Category Archives: Scotland

What A Difference A Day Makes

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Humorous leap year postcard postmarked in 1908...

Humorous leap year postcard from 1908 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hurrah! At last February is on its way out, and I’m so glad it’s not a leap year. This means that March – and Spring – will arrive one day earlier this year. 

There’s a world of difference between the last day of dreary, chilly February and the first day of daffodilly, Easter eggy March. Even more so for my husband, because the first day of March happens to be his birthday.

How frustrating leap years must have been for him when he was a boy, making him wait an extra day for his birthday. But this year I’d been expecting him to hanker after a 29th of February, to put off the dawn of an alarmingly significant  birthday.

60 – The New 40

Yes, I know that 60 is often considered the new 40, but for me, 60 absolutely spells old age. (I say that from the safe perspective of someone still many years away from their own 60th birthday.) This is because my grandmother was born exactly 60 years before me, and for me she was the archetypal old lady. I thought that 60 years was the perfect gap between a grandmother and her granddaughter. I’ve always liked a neat round number.

To anyone who doesn’t know my husband, you might think me cruel to have bought him a watch for his 60th birthday. You might be concerned that every time he looks at it, he’ll be reminded how quickly life is passing him by.

But is he downhearted? Oh, no. He’s positively chirpy. He’s even requested we celebrate  with a party, although he’s not usually a party animal. I don’t think I’ll be feeling as cheerful when it’s my turn to leave my 50s behind.

This is a complete role reversal.  Usually, I am renowned for my optimism, ever the Pollyanna. For Gordon, not only is the glass half empty – it’s also got a crack in it. So why the sudden about-turn?

Saving Grace

The reason is, he’s a Scotsman. He appreciates the opportunity to conserve his spending. As a child, he and his sister set up a club in their loft, of which the key rules were pinned to the wall: “No smoking, no swearing, save money”. Although he has a generous heart and is capable of acts of extraordinary kindness, he is also very fond of opportunities to economise. And so as February closes, bringing old age closer by the second, he’s  preoccupied with  the financial advantages that turning 60 will bring him: his civil service pension, his free bus pass from the council, discounted entry to museums, and 10% off on Tuesdays at B&Q.

I don’t think such rewards will buoy me up when I turn 60. Instead I’ll be clinging desparately to my faith in the powers of nominal determinism. (Oh, how I love to slip that phrase into a conversation!) Because, after all, by marrying Gordon, I became Mrs Young. We have no intention of ever getting divorced, and so, no matter what my age, I will be forever Young. If that’s not a good reason to marry someone, I don’t know what is.

Happy 60th birthday, Mr Young!

Badge saying "60 Years Young"

What A To-Do! The Tale of My Young Daughter’s Action List

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Laura in Bronze Age costume at the Scottish Crannog Centre

Laura and friend travel back in time to the Bronze Age at the Scottish Crannog Centre

This evening, I’m intrigued to find my nine-year-old daughter preparing for a playdate in a very grown-up way: she’s made an action list.

I thought I was the only one in our household to use this method to try to squeeze more tasks into the day than time allows. Action lists, shopping lists, book lists – I’m constantly finding scribbled strips of paper stuffed in pockets and handbags that I’ve promptly forgotten without completing.

Even so, the act of writing down my plans gives me the illusion that I will at some point complete them. This is in spite of my self-scolding mantra: “The best way to get something done is to do it” – chanted to remind myself to stop messing about and get on with it.

Sometimes my lists are thoughtfully numbered in priority order or prefaced with egalitarian bullet-points, to deem no one item more important than the others. Either way, jotting the items down gives me the illusion that I’m in control of my hectic life. They usually contain at least 10 points.

I was therefore taken aback recently to hear an excellent management trainer declare that no action list should be bigger than a Post-it Note. My friend, who masterminds A4, Excel-formated to-do lists to manage all aspects of her life, was equally aghast.  When it comes to to-do lists, less is apparently more.

Wearing the ancient plaid at the HIghland Folk Museum, Newtonmore

Sometimes I join her to travel back in time: enjoying life in an 18th century croft at The Highland Folk Museum

But it’s not the size of my daughter’s action list that impresses me: it’s the breadth and ambition of her planned tasks. Whereas mine is full of practical mundanities that I am not looking forward to completing (place grocery order, do ironing, buy school uniform), her neat, bullet-pointed list  is positively adventurous:

  • travel back in time
  • get ship-wrecked
  • start an animal hotel

She pays no heed to  boring time constraints, budget, nor the rules of nature. I am dazzled by her exciting prospects. Her to-do list certainly puts mine in the shade.

Bronze bust of Walt Disney (photo by Wikipedia)

Dream or bust…

As Walt Disney said, “If you can dream it, you can do it. Just remember this whole thing was started by a mouse.” I reckon my problem is that I’ve not been dreaming enough. So I’ve put my old action list in the bin, and I’ll share with you my new list of things to do today – all the stuff of my dreams:

  • become fluent in a language that uses pictograms instead of lettters
  • have lunch with George Orwell and Gerald Durrell
  • discover the secret of how to become invisible
  • take a trip on a real flying carpet

And even better, I can fit it my new list easily on to a Post-it note! So what are your plans for today?

The Flying Carpet by Viktor Vasnetsov (1880) Photo credit: Wikipedia

And I’m off…

If you enjoyed reading this, you might enjoy these posts on a similar theme:

How To Get Things Done

How To Lose Weight By Feeding The Birds

 

Do Traffic Signs Drive You To Distraction?

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Old-fashioned road sign from Highland Folk Museum, Newtonmore

Road signs from the early days of motoring had so much more charm

The 380-mile drive home in our camper van from Stirling, Scotland, does nothing  to diminish my aversion to electronic motorway message boards. These huge signs have popped up alongside many British motorways lately. They must be costing the Ministry of Transport a fortune, as well as causing chaos through necessary lane closures and traffic disruption.

You know the sort I mean: ominous big black boards displaying a grid of light bulbs, selectively  illuminated to spell out the message of the moment. They’re sinister, unattractive and dull, a far cry from the carefully designed road signs from the early days of motoring. Those had a real charm about them; it must have been a pleasure to observe them and obey. Their messages were much more considered too. They had to be, given the long hours required to construct a sturdy metal sign.

Old fashioned road sign frequently seen in the Scottish Highlands

For ships in the night

I suppose I should be grateful that modern technology makes it possible for today’s driver to receive up-to-the-minute motoring news. But I seldom see any useful messages on these boards. The first one we pass today is a case in point: ”Please drive safely.” Oh, and there was I planning to slalom all the way to Gretna with my eyes closed!

And, Ministry of Transport, please note: it doesn’t calm any driver’s road rage to be told “Queues Ahead” when you’re already stuck in the middle of one.

But as the nation has invested in these message boards, I suppose we must make the best of them. To this end, I’d like to suggest some more  constructive uses:

  • To convey calming, philosophical thoughts at times of peak traffic, such as rush hour: “This too will pass” or   “There’s a cup of tea/glass of wine/cold beer at home with your name on it”
  • To lift the weary driver’s spirits and take their mind off the traffic: “You’re looking well today”; “You look so much younger than your years”; “That colour really suits you”
  • To divert restless young passengers with travel game ideas: “Let’s play I-Spy!”, “I went to the market and I bought…”, “Who will spot the first yellow car?”; “And now it’s time for a keeping quiet competition!”
  • To answer the children’s repetitive question: “No, we are NOT nearly there yet!”
  • For a more subtle approach, a series of messages on that theme: “We’re nearer than we were the last time you asked” or “Not much further now” or “For every time you ask, it will add five minutes to the journey”

Alternatively, the boards could try to replicate pleasing road signs from the golden age of motoring – or those from other countries that have made you smile. (Any suggestions, anyone?) To end on a more cheerful note, here’s one that we spotted last week in Applecross, in the north west of Scotland. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.

Road sign seen in Applecross, Scotland, cautioning "Men In Kilts Walking"

You have been warned…

And if that rant wasn’t enough for you, here’s my post from last summer on the same theme:

Rage Against The Road Signs

Or on a lighter note, a mystery solved about French lay-bys:

A Layby By Any Other Name

A Day At The Beach On The Isle Of Skye

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On the beach at Glenbrittle, Skye

The ambitious new sand palace begins to take shape

I’m concentrating on turning out the perfect sandcastle from Laura’s small pink bucket when I feel a sudden, unaccountable cold sensation at the back of my skirt.

Only when I realise that it’s also a very wet sensation do I swivel round to check the advancing line of the tide. In best pantomime tradition, it’s behind me. It’s taken me by complete surprise, as if playing an oceanic version of Grandmother’s Footsteps.

Building a river as the tide comes in at Glenbrittle beach, Skye

Building a river

Our planned sand palace for Laura’s toy dog, Candyfloss, is fast segueing into a water park. But are we downhearted? No, we are turncoats. We immediately set to work making a river, digging a trench from the water’s edge to the rocks a few yards further up beach. We are the antidote to King Canute.

“Come on, sea!” Laura coaxes. “You can do it!”

On this broad, shallow beach on Skye, we’re on to a winner. Our labours are soon rewarded. Laura is disproportionately joyful; I do not reveal how startled I am by how quickly the tide has encroached.

It is a sobering reminder of man’s powerlessness against the forces of nature. Against the almost primeval setting of the vast, bleak landscapes of the Cuillin hills, it’s not hard to feel small and insignificant – but it’s also exhilarating.

Laura beachcombing at Glenbrittle,Skye

“Anyone seen Sponge Bob about?”

What’s more, it’s a useful educational experience for Laura. I’m hoping an hour or two on the beach will counteract the hours misspent watching her favourite television programme, Sponge Bob Square Pants, set at the bottom of the ocean and defying all laws of nature. In Bikini Bottom, life carries on much as on dry land – only sillier. Repeated exposure colours your perception of reality.

Even I find myself pleased to spot a starfish (as in Sponge Bob’s best friend, Patrick Star) when we take a glass-bottomed boat ride a couple of days before. On the kelp beds beneath the Skye Bridge, there  are numerous sea urchins – beautiful, fragile, spiny domes in ethereal shades of mauve, pink and flesh. “So why are there no sea urchins in Sponge Bob?” I wonder, before I can stop myself.

Paddling in the warm shallows at Glenbrittle, I scoop up a tiny crab in one of Laura’s plastic spades. What’s the first thing I think of? Mr Crabs, the miserly fast-food entrepreneur who is Sponge Bob’s employer. I really need to get out more.

Finally, Queen Anticanute’s work is done.

Laura's river is a success

We did it!

“I’ve made a rock pool!” she rejoices, waving her spade.

Promptly abandoning her post to let the tide demolish her sandcastles, she skips off to romp through the shallows with the energy and enthusiasm of a puppy, kicking and jumping about until she’s dappled with saltwater splashes.

Picking up her abandoned turquoise fleece to save it from the encroaching tide, I take shadowy snapshots against the westerly sun, vicariously enjoying her childlike pleasure in the sea.

Little girl in a big sea at Glenbrittle, Skye

Little girl in a big sea

She’s not really dressed for a dip, but in budding rock-chick style is wearing scarlet pedal-pushers beneath her new black “Stonehenge Rocks!” t-shirt. Her thick dark blonde hair has been dragged into a plait down her back to guard against the tangling effect of today’s strong winds, currently buffeting her daddy along the top of the Cuillin hills behind us. I wonder how long it will be before she’s a rock-chick in earnest, jaunting off to Glastonbury with her boyfriend. But for now I capture these moments in my camera in hope of freezing the passage of time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I espy four young German boys clambering over the black rocks that line the bay. I hope they have an eye on the tide and will not be cut off from a safe return.

Time and tide, my friends, time and tide.

Looking out to sea at Glenbrittle beach, Skye

The Disarming Charm of Her Broken Arm

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Laura's new scooter

Have scooter, will travel

When towards the end of July, my nine-year-old daughter breaks her arm, my plans for her school holidays flash before my eyes like the life events of a drowning man.

No more scooting on her brand-new scooter, a start-of-holidays treat; no more swimming in the village school’s pool nor making waves in the high-tech leisure pools that we love to visit in Scotland; no flute duets with her best friend; and a no-show at the four art classes that I’ve booked her into for the following week. (She is right-handed and it is, of course, the right arm that she has broken.)

Laura is more optimistic than I am.

“Is it ok to do handstands?” she asks the kindly young doctor at the emergency fracture clinic.

Suppressing a smile, he shakes his head solemnly.

We’re lucky in that at least her arm doesn’t require a plaster cast.

“If you were a boy, I’d give you a cast, because a boy would just lark about and make it worse,” says the nurse. “But because I can see you’re a sensible girl, and the fracture is stable and self-supporting, we’ll make do with a sling.”

Laura is disappointed. She rather fancies a cast as a vehicle for autographs and a means of generating sympathy. We compromise by allowing her friends to write on the foam-padded sling.

I query whether the planned art classes count as larking about.

“No, you’ll be fine. Just rest the arm if it’s sore.”

Numerous charcoal and pastel drawings later, and with a clay sculpture of a beaming head to her credit, it’s time for us to fly north to join her father, already in Scotland with our camper van. With a heavy heart, I don’t bother packing her swimsuit or enquiring about the extra fee to take the scooter on the plane.

But on day one of our tour of the Highlands, it becomes clear that not only will the broken arm not put Laura at a disadvantage; it will bring her positive rewards.

We’ve stayed the night in our camper van outside a small parade of shops near Fort William, so in the morning I pop into a few of the shops to bolster the local economy. Laura comes with me to the charity shop. Choosing two small toy dogs at 50p each, she fishes a pound coin out of her purse. The lady at the till asks what she’s done to her arm.

“I fell off the monkey bars,” Laura tells her. “I’ve broken my arm.”

“Och, what a shame, dearie!” the lady says kindly. “Just put that pound coin away and we’ll call it 50p for the two.”

A little later, we enjoy revisiting one of our favourite local tourist attractions, the Treasures of the Earth mineral and gemstone museum. Laura’s already spotted that if you spend £20, you get a free gift from a lucky dip, and bemoaned the fact that her holiday money (and her mother’s indulgence) will not stretch to such extravagance. In the gift shop, she asks the lady on the till to help her find a souvenir that features the gemstone designated by the museum as her birthstone: an aventurine. The lady helpfully finds a small pendant priced £3.99. While Laura struggles, one-handed, with her purse, the lady enquires in a kindly voice what she’s done to her arm.

“I fell off the monkey bars,” Laura replies. “I’ve broken my arm.”

“Oh dear, you poor thing!” says the lady, scrabbling about behind the counter in what I suspect may be the lucky dip. “Never mind, because you’ve bought something, you’re entitled to a free gift.”

Opening the bag on leaving the shop, Laura finds, to her delight, a pair of rose-pink heart-shaped abalone shell earrings.

“Although I haven’t got pierced ears, they’ll look lovely on my toys,” she decides, satisfied.

Eilean Donan Castle, ScotlandWe press on, heading for Skye. We spend a pleasant hour en route at Eilean Donan Castle, billed as the most romantic castle in Scotland. It is also in demand as a film set, featuring in many films from James Bonds to Highlander. In the banqueting room, an enthusiastic guide in full highland dress, a two-foot-long feather in his tartan bonnet, tells us all about the castle’s latest role. It is in the new Disney Pixar film, Brave. We’re hoping to see the film while we’re in Scotland. Our resolve is bolstered by the guide’s praise for the crack team of artists that Disney sent in to sketch the castle. Pausing for breath, he notices Laura’s sling.

“So what did you do there?” he enquires.

“I fell off the monkey bars and broke my arm.”

“Och, no! Well, here’s a wee present for you,” he says, extracting with a flourish the  feather from his hat.

Laura is delighted with this unexpected gift. I’m not so sure. At this rate, instead of removing her sling at the end of next week, in line with doctor’s orders, she’ll be wanting to wear it ad infinitum. I’m starting to see a whole new meaning in the phrase “a lucky break”.

Laura at Castle Eilean Donan near Kyle of Localsh, Scotland

With the feather from his cap