in a seaside town as a true bungalow. Cavity walls, as per the norm for modern housing, tiled roof, solid floors so nothing unexpected or unconventional. To complicate matters, at some time in the 1980's a first floor was constructed.
As I explained to the lady I was checking for all manner of issues and by careful investigation these could be either eliminated as a problem or pursued, again, if there was a reasonable trail of suspicion to follow.
Take the roof, when built it was common to fit asbestos cement bonded sheets at the verge. Asbestos was then perceived and promoted as the wonder material being durable, low maintenance and cheap. I pointed it out to the lady.
The solid floors may have been laid onto rubble and waste from urban clearance sites as was the widespread and acceptable practice of the era. Over the passage of time the hardcore and any sulphates from old chimney linings could expand and push out the external walls of a house. The lady went a bit pale.
The cavity wall would be secured at regular spacings by metal ties. If as a child you ever trespassed on a building site you may have treasured the butterfly wire twists as legitimate booty. In a seaside town the salt sprays can cause the ties to corrode, expand and fracture the mortar joints.
The lady hesitated to follow me into the next room.
I explained that a first floor uplift on the footprint of a bungalow would require a lot of strategically placed steelwork to support the loadings of joists, floors, fittings, furniture and inhabitants. The lady noticeable ducked and shirked where she stood under a downstand beam in the hallway.
The upstairs floors were typically for the 1980's in large chipboard sheets. I explained to the lady that early chipboard was just not very good and was prone to sagging between the joist supports. My impression of John Cleese doing his Ministry of Silly Walks Sketch as I made my way across the master bedroom confirmed that, yes, the house contained the weak, undulating flooring.
I was not deliberately tormenting the lady but I could have written a text book on the basis of my visit to her house.
I dare not mention my mental checklist of potential problems but these included the clay subsoils beneath the foundations, the relative proximity of a crumbling cliff line, yet more asbestos in her ornate Artex decorative finishes, a few misted up and failed double glazing units, toxic mould in the shower cubicle, potential electro-magnetic fields around the electrical consumer unit, the possibility of lethal carbon monoxide from a poor flue arrangement for the gas fire in the living room and a threat to the foundations from a once ornamental tree but now oversized and sprouting from the base of the outer wall.
Similarly I did not disclose that my pre-visit investigations had considered but then dismissed such issues as radon, sink holes, mining activity, flight paths, flooding, landslip, subsidence, contaminative issues, socio-ecomomic factors and education catchment areas.
By now my host was a gibbering wreck. I reassured her that, in fact, I had not found anything unexpected given the type, age and location of her home. It was actually quite pleasant, nicely fitted out and decorated.
She did ask me, as I was preparing to leave, to give her a frank opinion as to what would be the best thing consider for her next purchase. I seem to think that I replied, flippantly, had she thought of a caravan.
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