Recharging batteries.

Black Watch Memorial Aberfeldy 

 

This coming week we are taking a short holiday, staying in Aberfeldy where this statue is to be found. While I'm there I hope to rekindle a love affair with writing, with history and with my wee blog. It's been far too long, too easy to get out of the habit of spending an hour or two creating something, too easy to interject something else and too easy to forgive not doing it. I want to get past that even if I can't return to the frequent posts of my redundancy imposed free time.

Meanwhile, as I may not have an internet connection while I'm away, here is an older post based on my love of little known history. As it concerns Aberfeldy it makes a connection. While I'm there no doubt I'll be standing at the foot of this memorial and paying my respects to the man and his two friends who died so long ago.


               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Firstly, let me introduce you to the man in the photo. His name is Samuel Macpherson and he was born in Laggan in the highlands about 1712 or there abouts. He is standing on a memorial to the regiment of which he was part. It was officially The 43rd {Highland} Regiment Of Foot. Known in Gaelic as 'Am Freiceadain Dubh', it's more famous through translation as 'The Black Watch'

I have a natural sense of the ironic. It reassures me, keeps me sane, brings a wry smile to my lips and sometimes, a deep sense of satisfaction.

I think that as a Scotsman its part of our national character.

Let me tell you a wee tale: a tale of history, of Scotland and of irony. Jings, three of my favourite things all in one.

I hope I do it justice.

I once worked in Fort William in the highlands. Its gaelic name is 'An Gearasdan' which means simply 'The Garrison' and reminds me that it was fortified as a frontier outpost of the British Army when the area was a hotbed of rebellion in years long past. In the town there is a nice wee museum, and because of the area and its history there is a substantial part of it given over to Jacobite memorabilia. I found myself in there one lunchtime browsing round the usual cases of Jacobite glass and Highland weaponry. All very enjoyable to be sure but not really that out of the ordinary in any good local authority museum in the North of Scotland. As I was passing through a corridor linking two of the rooms I passed an old print.

Large and faded, without any kind of label to explain itself, it showed Highland soldiers apparently parading through a town, marching four abreast, clad in bonnet and plaid and being watched by 18th century townsfolk and led and accompanied front, side and rear by evenly spaced horsemen. They are approaching a high gateway.

Looking closer I saw none of the Highlanders were carrying any weapons and it was this that made me curious. I realised that the parade was no such thing, it was an escort. And those town gates are actually the gates to the Tower Of London.

What the print actually shows is the arrival at the Tower of London of the mutineers of the 43rd {Highland} Regiment of Foot in 1743. It was a story I knew but had been far from mind as I wandered here in Fort William.

At this point let me rewind time slightly even more and give some background detail, some historical context of the 'Watch' Regiments as I understand it anyway.

In 1667 Charles the Second authorised the Earl of Atholl to raise and train independent companies of troops from the most trusted { loyal to the crown } clans, and to cause them to 'keep watch upon the braes' in an attempt to impose law and order onto the wild highland regions and to protect the interests of the crown.

By the end of the century there were many regiments raised and led by clan chiefs and with loyalty through him to the King. The clan chiefs used the authority of the king to increase their own power when it suited them and by 1717 the watch regiments were disbanded as being ineffective. Where necessary they were replaced with regular troops, especially so after the early Jacobite rebellions, but regular troops were more like prisoners in their own barracks at Ruthven, Bernera or An Gearasdan, surrounded as they were by an alien landscape of imposing, unfamiliar hills and unfriendly natives who spoke little or no English.

During the rebellion of 1715 many members of watch companies left to fight for the Jacobites - no breach of honour for they followed the only allegiance they recognised, that of loyalty to the clan chief who had ordered them to join the army in the first place. The unreliable or potentially disloyal watch regiments were replaced with four garrisons of lowland Scottish or English foot. But the garrison forts were, as I said above, incapable of enforcing the rule of law and by 1727 general Wade - of road building fame - advised the King to reinstate the watch regiments.This was done and recruitment began in the old ways and with the same promise that the regiments would be retained to serve only in the highlands to protect their own lands. That was firmly understood by the regiments to be their sole duty and 'raison d'etre'.

Completing enlistment was no problem as with the effects of the disarming acts, particularly on the loyal  government supporting clans, joining the army became the only legitimate way for a young man raised in the martial traditions of the day to be able to bear arms. The vital difference this time was that control of the regiments now passed from clan chiefs into the hands of central government and professional, almost exclusively English, senior officers.

While these officers knew of the terms of enlistment, they had no conception of - or attachment to - the men themselves. They didn't understand the meaning of the bond given or the regiments instinctive attachment to its native land, tongue and culture. They also failed to realise that many of the men enlisted and serving under them as junior officers and lower ranks were far from being the kind of men so common other regiments of the British army. These highland volunteers were often gentlemen and the sons of gentlemen and felt themselves responsible for their behaviour to a clan, clan chief and a highly ingrained sense of honour. It was this trait that made Scots regiments such effective and ultimately, valued, fighting forces.

By 1741, recruitment and training over, The Black Watch {named after the dark colour of the government tartan} was sent to watch over its glens. Well trained but poorly equipped - more than 400 of the regiment used family weapons - they were given empty promises of kit ordered and weapons to be supplied that never materialised. But the overwhelming issue wasn't poor kit but of honourable promises repeatedly broken. For these honour sensitive products of the highlands the scene was set. History and circumstance would ultimately turn against them and make them victims of their principals.

The Jacobite threat had never gone away, in fact it was ever increasing and from 1740  Britain was at war with France in the fields of distant Flanders. It may be that previous experience of 'turncoat' regiments during the recent rebellions prompted King George to consider that to have large numbers of well trained, but not necessarily loyal, troops left behind at home in a politically volatile situation was just too big a risk. France was also very effectively using the Jacobite cause to try and destabilise the Hanoverian position and to force them to retain troops at home in case of emergency, thus weakening strength for overseas service. These factors laid the foundation for what was to follow.

By the end of 1742 the regiment received orders that it was to proceed from its mountain glens to the links at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh to be reviewed by General Clayton. Months before, they had been advised in letters home by a fellow officer serving in London in the regular army that it was being openly stated there that the Black Watch would be sent into England and then on overseas. This fed into the regiments deepest fears of being removed from their homelands against the conditions of their enlistment.

Once arrived in Musselburgh, tired and anxious, they were told that the General now wished to review them at Berwick on Tweed, and so they would have marched right past my front door. Perhaps they billeted overnight here in the village or nearby. I do know that on arrival at Berwick, and finally on English soil, the men were told that the King himself wanted to review them in London and after that they would be able to return home to their families. Tension mounted as more and more promises made proved to be of little value, and when the men expressed fear about being taken from their hills and anxiety of being posted abroad they were given platitudes and little else. As the regiment marched south through Alnwick, Newcastle, Richmond, Doncaster and Royston, while the highlanders appreciated the stir they caused - these feared, wild looking foreign speaking men and undoubted rebels - while they seem to have enjoyed the crowds who came to stare in the towns and countryside they passed through, the situation became more fraught the further from home they found themselves.

The men in the regiment were not aware that it was the Kings custom to review a regiment before it was posted overseas. It was not until they were in London and billeted across the city that they came in contact with people who were aware of that fact, and who made the highlanders aware too. In London they also met a party of Royal Scots just returned from Barbados with lurid tales of disease and death which did nothing to quiet the rumours that were flying round.

They also found that the King would not be reviewing them as promised after all having recently departed for Flanders himself.

After some rest time the regiment was paraded in front of the Duke of Montague and that afternoon given orders to proceed to embarkation on the Thames. No destination was given. Angered by what they saw as a clear and final betrayal of trust many of the men stated they would soldier no more but would return home as soon as possible. Others stated they did not want to continue in service unless all promises made were delivered and that there was a clear guarantee they would be returning to the highlands.

Samuel Macpherson, a sergeant in the regiment, a quiet, studious, well educated man who had studied law in Edinburgh until inactivity and frustration caused him to join the watch, and his cousin Malcom Macpherson, decided that if the men wanted to return home immediately they would take them. They would return the same way they had come, marching openly in good order, and if they needed to defend themselves to do so then so be it.

Those who intended leaving met on the nearby common at midnight and, when challenged by brother officers wanting them to stay and again plead their case, forced their way through them with fixed bayonets and cries of "Stand off!" More than a hundred made their way in good order and avoided bloodshed. They were joined the next day by some 70 more men, distrustful of the government, senior officers and determined to return home.

A very accurate print.

 Notice how the plaid is being used to keep the guns lock dry.

In 72 hours of freedom they travelled almost 100 miles on foot and not one of the units searching found trace of them. They molested no one, they stole nothing. They were given intelligence from sympathetic Scots in Wellingborough which told them they had come as far as they possibly could without interference from vastly superior numbers, and they took up a defensive position in the shelter of a small wood called Ladywood, near the ruined shell of a mansion house called Leyvden New Bield.

The men negotiated over two days with a member of the local gentry who also alerted the newly arrived militia that the mutineers were well prepared, well dug in, well supplied with arms and apparently willing to make a stand. Given assurances over two days guaranteeing a fair hearing they surrendered and threw themselves on the mercy of the Army in the hope that their grievances would at last be honestly heard. They were, as the museum print clearly showed, taken under guard to the Tower Of London.

Samuel Macpherson, Malcolm Macpherson and another, Farquhar Schaw, were identified as leaders of the group, quickly tried, found guilty of mutiny and sentenced to be shot. All others were, as their worst fears had always been, sent to the West Indies or the Americas for life.

Samuel, Malcolm and Farquhar were put against a wall in the tower and executed while their comrades looked on, some hiding their faces in their plaids to avoid the sight. They were  conveniently already wearing their shrouds under their plaids at their killing and were hastily put into coffins and buried where they fell. They lie there still.

Before this a few sketches were made of them at exercise and used in the daily pamphlets which were the precursors of newspapers.

One of the Ladywood Mutineers

Many years later, while looking for an accurate depiction of the uniform of the day, it was one of these sketches that was unknowingly used as the basis for the memorial to the raising of the Black Watch regiment in Aberfeldy.

It appeals to my sense of history that to this day, in some way, Samuel  Macpherson still stands defiantly and looks out upon the hills he loved, had promised to protect and never wanted to leave.

It appeals to my senses of irony and justice that many people who come to stand at the foot of that memorial to rightly commemorate honour, sacrifice, courage and leadership stand there not knowing that they are looking up at a man who was put to death having been cruelly cheated and lied to by those in whom he had placed his trust, but who had himself always been true to his word, his principles and his people.

Well done Sam....

La a blhair s'math na cairdean
Its good to be with friends on the day of battle.

See you later.

Exhale/Inhale

I step out into the garden, stretch and exhale slowly in morning air that holds quiet promise of coming Autumn. In the fields around the village farmers harvest their golden prize from summer near past. I walk barefoot to the apple trees and load the feeders for the birds and luxuriate in the feel of cool grass between my toes. It reminds me that I should be dealing with the garden before we head off for a short break at the weekend, back to France and that special place that's come to mean so much to me over these last few years.

I'd wanted to go to Languedoc for years and years before I ever got there. When I did I felt immediately at home, somehow completely relaxed and at peace. Oddly, I felt unexplainably relieved just to be there. I never said anything to My Lovely G, thinking it was probably just over reaction to that getting-away-from-it-all-on-holiday feeling, yet feeling like it was more than that too.


 A few days before the holiday ended we were sitting in the 'Bar A Vin', our favourite watering hole in the ancient walled city of Carcassonne, slaking thirst and letting the heat of the day drain from us as we recovered from a day trip somewhere that had included a hill climb beyond what the overweight middle aged me was comfortable with anymore. My mind wandered over the day: rivers we drove beside, tiny villages, narrow hill roads, treacherous paths and that withering climb to a Cathar castle ruined centuries ago perched high on its crag. And yet most of all my mind pondered on how familiar it all felt. How comforting it was to push the path down beneath my feet and walk higher and higher through an environment that should have felt completely alien yet instead was the absolute opposite.

I turned to G and said, "Y'know, I don't think I've ever been somewhere I've felt more at home than here - other than actually at home. I can't explain it. I know this is the first time we've been here but I love it. I really do. I feel such a sense of peace. I've been trying to dismiss it as some kind of daft holiday nonsense but I honestly can't. I absolutely love it here."

I glanced across the table into those mesmerising eyes and found I was being examined with one of those typically concerned looks I know so well.  I braced myself for a dose of reality.

"I know. I feel it too. I can't explain it either."

Back in the now I turn from the trees and the now full bird feeders tucked amongst the apples and head back across the grass to the house. At the patio door I turn and look back at the garden for a second, stretch and slowly inhale cool morning mixed with the scent of the garden. Autumn's in the air here for sure and the days will soon be growing short. I wonder how it will have changed by the time we get back. After breakfast I'll get out and mow the lawn, weed the borders and tidy down the drive for the last time this summer. Even though we'll be gone just a week summer will have gone by the time we get back. I'll be sad to see it go but glad to be back in France again.

My laptop isn't coming this time but G is taking hers so I may get a blog or two in, especially if I get the inspiration or some good photos. I have programmed in a couple of Sunday posts anyway to keep the blog ticking over.

See you later or maybe au revoir!

Listening to:

The Sunday Posts 2013/Sink Song

This weeks offering is chosen by blogger pal Indigo Roth who's staying with us at the moment. {Strange that - I thought I'd managed to put him off  for life the last time he was here!}

I imagine he chose this because of all the lovely porage I make him - not the amount of porage-pot washery I've made him do, although you can tell what's made the biggest impression.

Scouring out the porridge pot
Round and round and round!

Out with all the scraith and scoopery,
Lift the eely ooly droopery,
Chase the glubbery slubbery gloopery
Round and round and round!

Out with all the doleful dithery,
Ladle out the slimy slithery,
Hunt and catch the hithery thithery,
Round and round and round!

Out with all the obbly gubbly,
On the stove it burns so bubbly,
Use the spoon and use it doubly,
Round and round and round.

Poem by J.A. Lindon

Photo of Indigo Roth by Indigo Roth {because the man loves a 'selfie'.}

House and Garden.

The Munot, Schaffhausen, taken on Tuesday.

The flight to our holiday destination with relatives in Kanton Schaffhausen in Switzerland was as smooth and stress free as these things are possible to be. We checked in on-line, took only hand luggage and left our hotel near the airport with good - but not too much - time to allow us to leave the car in a secure car park, take a very short bus ride to the terminal and walk straight to security. As we passed through the main departure hall the place was thronged by multitudes of people lugging huge cases and an enormous queue that shocked me. It was only 5am on a Sunday morning after all.

The side of the house. 'Klosterli'  {The little cloister}

Upstairs the line for security was small and we were scanned and through in a few minutes, leaving us just enough time to walk to the departure gate and relax a moment before being called forward to board. Our flight meant a change in Amsterdam and again, once off the plane we casually walked to the departure gate and were immediately boarded onto the next flight. Once landed in Zurich we simply had to walk through the baggage hall and out where we were met by The Lovely G's cousin Martin who was astounded, in a very Swiss way, that we'd managed to get through only six minutes after the plane had landed. That's Swiss efficiency {and luck} for you!

The barn broom

Normally the weather here is much better than back home but we'd been warned that just like us they'd not had the greatest start to the year as far as that's concerned and the forecast for the next two weeks in fairly mixed. That doesn't matter to us though. we've been here plenty of times in the past and in truth are looking for a simple just-time-with-family kind of holiday. The weather is pretty inconsequential. Some sun will be fine but to be honest it's the kind of place that is stunning in any weather. I hope the second week is best, truth be told, simply because we're being joined by The Lovely G's brother and fiance and our gorgeous niece Emily and it would be great to have some sun while they're here so Emily can get out and about with us.

The end of the hallway

 

So far there's been both sun and rain, plenty of time to relax with family, read books and play about with my camera taking shots around the house and garden between showers. The house is a farmhouse, even though it's in the heart of the old village, and has a huge barn attached ripe for exploring and taking moody photos in. The house, built over a hundred and thirty years ago by Onkel Richard's Grandfather, is bright and airy with an original traditional wood fired heating system. Aunt Margot and he each take a small sack of cherry stones heated in the range to bed with them each night to keep the nights chill away - not that us Scots think the nights are chilly at all!

The wood stack

These are a few of the photos taken so far - a flavour of the house, garden and the local town. I hope you enjoy them.

 

Klosterli

 

Listening to:

Getting away from it all.

By the time I can post this for you to read I’ll be sitting cosy in the house of my wife’s Aunt and Uncle in a small village in the very north of Switzerland. We’re on a fortnight’s holiday with the other side of the family, relaxing and reconnecting with a special place full of very special people. This year we won’t be doing as much travelling as we have often done in the past. We’ve decided this will just be the chill-out of all chill-outs. 

The final day at home was filled with the kind of last minute prep or panic as some people unforgivingly describe it that us men are experts at. In my defence I’d say that years of living away from home have made me blasé about packing and I can do it in about fifteen minutes and as for the rest: weather and work has been against me. The garden has been slowly burgeoning since I last worked out there and has been much in mind as needing attention but every time I’d some time available to do it, it has been raining or the ground still sodden from previous downpours. It’s been a major niggle and I was thinking that I’d never get a chance before we left. 

 On Thursday I was on a day off work and the weather was good but I’d remembered late the night before I had to go and speak to a group of local authority social workers on the changes to child protection legislation being enacted. I’d been asked to give them a talk on the changes from a Children’s Hearing perspective, especially any issues which had implications on social works required interaction and provision of evidence to allow us to make decisions. Having completely forgotten, I hadn’t prepared anything so spent the morning doing that while the sun shone, then spent most of the afternoon delivering it and answering questions. By the time I got home it was tipping down. I thought I’d lost the last chance and would be coming back to a wilderness in a couple of weeks. With the amount of rain here in Scotland grass grows at fearsome pace. 

This morning we woke to clear skies and a cracker of a day. Within minutes of getting up I was barefoot in the garden checking if it would be able to be cut and soon after I pushed the throttle open on the lawnmower. A few hours later I stood back, pleased with the result and almost wishing I could enjoy the rest of the day sitting out there with a cold drink and a good book. Unfortunately that wasn’t on the agenda. A shower and a change later I pulled together the things I need for the holiday and soon after we left to take Jess to the cattery, take a birthday present to one of our sisters in law before heading into Edinburgh to have a meal on the way out to the airport where we were staying nearby to catch a very early flight on Sunday..

 

At least I got the grass cut.

The weeds on the drive will be there when I get home.

In Edinburgh we walked from the car park at Waverly, the main train station along the length of Princes Street with the castle for once looming bright in the afternoon sun. It was stunning and the light highlighted some incredible detail in Castle Rock and in some of the historic skyline of the city. Being me {naturally} I’d left my camera in the boot of the car. That was probably no bad thing as I could have spent hours taking photos today but I don’t think The Lovely G would have been too pleased, expecting as she was to have a leisurely walk to a restaurant on one of the side streets.

 

Princes St. Edinburgh taken last summer.

Edinburgh is a wonderful place and is already seeing the start of the summer influx of tourists. The streets and bars were busy as we walked with people keen to sit out on a sunny afternoon at the kerbside tables that have become a normal sight in town. Normally though the customers are hunched over hot drinks or cigarettes and swaddled in layers of waterproof clothing but today for once there was perhaps the 'continental' feel the city fathers responsible for such stupid planning regulations in our rain soaked part of the world hoped for when they brought such things into the often narrow mediaeval streets, with happy faces and  peely-wally {pale} skin unused to the sun’s rays exposed for probably the first time this year. 

Soon those same streets will move from busy to crowded, especially when Edinburgh Festival, the world’s biggest festival of the arts, comes with its annual invasion of more or less talented and beautiful people.. Then the place will teem and every seat at a table in the town’s multitudes of bars and restaurants will be a prize to be coveted by a lucky few. Despite that it’s my favourite time here and I’m already planning some excursions with the camera.

But for now?

 

Gabirelle's Aunt's house

 

 

Rheinfall - just a walk away

 

Our niece Julia in traditional costume

It’s all about Switzerland.

 

See you later

.

Listening to:

A Tale Of Two Cities?

Our hero is bemused - as usual.

I turned the key in the lock and walked out to the car across the half inch of snow that was being slowly added to by the minute, the bags heavy in my hand as I opened the boot and placed them, my camera bag and a couple of other things we'd decided to take on this short break, carefully inside. We always have a holiday around my birthday and this year's no exception, although we'd decided to stay in the UK to save money for later in the year, something I was regretting momentarily as snowflakes managed to get down the neck of my shirt as I got into the drivers seat. It struck me that somewhere warm and sunny right now would be a nice relief from the cold and damp of a Scottish winter. Technically it's not winter any more of course, but no-one's taken time to let the weather know and it's been dourly consistent in its approach to the passing days. This holiday would take us to England, staying a few days with a friend and an overnight somewhere on the way back at the end of the week.

Ok - maybe not quite half an inch. Sue me.

The snow on the road at the end of the drive was red slush, stained the colour of the local soil from the fields around the village, but had all but disappeared as we joined the main road a few moments later and headed south on the twenty minute drive to Berwick Upon Tweed to catch the train due in half an hour. I flicked the wipers on as dirt spray spattered from cars in front and decided that lights wouldn't be a bad idea either on a day so grey and flat and with the world in monochrome beyond the window.

The day was dull and grey and monochrome.

A lot to say in English.

In Scots we'd just say 'dreich'. Everyone would understand.

A few minutes later than the scheduled time we pulled out of the station comfortably sat at a table to ourselves. G was texting ahead to let our pal Indigo Roth know that we were on our way while I  was busy setting up my laptop for the journey- a couple of hours then a switch to take us another couple of hours down towards Cambridge before finally changing to a local service to get to our friends home town. Part of my birthday pampering was this part of journey in first class, with its extra leg room, better seats and a never ending supply of complimentary tea, coffee, drinks and various other goodies. I was pleased, but we'd be coming home standard class as we'd decided to break the journey into two smaller portions with an overnight stay in York, - one of  'our places'- making first class an unreasonable cost.

 G is a seasoned rail traveller from her time working in Edinburgh but it's not something I've done a lot of over the years, my preference almost always being to drive. A rail journey then, is special to me and I'm always reminded of my first train trip as a small boy - a visit with my Grandmother to her twin sister who lived at the other end of the world. Or that's how it seemed to me at the time. Being such an unusual and evocative means of transport to me,  trains are therefore special and I always get a frisson of excitement as a journey starts. In some ways it's part of the reason I'd rather be an infrequent passenger. I like to keep it special. I'd hate to lose the feeling.

As we stepped off the train a few hours later the figure of our chum was easily identifiable. It's not easy to miss the afghan-lean six foot five figure of Mr Roth and today was no exception as from the other end of the platform he raised his walking cane and waved a cheery greeting some distance over the heads of our fellow travellers. While we walked towards each other he doffed his gleaming bowler hat and beamed a smile, his dark locks shining in the late afternoon sun. He'd dressed for the occasion in an impressive Victorian style frock coat,  with dark, muted stripe trousers over gleaming shoes and spats. From beneath his coat the edge of a crimson waistcoat caught the eye and led the glance past an immaculately starched ivory shirt and a Jacobs-coat-of-many-colours cravat at his throat to our monocled friends face. By the time he'd reached us he'd removed one of his pale calfskin gloves and proffered a hand the size of a small country to G, who was delighted when he bowed and kissed the back of her hand before scooping her into a hug and lifting her several feet off the ground.  When he gently returned her to the platform he kept an arm protectively around her as he replaced the hat on his head, adjusted the angle to 'jaunty' and thrust a manly paw in my direction. I reached out to shake it to find myself pulled to his side while he exclaimed his delight at seeing me again. I felt my shoulders squeeze several inches towards each other as he manoeuvred all three of us around to face the opposite direction. He gently encouraged us in the required direction and when I turned to collect the bags found that he'd scooped them all up, one in each hand and one under each arm. Nodding cheerily towards the exit he began explaining all the plans he'd made to introduce us to the local area over the next few days as we walked from the station.

Ely Cathedral

At the large sleek automobile parked in front of the station building he flipped open the expansive boot and put the bags effortlessly away before the gleaming lid seemed to close automatically. I found myself grinning at the sight. Typical! Nothing's ever ordinary around this man. A quiet cough brought me from my reverie to find him standing by the open rear door as G took her seat. He closed it behind her and opened the front door, indicating with a look that I should sit up front beside him. The journey from the station took only a few minutes as he explained the rail company had built the station on the edge of his estate and sure enough we were soon to pass through the entrance gates and onto the drive beyond. It was 'unfortunate' in one way explained our host as he drove at breakneck speed through the grounds, as the views were 'somewhat curtailed' by the station but it was frightfully handy for visitors. He went on to explain that the view in the opposite direction took in almost the whole estate and he'd set aside rooms for us on the third floor so we could take full advantage of the scenery. Nothing but thoughtful is Mr Roth.

Windows like these are really hard to see out of.

Putting them them so far off the floor doesn't help either.

He paused at the wide door long enough to punch a few digits into a keypad and once past the secure entrance and into the house itself we were shown to our room and given time to get freshened up. Indigo said we should take our time and when ready he had some refreshments prepared and we could relax and catch up with all the news since we'd last met when he'd come to ours to stay a couple of months before.  Later, after a wash and brush up, our host, now sat langourously in a huge wing-back chair with a velvet smoking jacket to replace his outdoor coat,  a tassled fez perched on his dark hair and with red velvet slippers on his huge feet, plied us with delicious coffee and petits-four. The coffee, as expected coming from something of a connoisseur, was exceptional. I enjoyed the after dinner snifter that followed a home cooked meal later too. The perfect and civilised end  to a days travelling.

Indigo had just completed a challenging month of writing while working on his first book, but the output had been largely frustrating as it had shown him that what he'd hoped to get out as one novel was now looking like three or four. Glad of the opportunity to take a breather, he'd organised the next few days so we could spend time together and indulge in our shared passion for photography and cream teas. Sorry - I mean architecture. He talked us through the architectural delights of some of the coffee houses, tea shops and cathedrals he hoped to take us to before we spent the rest of the evening comparing our camera gear and discussing the pros and cons of digital photography and visualising travel through time and relative dimensions in space until it was time for bed.

York Minster

The next few days would pass quickly as we hurtled enthusiastically from place to place with Indigo behind the wheel of his charabanc. Writing this from home after the event and given the speed of his driving, the memories are blurred. Hopefully, the photos aren't.

York Minster

I got some odd looks lying down to take this.

{but I still enjoyed the snooze too}

Thank you Indigo. Hopefully we can do The Edinburgh Festival this year.

See you later.

Listening to:

Holiday Day Two.

 

 

On Mondays there’s a great little market in Mirepoix. Now, strictly speaking, or more accurately, being absolutely truthful - Mirepoix isn’t in Aude at all, it’s in Ariege, a neighbouring area, but from the Villa Cabardes in Lavallette near Carcassonne where we’re staying it’s an easy half hour drive away. To miss it is an absolute no-brainer.

 

 

 

 

Soon we’re parking up on the edge of town and walking the few minutes into the dramatic arcaded medieval square. By the side of the 13^th century church, under the window boxes of overhanging painted medieval houses, people are busy buying ingredients for the kitchen; cheeses, bread, sausages, charcuterie, vegetables, fruit and an incredible variety of jams, pickles, honey, mustards - the variety seems endless in such a small place. Mixed in are stalls full of bric-a-brac, clothes, jewellery and antiques, Throw in the odd knife grinder - no I’m not joking! - and street entertainment - and you begin to get the feel of the place. It’s buzzing, yet in a very understated French way. The feel is very much that normality is taking place, as of course it is. This has literally been taking place in the same spot for centuries. Under the arcades, café’s and restaurants are doing brisk trade, offering breakfast, coffee, lunch and any assortment of drinks or snacks to the weary shopper and the overwhelmed tourist. From the shade of the arcade you can enjoy a coffee or a glass of local wine or beer, eat lunch and watch the market at work, see the coming and goings, the meetings and greetings of everyday life take place.

 

 

 Fascinating, fabulous and a fan-blooming-tastic way to start the holiday!

A place like this demands that at the very least you experience its vibrancy with perhaps one, preferably two, perabambulations round the square and through the stalls, a walk through even those possibly less fortunate stalls which overspill the main square into the streets beyond and an {ahem} obligatory stop at one of the numerous cafes at the side of the market. We do the full tour…….

 

The great thing about carrying a camera, is that my hands and much of my mind is occupied; looking for shots; calculating depth of field, ISO, aperture for the light conditions and almost any combination of the above. Distracting and fun as it is none of that guarantees a decent photograph but it leaves precious little time for shopping which suits me fine. I’m not a shopper unless there’s ingredients to be bought for a meal at the end of it. Unfortunately the same is not the case for The Lovely G. who also has both hands and mind free to get up to all kinds of mischief. Thankfully she is as distracted by the sights sounds and smells as I am and we complete at least one circuit without any financial impact whatsoever. The second circuit costs us a few Euros spent on some bracelets she tells me are ‘shamballa’ style, with a curious but clever slide-y knotted fastening to open and close them. This is demonstrated to me but my mind, as I’ve said, is on things photographic and I’m afraid I don’t pay as much attention as I should, or take the obvious opportunity literally at hand. Thankfully my error is unnoticed/expected/forgiven and we move on. My attention is taken by the sound of bagpipes being played to the beat of a drum and I head over to investigate the din and find two highly photogenic men dressed in a blend of Moorish/pirate gear knocking out some very catchy stuff. I take a number of shots trying to cope with the fact they are standing in bright sun beside some of the glariest backgrounds around. Some work, some don’t and by the time I’ve worked it out they - and the rest of the market - have begun to pack up and leave. Was it something I said or is everyone just camera shy???

 

 

 

　

As the market winds down we too decide to head back to Carcassonne and find a spot just below La Cite where we can park {free} well away from the tourist {expensive} car parks. A leisurely walk up the hill into the citadel via a back gate and a wander through a couple of streets inside the ramparts takes us to one of ’our’ places: La Bar a Vin. It’s a small bar and tapas restaurant under looming ramparts in the walled garden of what has been the house that is itself now part of the bar. The space is shaded by enormous chestnut trees which gives a magical light and cooling shade to the place. We’ve spent a lot of time here over the years, drinking coffee or wine, enjoying the simple food on offer and the comings and goings of visitors. It’s one of my favourite bars in the world and a must visit place during any holiday here. Just one of those great little finds that helps make a holiday special. Today we have a cool drink and share a plate - a crusty bread ‘boule‘, goats cheese and honey. Simple and magnificent in the afternoon sun. The bar is almost empty at this time of the year, very different from the frantic pace of the last few months but the staff are as usual relaxed and funny. It’s a real performance and one that we enjoy.

 

 

 

 

Soon though the heat is getting to us and we head back to the car for the short drive home. For me, the pool is calling……

 

 

　

See you later.


 

Listening to:

Carcassonne

Carcassonne - La Cite

We arrived on Sunday morning, a dull grey affair that was disappointingly little warmer than the wet one we’d left behind in Scotland just a couple of hours earlier. The landing approach brought us in a low circle of the huge walls and towers of La Cite, the ancient medieval heart of Carcassonne deep in the south of France and gave us a spectacular start to our stay despite the weather. Like Edinburgh, Carcassonne sits proud on its rock above the sprawling town below but there the similarity ends. Edinburgh is beautiful and I love her, but beside Carcassonne, with her fairytale princess looks, tanned and tall in the sun, she‘s an ugly sister in a dowdy frock.

 

Rennes Le Chateau

 

 

We pick up our bags quickly in the quiet-now-the-summer-is-over airport and collect a hire car just as efficiently and within a short time are on our way to the rented villa where we’re staying. An acquaintance of G has done us a great deal on her holiday home and we find it’s a short ten minute drive from the airport in a sleepy village surrounded by vineyards. A combination of a strange bed the night before, getting up in the wee small hours and getting to the airport by 5am for the flight has left us exhausted and now, knowing we are within easy reach of at least one favourite holiday haunt here - La Bar a Vin in La Cite - we decide to have a nap for an hour before we head into Carcassonne.

 

A Great wee bar

 

 

The Lovely G and I have been here several times before. I’ve been fascinated by this area and its history for longer than I can remember and had always wanted to see it for myself but somehow holidaying here had never seemed a viable option. I never felt I could afford it and then, after meeting G with her Swiss roots, for many years I lost my heart - and all my available holiday resources - to Switzerland. It was hard not to when introduced to her wonderful relatives and such a stunningly beautiful country. But ultimately chocolate box beauty gave way to an insistent longing to see what I’d been reading about all these years: Languedoc, or more specifically, the Haute Valee area of Aude, the edge of the so called ‘Pays du Cathars‘.

 

Lagrasse

 

 

That first visit was six years ago now and since then I’ve been back every year. I found I was instantly and completely at home. Things seemed so familiar, so expected. I wanted to love it and I do, more than I could ever have imagined and more than I can probably explain. I soon laid tentative plans for a holiday home and retirement to the sun but these haven’t happened - yet. For now I have to be content to visit and renew my acquaintance with this unique place, this sanctuary of mine. In the last few years we’ve ranged across the area, from the walls of Carcassonne to La Montaignes Noir, west to the border forests of the Ariege and the snow capped Pyrenees, from Mt Cardou to distant Beziers and Narbonne on the Mediterranean coast. We’ve climbed to mountain castles destroyed in the Albigensian crusades, to Cathar villages, trailed through vineyards dripping with ruby grapes and enjoyed the wines that comes from them as well as the tasty goats cheeses, fabulous breads and honeys that go so well with all. Most of all we’ve followed the quiet river valley of the Aude‘s high valley, from Limoux of the sparkling wines, to Alet les Bains and Couiza and mysterious Rennes le Chateau high on its peak, past the Donjon of Arques, to the spa village of Rennes le Bains deep in its river gorge. All of them have told tales, left indelible marks and made me more fascinated, tempted and haunted by L’Aude than ever.

 

La Canal Du Midi - Carcassonne

 

 

Now we’re here, its time to get started again.

 

I’ll let you know how we get on……..

 

 

See you later.

 

 

Listening to:

 

 

A Balcony on the World

This is the final instalment of photos from our recent trip to Lake Garda in Italy. Sorry it’s taken so long – circumstances have meant time to post anything has been much reduced of late. Now however I have a bit of time at last and have it’s been nice revisiting the photos and the memories they bring.

As we stepped off the little lake boat that acts as a floating bus service around the edge of the lake that day and onto the jetty at Malcesine about 40 minutes from Riva Del Garda where we were staying, it was clearly a busy little place with lots of noise as tourists and locals jostled for position to get to the best seats on the emptying boat. The jetty was at the edge of a small harbour which was itself at the edge of a picturesque little square, lined with cafes, bars and restaurants and the typical shops you find in any tourist dependant destination. It was clearly signposted as a tourist spot by the prominent castle that towered over the sun-bleached pantile roofs of the old town circled about its base and guaranteed that it was going to be high on the list of potential stop off places within easy reach of the north end of the lake where we were staying

Even though I’m the kind of tourist who is always keen to support the local economy via the occasional delight of a judiciously placed hostelry or two, it was obvious that for the moment at least any idea I might harbour in that direction would have to be placed on hold as The Lovely G tramped determinedly off towards the nearest leather emporium. I hastened behind, determined to limit any potential damage on our fragile bank account but by the time I caught up with her I was relieved to find that she was clearly only in ‘browse’ mode rather than anything else. I was able to relax and inhale that amazing smell you get from new leather and which is almost overwhelmingly intoxicating when surrounded by the stuff. The heady effect of the leather shop we had just come into almost worked on me as I began to see several bits and pieces which could have been easily fitted into the suitcase for home but I managed to regain enough self-control to exit without splurging any dosh on those kind of holiday buys that you invariably regret when you get home with a ‘What the…? ‘  kind of feeling, divorced as you are from the effect of sun and foreign climes to carry you away on a raft of {expensive}enthusiasm. We’ve all done it and probably all still have some holiday bought ‘tat’ hanging about for no other reason than ‘It’s paid for so I’m going to get my money’s worth out of it!’.

A while later, after the narrow streets had completely confounded us and taken us in completely the wrong direction to our planned destination we turned and headed back up the hill and closer to the castle. The day had become hotter and although the narrow streets and high building of the old town gave plenty of shelter we kept walking past hidden little squares and satisfied tourists and locals enjoying a quiet drink or a bite to remind us that we were after all quite tired and getting evermore thirsty { ok – that may only have been me}. As we climbed, taking photos here and there, browsing in interesting we shops {ok – that might only have been her} and getting nearer to the castle we stumbled on a little bar/restaurant tucked away against the ramparts of the castle and with an impressive view from the terrace.

As we were guided to the white cotton covered table at the end of the terrace we passed a chilled cabinet of fresh fish and a screened off open air kitchen. That and the fact that the menu given had no prices on made me worry that we were in a place beyond our means.  We explained that we simply wanted to have a drink and coffee and the waitress seemed fine so while the Lovely G ordered coffee I opted for a glass of a local red wine. The wine, when it came, was amazing; full of flavour but not heavy and at just the perfect temperature. In fact so good that despite not having a clue as to how much it would cost I ordered another on finishing it.

There’s not much better than having a wonderful glass of something to hand while you look out on a stunning bit of landscape on a great day, especially with your nearest and dearest by your side and that’s just how the next hour of gentle chat passed before we paid a ridiculously small bill {Yes I was wishing I’d ordered something from that chilled case after all} and climbed the last few steps to the castle.

Great views continued through the next while as we explored every inch of the castle of Malcesine – a favourite place of Goethe when he toured in the area. The castle is ruined but well maintained and is a picturesque venue for weddings and functions as well as having museums of culture, history and geology on-site. The views over the town and the lake are, of course, outstanding and the walk down from the keep through the old town is a photographer’s dream.

I was quite sad to leave, more so because it was our last day here and like the end of all holidays, the final ones are always the fastest.

Still - there's always the next time.....

See you later.

Listening to: