Pumpkins and cupcakes

Over the years I have gradually warmed to the idea of Halloween. So, from being someone who turned off the lights at the front of the house and pretended not to be in, the past few years have seen treats handed out. Admittedly it took a few eggs being thrown at the house to change my mind.

This year sees our first Halloween away from the bustle of the city. Living at the far end of the town, and in spite of not having many children living nearby, we prepare regardless. Eunice decides that for the first time pumpkins need to be carved. I am exempt from this task as due to my clumsiness I would probably end up cutting my own hand off. The specialist carving kit bought over the internet proves to be not very robust and is soon in pieces. Resorting to more traditional tools the first pumpkin goes on show well over a week before the main event. This is quickly joined by two other creations and the odd car is seen stopping to view the nightly spectacle.

Halloween itself sees the children of the town buzzing with excitement. The night before, a young boy cries inconsolably when he comes into the shop to discover all the bat costumes have sold out. The remaining face paint sets quickly sell out.  A child comes in to buy two glittery ghost masks. His skin has a reddish hue and pseudo stitches. I pretend to be alarmed by his appearance and he, thinking I really am frightened, assures me it is fake blood. A girl tries a mask on, my colleague makes out she has not noticed and then lets out a scream when she takes it off. The child leaves the shop confused. I have to persuade a grandmother that popping candy is not an ideal treat for a three year old child.

Eunice spends the afternoon baking cupcakes and icing them. We have decided that the treats provided should be things we enjoy eating just in case nobody turns up.

Scary treats

We need not have worried. The first trick or treaters arrive just after half five. I am in the shower but apparently they are adolescents dressed in skeleton costumes.

The cannibal

At the point when the wind and rain start to worsen a man arrives with two girls. He has driven to this end of the town after seeing the pumpkin display earlier in the week – the power of advertising. He expresses disappointment that one of the candles has blown out and that we are not dressed up – presumably he was meaning as scary characters and not something else.

Evil onlooker

One final group arrives – they appear to be dressed in a collection of onesies but a small child does push his way from the back to reveal a scary blue and white mask. All visitors seem to agree that the pumpkins are awesome and the design of the cupcakes wins much praise. Luckily three of the cakes remain so we get to enjoy them as well.

And so for next year – more pumpkins with even better designs and we may even appear dressed as witches.

 

 

A tale of two walks

It is my day off and the plan is for a beach walk to clear the head and exercise the still recuperating ankle. Drawing back the curtains reveals another dreich day. First some business needs to be conducted in town, so donning waterproofs we head off into the incessant rain. The rain stops in time for the return walk through Spycraig wood. I have been bemoaning the fact that it has been weeks since I last saw a red squirrel. Today I am rewarded – one is spotted climbing up the side of a long, straight pine tree trunk. Their usual behaviour once spotted is to quickly disappear around the back of the tree and carry on their upward journey out of sight. This squirrel is obviously more of an exhibitionist as it comes back round into view and perches on a small branch looking down quizzically at us. I have not brought my camera but in all likelihood it would have taken off before I had time to compose a photo.

The beach of choice today is Sandyhills on the Solway Firth. Found here are the notorious shifting sands of Barnhourie Banks. The area was a major shipping channel in the 19th and early 20th century and a combination of weather, hidden sand banks and rough sea resulted in many a shipwreck. Walkers need to be wary as well – the temptation to walk out along the sands as the tide goes out needs to be tempered with the knowledge that when the tide changes direction it does so rapidly. Only this summer a visitor had to be rescued after having to climb up on rocks to escape the in rushing sea.

You have been warned

We arrive as the tide is going out and because it has been a particularly high one there are few people about. The waves are bigger and noisier than usual and as they retreat they leave blobs of light brown creamy foam on the sand. I am reminded of my childhood, drinking Coke floats at the milkshake bar on a hot summers day. Although not raining the sky is dark and the hills behind the beach are covered in low cloud.

Hidden hills

We head in the opposite direction to the coastal path. Here the beach abruptly ends in rocks. Amongst the rocks stands the remains of an old tree. It looks like a person wearing a rabbit eared hat with a long arm pointing out to sea in the direction of the Robin Rigg windfarm. This contentious set of turbines is fortunately only intermittently visible due to the poor visibility.  To soften the blow of having to look out on this on a daily basis, the electricity generating company pledged £500 000 over a ten year period to the local communities close to the development. There is now talk of increasing the size of the farm.

Pointing observer

What is visible out at sea is a platform which served as a bombing target for the no 10 Bombing and Gunnery school based at the World War two airfield at Heathfield, Dumfries. Stupidly I wonder why it is still standing – were the pilots not very accurate? Eunice thinks that bags of flour were used instead of bombs, hence it has been preserved.

We find a flat rock to sit on and have lunch. A large dog comes over and takes an interest in my egg sandwich but is quickly discouraged by its owner. In the distance two small, hyperactive dogs are constantly barking as they chase each other across the sand. I hope they will come no nearer to disturb the picnic. They oblige by running into the undergrowth behind the beach and finding something so interesting they forget to bark.

We start to walk to the other end of the beach. As the tide recedes more and more people begin to arrive. Children excitedly run down on to the sand and splash about in the puddles or start constructing things. One notable exception is a young child who complains to her mother that she is bored and can find nothing to do. Her mother offers ideas of what can be done on a beach. The girl is not convinced and continues to sulk. Interestingly the mother is wearing what look like quality cowboy boots. They have sharp heels which keep disappearing into the sand.

Crunchy shells

The soft sand changes into an area of small pink and cream coloured shells which crunch underfoot. We head for the area known as Saltpan Rocks. Saltmaking was a seasonal seashore industry here until the early 1800’s. Also to be seen here is a method of fishing dating back to that time. A line of poles goes out to sea from the shore to which are attached stake nets. These form a labyrinth of chambers which are easy for salmon to enter but difficult for them to exit. I wonder how they went about sinking the poles into the sand and managed to make them stay there.

Old school fishing

In order to take a better picture I climb up on to some rocks forgetting about my dodgy ankle. Getting back down proves trickier and some of it has to be done while sitting crouched on my bottom  – not very flattering but there does not appear to be an audience.

Time for reflection

Still in one piece we head for the van and the short drive home. If only there had been an ice cream van in the car park.

Hardrock Sunday

The day dawned with grey skies and drizzle which was soon to develop into incessant rain. Still limping and therefore restricted to watching the event from the transition area the plan had been to try and capture the day using a camera. This is not an easy thing to do in pouring rain while slithering about in mud. The pictures were somewhat disappointing as was the catering van. Excitedly hobbling to join the queue I was soon disappointed – my Lorne sausage tasted old and tired and I was thankful for the tomato sauce that had begrudgingly been added to the roll. And yes there was the usual transition area comedy. Competitors were not meant to wear headphones during the run but some chose to ignore this. For relay teams this proved a costly mistake as their timing chips were on lanyards around their necks. What fun was to be had watching them trying to untangle their headphones from the timing chip before they could hand it over to the cycling member of the team.

And so a day in pictures…..

Dreich day

Waterproof pipers

Preparation

Waiting

Muddy legs

Starting young

Run fun

Tree Slalom

Where’s my bike?

First home

Smiling through the pain

Tired bikes

Trophy haul

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transition

The first thing that strikes you about the annual Crossmichael Triathlon is the transition area. It is partly on the main road that passes through the village. Having watched more triathlons than I have competed in the transition area can be highly entertaining. This is especially so when what competitors think are ingenious ways of saving time end up actually doing quite the opposite.

Waiting

The race starts with the neoprene clad swimmers having to run 200m down a dirt road to the loch side. Most have some form of  footwear on but there are some running barefooted. No doubt the latter have factored in how many seconds can be saved by not having to take shoes on and off. So my entertainment starts before anyone even reaches the transition area – pained expressions and expletives coupled with a slow running pace bordering on a walk.

Two police officers control traffic on the road at the start after which it becomes a free for all. Spectators walk across the street without looking, accelerating cyclists leaving transition dodge both them and the traffic passing through the village. In addition to cars there are motorhomes, a van with “Ultrasound pregnancy testing for cattle and sheep” painted on its side and tractors. There cannot be many triathlons where cyclists are held up entering transition by giant tractors towing trailers full of hay bales. At least all the dogs appear to be on leads.

While the majority of competitors are out on the cycle leg I watch interestedly as two marshalls decide to tidy up the transition area. Each athlete has been provided with a green plastic box to put their wet suit in. The majority have done this but the marshalls decide to take things a step further and start putting anything lying on the ground into a box. I am aghast knowing that most triathletes have a set way of laying out their equipment, nutrition etc. Cue a puzzled look on some of the competitors faces when upon returning their bikes to the transition area they do not immediately see any of their possessions and think they are in the wrong place …….more precious seconds wasted. Misdemeanours like removing helmets before racking bicycles go unnoticed. The cold weather has me craving chocolate, especially when I see a competitor eat a Mars bar before going out on the run. Is this a new development in performance enhancing sports nutrition I wonder?

The man at the window

The Deeside B & B has the transition area at its front door. A frail old man leans from an upper window taking photos of the action. As the race progresses he leans ever further out of the window causing the hair he has carefully combed over his bald patch to flap alarmingly from his head.

At the finish line chaos reigns. There seems to be some difficulty in inflating the finish banner and I keep waiting for a passing vehicle to become entangled in it. Even when erected some of the crowd do not seem to realise the race will soon be finishing so children have to be discouraged from riding bicycles over the timing mat and various other non competing adults have  to be rerouted.

The first finishers are some of the relay runners, soon followed by the overall winner who is a veteran Great Britain triathlete. Waiting for the prize giving we enjoy coffee at the church hall. A few cakes are left and it takes all my self discipline to leave them for the actual competitors. I feel frozen to the bone in spite of my many layers of clothing. There is a large wooden plaque for the race winner, a ceremonial sword for the first local athlete, age group and male and female relay team prizes. Strangely there is no prize or recognition for the first individual woman home. In this corner of Galloway it still seems to be a man’s world.

First woman home

 

 

 

 

Cauliflower Sheep

The day of the long awaited Flower and Produce Show dawns. Reading through the schedule earlier in the year I did toy with the idea of entering a few categories. However, upon learning that this was an event citizens of the town take very seriously I decide to attend as an observer only. I fear turning up clutching my required 6 cherry tomatoes only to discover that my fellow competitors have displayed theirs in a very artistic way. It turns out I need not have worried about this as the tomatoes are merely put on a plain white paper plate and mine would not have looked out of place.

Long and straight

But what of the other produce? The longest carrots and parsnips I have ever seen come complete with an even longer root. They are so perfect that it is hard to believe they have been grown outdoors.

Symmetrical onions

Giant onions with their papery outer skins completely intact and blemish free. Potatoes that look like they have been polished. It is almost a relief to come to the misshapen vegetable category.

 

Vegetable misfits

The bakery section is dominated by one contestant. Rumour has it that she has baked through the night. An entrant can be heard bemoaning the fact that her girdle scones have failed to win a prize. A loaf of bread bears marks of having been created by a bread making machine. Surely this is not allowed?

Big blooms

The cut flowers are majestic. I regret not entering the cactus pot plant section – there is only one competitor so I could have taken home a prize. The children’s section is entertaining. My particular favourite is in the decorated vegetable character competition – a flock of sheep made out of cauliflower florets. A broccoli floret masquerades as a bush. The heat in the hall has unfortunately caused their facial features to start to disintegrate and they are beginning to look sinister.

Cauliflower sheep

Enjoying refreshments in the downstairs tea room I begin to formulate my entry list for the 2014 show. Why stop at tomatoes and cactus. I could take up knitting but being a slow learner perhaps next year’s show would come too soon. Unfortunately there is no adult decorated vegetable character –  with my imagination I could dominate this category. Another idea is to put the long dark months of winter to good use and perfect my baking. Imagine the satisfaction of pipping Dalbeattie’s own version of The Great British Bake Off’s Mary Berry to one of the prizes.

Eggtastic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recycling

The morning of the Galloway ReCycle Sportive dawns – 160km lie ahead including 5455ft of climbing. I am in a tetchy mood. Having only finished work at 22:00 last night, being woken at 06:15 by my alarm clock was not ideal. Also I don’t leave enough time for preparing the energy drinks, breakfast etc so end up rushing which I hate. The ride can be started anytime between 08:30 and 09:30 but since there is a cut off time of 14:15 at the 100km mark the earlier the better. My tetchiness peaks when trying to afix my race number to the bike – the supplied cable ties are too short so I have to be inventive and attach it to the brake/gear cables instead of the actual handlebars. This would have been a good idea if I had remembered to put one of the ties through the hole in the number before closing it! So it’s back to the registration area for more ties. Luckily I take two because I repeat my mistake. I have forgotten a pair of scissors so can’t trim or remove any of the ties and I do like to at least look well turned out for events.

We roll out to the start where our timing chips are activated and we’re off up the climb out of Kirkcudbright. My least two favourite things about sportives are erratic riders and sometimes having to ride in a pack. Five minutes into the ride two erratic riders make their presence known. They accelerate past then just sit on our front wheels going ever slower up hills and speeding away on downhill sections. We eventually pass them for good but next up is a pack of twitchy riders. Normally all from the same club they take up the entire side of the road making it difficult to get past on narrow twisty roads. Eventually they too are passed and it’s time for the first of three check in/ feeding stations. My spirits lift at the choice of food. I wolf down four mini Scotch eggs – something I will rue later as the taste stays with me for the entire ride.

Shortly afterwards the route splits and having elected for the long version we head for the wilds of the Galloway Forest Park. For the next two hours there are no other cyclists to be seen. The mostly single track road can best be described as undulating. You never feel like you have any real momentum and added to this the road surface seems to suck the life out of the bike. My strategy is not to look at the distance covered on my speedo but just to view the elapsed time in order to get my food intake right. Having no idea of our actual start time this will also prevent panic setting in if the cut off time starts approaching.

We turn right on to a stretch of road called the Queens Way.  I have always had visions of Queen Victoria making her way down it in her horse-drawn carriage. The truth is less romantic – it was named this during the Queen’s Silver Jubilee year. At last the bike is picking up speed and after an intake of a caffeine gel I start to feel livelier. We pass Clatteringshaws Loch where Bruce’s Stone is to be found. Apparently King Robert the Bruce rested against it after defeating the English in 1307. Then it’s past the Deer Range where no deer are to be seen and then the Wild Goat Park where they too appear to be hiding. I notice a tall obelisk on top of a hill. It turns out this is Murray’s Monument erected in 1835 in memory of Alexander Murray a local shepherd boy who went on to become Professor of Oriental Languages at Edinburgh University. From such simple beginnings……

The next part of the journey is required to be done as quickly as possibly. It is on the busy A75 the main road leading from the ferry port of Stranaer which links Ireland with the Scottish interior and north of England. Being buffeted about by one lorry is bad enough – a whole line does not bear thinking about. There is a demarcated cycling lane but this is full of loose gravel and soil which makes it a no go area. My increasingly fragile state of mind would not react well to having to repair a puncture. Ten kilometres later we start heading inland in what seems a constantly uphill direction towards the next checkpoint at Gatehouse Station.  The railway line has long gone and the station is 10km from the town of Gatehouse of Fleet in the middle of nowhere. Why I ask myself? – then remember reading that it had something to do with disputes with local landowners. So a town once dubbed “Glasgow of the South” with thriving industries like cotton mills, brickworks, a brass foundry and a tannery found itself having to rely on road and river transport instead.

At the feed station we catch sight of other cyclists including the arrival just behind us of the “erratic pair”. The choice of food is even better here – ham rolls, what luxury! So two thirds of the ride is complete and we are well within the cut off time. The day has so far been mostly overcast with the odd spot of rain. Now distant hills are bathed in sunlight and their green hillsides contrast with the blue sky and white fluffy clouds. A good sign I think before quickly remembering what lies ahead – a 14% hill leading up on to the desolate moors. Before this a road with a sharp, gravelly descent has to be turned down. It comes complete with its own marshal to warn of the dangers. I notice some woodland with a sign saying “Castration Wood”. Laughing a closer inspection reveals that it actually says “Castramon Wood”. My descent into  a form of tired madness has begun.

Up to the moors

The pull up on to the moorland seems endless with only puzzled looking sheep and the odd car for company. The downhill section through Lauriston forest rejuvenates the spirits temporarily but then I reach the point where I know I have to withdraw into my own head and tough it out. Perhaps three road cycles with the longest being three hours was not enough training. I decide I hate sportives and never want to do another one.

The last control point is reached after 6 hours.There is still 20km to go and one of the marshalls asks if I want anything to eat. I reply that I am beyond help. A small part of me wants to give up but I soon banish the thought. So close to the end that would be a ridiculous idea. This section of the road is well known to me and even when I am full of energy it saps my strength with its rough surface and deceptive elevation. On the hill through the village of Auchencairn stands the official event photographer – I try to look slightly happy. The hill down to Dundrennan is a welcome sight. It offers a brief respite from pedalling and in spite of knowing a car is behind me I stay off the brakes and use every bit of my side of the road. The giant Wickerman is still wearing his summer t-shirt and shorts to celebrate the recently held music festival in the field where he stands. Part of the field now contains a series of horse jumps painted in pastel blues and pinks. The coastal area around here was once used to practice the D-day landings and is now a military training facility. Today it is being used as the venue for a tarmac rally. The throaty engine sounds of powerful rally cars can be heard accelerating. occasionally they pass on the other side of the road as they go between sections.

Earlier in the ride I had emptied a packet of carbohydrate loaded sweets into one of my rear pockets. The label read “watermelon and pomegranate flavour”. I was convinced some had been coloured green while others were red. There are three left so to take my mind off things I ration myself to one every fifteen minutes. I realise none of them are green and far from being two different flavours there is just one and it tastes of neither of its constituents. Luckily they were a free sample.

At last the one mile to go sign appears and we are down to sea level. I suddenly feel invigorated as we cycle down the main street of Kirkcudbright to the finish. I try to get Eunice to cross the line first as she has been suffering from a stomach virus all week and in spite of this has been the stronger rider on the day. She declines and we cross the line together in just over 7 hours. The race has been won by a woman in a time of 4:56. I once again like sportives and am already thinking of ways to improve my time for next year.

All money raised from the event is to be donated by the organising Rotary Club to two charities – “Killie can Cycle” which collects donated bikes and restores them to working order so they can be sold cheaply to children in Scotland. The second charity is Bikes 4 Africa which delivers refurbished bikes to school children in Gambia to enable them to attend school from remote rural locations. So in a small way we have all contributed to helping others experience the joys of cycling.

Certificates collected, one last Scotch egg is grabbed from the refreshment table then it’s the drive back home via The Smugglers Inn at Auchencairn for a well deserved beer. Parking outside the pub we see the last two cyclists struggling up the hill. Like us they look a spent force. Only another hour of pedalling for them I think sympathetically as I settle down with my pint and a bag of scampi fries.

Meteorites and Apes

Every second week I leave work at 17:00 on Thursday and don’t have to return until the same time on Saturday afternoon. So enough time for a mini adventure – I walk straight out of work, a quick change of clothes in the back of the van and its off on the two hour drive to Peebles. This being the home of Glentress my first ever 7 Stanes trail experience. For once the hot, dry weather means camping is a pleasant experience. Our designated pitch is next to a small stream.

New backyard

The neighbours need to be asked to move their car before we can access it – our late arrival having taken them by surprise.  We manage to pitch the tent professionally within minutes even though it has spent the last two summers in hibernation. Then its a cold beer, dinner and a late evening walk to find a shop to satisfy a craving for chocolate before crawling into the tent where sleep is almost instant. We are woken in the early hours by a cacophony of noise – the camp site seems to be overpopulated with crows and bad tempered ones at that. When not arguing amongst themselves they sit in the cherry tree directly overhead seemingly amusing themselves by dropping fruit etc on the tent. No chance of sleeping late then.

Glentress has acquired a new feature in my two year absence. There is now a Go Ape centre on the lower slopes for those who like to view the forest while suspended above it.

Beware flying apes

It still being early the high platforms and adjoining zip wires are awaiting their adrenalin seekers. The first part of the ride is a hard slog uphill with endless switch back corners but there is the occasional log skinny to offer a challenge. Sweat drips constantly from my chin as if someone has left a tap on. Today is a chance to see how my riding has developed so it’s the red trail all the way. Spookywood looms – my last two visits have seen me fall off at the same spot near the top. Exhausted from the ascent I have lacked the energy to get over a rock in the middle of the trail. Today I manage it if a little clumsily.

Another warning

In spite of the warnings the descent can be enjoyed by all abilities. Packed into the 1.5km are said to be 18 ordinary jumps, 17 table top jumps, 4 rock drops and 17 –  180 degree bermed corners. There is no time to count as it all goes so quickly. One sudden change of direction is required as I find myself heading for one of the rock drops. Whooping we arrive at the end and view the Meteorite Stane with its inscriptions written in Klingon just to add to the other world feel of the place.

From outer space?

The rest of the trail proves less daunting than expected so possibly my riding skills really  are improving. Once safely down it’s time for refreshments. The Hub in the Forest cafe is no more. This small, cosy prefabricated building with its delicious home baking was run by two ex world champion mountain bikers – Emma Guy and Tracey Brunger. Their vision helped get the 7 Stanes project off the ground but with increasing visitor numbers the Forestry Commission decided to build a £9 million visitor centre and they lost out on the tender to run the new cafe. So sadly they became the victims of their own success. The new facility lacks atmosphere and cake – well it does have prepackaged cake but I long for a slice of the Hub’s banoffee pie. Purchasing a tea and a coffee we retreat outside to eat our homemade sandwiches in secret.  After lunch Eunice decides to take her aching back for a swim in the river that runs through Peebles. Refreshed I head back up the trail to enjoy the swooping descent of the last half of the blue route. On the way down I am briefly distracted by a man hanging from a zip wire and the odd scream can be heard from other parts of the forest. More whooping from me as I get to the bottom. Riding back to the campsite I start to think about dinner – another cold beer followed by fish and chips at Jim Jacks. Surely one of the best chippys in Scotland.

Safely home

Wish we could stay longer but work calls tomorrow…….

The Land of McMoab

Three days after my unexpected coming together with the ground it is time to get back in the saddle with a visit to another 7stanes trail centre – Kirroughtree. There are seven of these sites spanning the south of Scotland which have helped turn the area into a world-class mountain biking destination. ” Stane” is the Scots word for stone and each site has a giant stone sculpture which is meant to reflect some of the character of the area. The stane at Kirroughtree is a 1.75 ton lump of Scottish pink quartz in the shape of a gemstone. This was apparently inspired by the nearby Creetown Gem Rock Museum and the fact that Kirroughtree is known as the 7stanes’ hidden gem.

The Gem Stane

Reading up on the trails the previous night I learn that the red route, ominously called “The Twister”, is 17km long. It is regarded as being at the more technical end for a red with “some serious rock step ups, chokes, slaps and drop offs”. I envisage that some of the time will be spent portering the bike over obstacles. For someone who still finds the front wheel manual a mystery, step ups of more than 10cm are extremely challenging! I also have no idea what a slap is. For those seeking even bigger thrills there is the 31km long black route. This is where you can find McMoab – the name of which has been taken from the mountain biking mecca of Moab in Utah. It is a 900m optional section of large granite slabs linked by huge boulders. Unfortunately it is at the outer extreme of the black route so I am unable to see it first hand but the videos I have seen of it being ridden make it look terrifying.

The first problem of the day is where to have the post ride tea and cake. A new visitor centre is being built at Kirroughtree and although the old building is still standing whoever used to run the cafe has left. Light refreshments are available at the on site bike shop but they don’t sound that exciting. Luckily a tea room is spotted close to the turn off to the trail centre. So with that decided we can get on with the business of concentrating on riding the trail. Sleeves firmly rolled down, in spite of it being a warm day, we set off into the New Galloway forest.

Anniversary Cairn

Narrow, twisting singletrack starts almost immediately. Occasionally it passes through patches of flowering bluebells and the warmth in the air means that the pine trees are giving off their wonderful resin smell.  The trail proves less daunting and more flowing than my home trail at Dalbeattie. True I do have to get off and push the bike in some sections but while doing this I notice that many of the obstacles have chicken runs. With practise and time everything at Kirroughtree seems achievable. At the end of the ride I am still none the wiser as to what a “slap” is. Perhaps it refers to very rocky areas which cause the chain to slap against the bike’s frame.

So a succesful day out and we make it to the tea room with ten minutes to spare before closing time. Tea and a fruit scone with butter and jam in the late afternoon sun – who could ask for more.

 

 

 

Food Miles

Despite not having lived in South Africa for 25 years I still crave Peck’s Anchovette. Thickly spread on warm toast – absolute heaven. At first it was possible to buy it in England but then all supplies dried up due to problems obtaining an import licence. Trying to substitute it with local versions of fish paste did not work – they did not look similar let alone compare in taste. My last experience of Peck’s Anchovette was probably 10 years ago when a friend brought some over from South Africa.

Today I returned home from my run to find a parcel had been delivered from a friend in Australia. Smiling I began to plan lunch as I knew what the box contained……

Warm salty heaven

Engage The Brain

Drumlanrig Castle and Country Estate has been home to the Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry and his ancestors for over 400 years. The castle contains collections of antique furniture and rare art, including Rembrandt’s “Old Woman Reading”, and is surrounded by 40 acres of well laid out gardens. However, beyond this lies hidden within the estate grounds a network of mountain biking trails catering for all abilities. The red route is nicknamed “The Old School” because it has been built using more traditional methods of design and construction. Apart from being tight and twisty it contains roots. Ah the joy of roots – a challenge to ride even in the dry. On reading up about the trails the following quote stuck in my mind – “It is simply not possible to ride here having disengaged the brain, or left it in the car park”.

The ride almost immediately goes in an upward direction. My legs still feel tired from the exertions of last Sunday’s road cycle and my recovering calf is twinging after the first run in 3 weeks yesterday. Always good to get the excuses over with early in a ride I feel! Looking at my speedo I realise I have forgotten to zero it – a sign of leaving my brain at home. Then the roots start – a gnarly tortured collection lying at every angle imaginable to each other. Descending hair pin bends has never been my strong point but here the bends are even tighter and yes they have roots on them. It takes me half an hour to get to grips with things but then I fall in love with the trail. I have always enjoyed trails which thread their way tightly through trees and this one is a gem. Having said that I was forced to take a few interesting diversions the wrong side of trees. A picnic lunch is taken lying in the sun on a grass bank alongside the fast flowing River Nith. Then it is back up the avenue leading to the castle.

Tea time at the castle

The post ride treat was to have been tea and cake at the Stableyard snack bar. However, as the summer season is just getting underway this was closed. So tea has to be taken at the more upmarket Castle tea room. Luckily we have had the sense to change out of our cycling clothes.  Memories come back of once cutting a ride short on the North Yorkshire Moors due to appalling weather and riding to the village of Hutton Le Hole for refreshments. A morning spent cycling in mud and through fields full of sheep did not leave us looking very pretty! Upon entering the tea room the entire room fell silent and stared as we made our way to one of the vacant tables.

I still felt under dressed yesterday as the rest of the customers had obviously come to see the art and antiques. The tea was well in keeping with the atmosphere. It was described as an organic breakfast artisan blend of whole tea leaves contained within a handcrafted silken biodegradable pouch. And what was it like? Probably the worst tea I have ever tasted! The scone with clotted cream and jam was delicious but then it is surely not possible to posh that up any more.