#006: Toast, heart attack, gibbon

This weekend - cup final weekend to those of you who care, the 14th and 15th of May if you couldn't give two hoots - carrying a recording studio around on my chest just got boring. It wouldn't be so bad, were it not for the kitchen-bedroom-walk-in-wardrobe (studio apartment? I do have a trowel) on my back.

Windermere. Home of the "Funkiest B&B in the Country" Winner 2009-2010. There appear to be more guesthouses, hotels and their ilk than private residences. There is also a distinct shortage of stamps. Local supplies have completely dried up. Don't they know tourist season is now in full swing? Surely people will want to send postcards to their loved ones. Missed opportunity, Windermere. Missed opportunity.
A warm and friendly welcome from Ian, the proprietor of my abode for cup final Saturday (a B&B, but less funky). Christine "guessed I was a walker". No cooking or preparing food in the bedrooms ("tends to be the Asians"). Roast on the radiator? Steamed veg in the shower? Also, who in their right mind serves up six slices of toast to a single guest? I just consumed a generous bowl of corn flakes, a couple of helpings of freshly-squeezed orange juice, a none-too-shabby fry-up and a kettle-sized pot of tea. Immediately I imagine being in a couple and wondering what to do with TWELVE slices of toast. How many is too many to leave? A family with two point four children gets somewhere between 26 and 27 slices. But I showed them. Oh, I showed them and no mistake.

Stroll down to The Lake on Sunday morning. Here they have stamps. Did I just pay £3 for six stamps? I could get 2 litres of (unleaded) petrol and a box of matches for less but, granted, I would be rather less successful at sending things via the post. Still, a barrel of the finest crude is, in spite of everything going on in the world, cheaper than a barrel of stamps. Went to the local franchise outlet of the nation's favourite coffee shop and drew cartoons of my experiences.

Moved on to a hostel above Windermere and met Yamoto, a landscape gardener from the southern part of Japan who had recently been in London. Through a combination of (English) words and pictures, and his rather useful Japanese-English dictionary, we discussed feudal Japan, Ironworks, the right to protest outside parliament, monarchy and the Chelsea Flower Show and, using his recently-captured photo collection, I got to show him where my Dad worked for the majority of his career ("Father's Company") and the church where, I'm led to believe, one of my ancestors was married (St. Martin's in the Field).
Monday was spent strolling from the hostel over the hills to Ambleside and back again. I spent most of the day in the clouds despite a general lack of substantial elevation and will assume the views from the top of Wansfell Pike were spectacular. I also somehow managed to clock my heart rate at 132 which I think is about double its normal setting. I didn't have a heart attack though.
Tuesday I got an urge for animal perusal, so bought a 'use as many buses as you like in one day' pass and, through a series of unlikely connecting services, got myself ten minutes stroll from the gates of Trotters World of Animals. It was slightly better than anything the famous Peckham brothers could have put together. The Gibbons were the undoubted stars of the show, their human-like games and manly gait raising knowing smiles amongst the seven patrons who chose to visit that afternoon. I also got to see birds of prey work for their dinner, meerkats audition for TV work and (captive) wild boars sit about in their enclosure.

#005: Revolutions and Revelations

Revolution: There have been 11 since my last update.
Revelation: I look not unlike 'The Machinist' Christian Bale in his latter stages of insomnia, in the torso certainly. It is not down to insomnia, I think, as I sleep well. Nor is it down to poor diet, as my intake has improved inexorably from the slop I used to serve myself in Maidenhead. Indeed, my culinary skills have improved almost beyond recognition (not such a bold boast when considering the starting point), and I now have a healthy interest, perhaps even keenness, for bakery.
Revolution: I am, literally, on lap 3 of Scotland.
Revelation: Saw the face of the Gnome King in a pile of rubble near Aviemore.
Revolution: In the last 336 hours I have watched 32 episodes of Peep Show. And two-thirds of the Matrix trilogy, but not the Revolutions. Watch me as I discover the world.
Revelation: An evening jaunt to the laundry room brought me face-to-face with a young male deer; barely five yards apart we were. He didn't even see me the hapless, doomed beauty.
Revelation: Familiar faces become less so the more you gaze upon them. I watched Synechdoce New York again.
Revolution: After nigh-on two weeks unbroken sunshine, Findhorn is given to rain. And, boy, is it given.
Revelation: I'm about as Virgo as it is possible for a man to get.
Revelation: Blinked away an hour between Pitlochrie and Stirling.
Revolution: Stood atop Randolph's Leap, the point at which a Comyn escaped across the River Findhorn as they fled from Randolph.
Revelation: It's raining in Glasgow.
Revolution: Departing Scotland today.

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Number three on The List: Master Baker
Apparently my spelt fruit loaf is Farmer's Market-grade spelt fruit loaf.

#004: Naked Pagan Firewomen

The days immediately following the road trip were spent with Kerrigan in Findhorn, near Forres, on the stretch of coastline between Inverness and Aberdeen. She lives in an eco-cabin in The Park - land owned and run by the Findhorn Foundation. It is a surreal and beautiful place, somewhere between hare-brained commune and a clearly better way of living. Later middle-aged women saunter around on push bikes like winsome Parisian Mademoiselles, couples silently lead each other blindfold through the streets and woodland and tourists encroach onto lawns to catch a glimpse of the inside of Foundation properties and their largely normal inhabitants.
Kerrigan's cabin sits on the edge of pine forest which, in turn, backs onto protected SSSI (an EU Site of Special Scientific Interest) sand dunes and then, the beach. The shoreline stretches for miles in both directions and is virtually deserted for most of the time, birdlife aside. The weather here was glorious...maybe not quite as hot as down south...but fine for exploring the dunes and coastline while Kerrigan was at work.
I should mention the cabin again. It has a wood burner to heat all water and, when electricity is required, is powered by four great wind turbines at the edge of the Park. The Foundation generates its own power and sells back to the grid any excess it creates. The cabin's garden and immediate surroundings are ripe for foraging: nettles, wild garlic, mustard garlic - how these things have passed me by until now is a mystery.
After a week of cooking, eating, naked hot tubs with strangers, running along the beach and swimming in the sea, I set my sights on Ben Nevis, the biggest mountain in the UK. Budget allowed for the hire of a modest little car with a slick little gearbox and Kerrigan joined me for the swift jaunt round the country - we'd incorporate a visit to Edinburgh for the weekend. The trail up Ben Nevis isn't the most inspiring, but the views from it were. At times we could count almost double-figures of overlapping peaks and saddles retreating to the horizon, sea lochs snaking between them. From the top, the view was unfortunately obscured by cloud, but we did find small patches of snow, perfect for tobogganing down using our waterproofs. The drive south to Edinburgh the next day was just as spectacular as the Nevis views, Glen Coe especially conjuring memories of Iceland and dreams of the mid-west United States.
We stayed with Paul again in Edinburgh, and spent an afternoon in the Pentland
Hills, about ten minutes drive from Paul's flat in the south of the city. It was here that perhaps the saddest moment of the trip took place. I had brought with me my boomerang, but was too hasty to try it out in the gusting winds. I flung it at an angle to the breeze, but it dipped and caught the side of the hill before arcing wickedly across the face of the wind. Open-mouthed I stood as the little fella spun downward out of view, past the crest of the hill. I bounded after it, but it was nowhere to be seen as further crests obscured the panorama. We formed a search party to make a sweep of the hill, but to no avail, the boomerang now committed to the moors forever. In 2000 years time, historians will mistakenly surmise that, during the 21st Century, Aborigines lived just south of Scotland's capital.
Having got over my emotional loss, the evening was spent at Beltane Fire Festival, a drumming and performance extravaganza to usher in the summer as the Celts of old would have done so. It is a place of wild revelry, processions and epic bonfires that are reportedly seen from as far away as Fife.
As I write, I am now back up north in Findhorn, preparing to head towards Glasgow - via the West Highland Way - in time to see Little Dragon and Crispin on 12th May.

Disclaimer:
For the sake of Kerrigan's good name I have been urged to point out that nothing untoward took place in the back of our Honk camper, should anyone have gained that impression from my previous update. There definitely wasn't any form of menage.

Disclaimer:
For the sake of Kerrigan's good name I must point out that nothing untoward took place in the naked Findhorn hot tub either, should anyone have gained that impression from above. There definitely wasn't any form of menage.