Staring at the sea

The middle of March is possibly not the best time in the year to try and buy a disposable barbeque. A colleague at work assures me that there are some in the upstairs storeroom. Amongst the haphazardly arranged boxes of no longer required paperwork, plastic cutlery and other picnic equipment, old Christmas stock, paper towels, toilet paper and winter motoring products I come across some large bags of charcoal. One bag is split, its contents spilling onto the floor. Not a disposable barbeque in sight. I go back downstairs disappointed – sandwiches on the beach it is then.  Next summer I vow to make a bulk purchase. A few days later I glance at the piles of assorted things stacked on the window ledge next to the stairs. There they are – two of them in fact. The next day I buy them – my colleagues looking strangely at both the BBQs and me as I once more enthusiastically tell them of the joy of a beach barbeque in winter.

On the way to the beach I spot my first lambs of the new season. The very bravest of the daffodils have decided to unfurl  – a splash of yellow always brings a smile to my face. As we park the car the now familiar scenery looks very different. The trees at Rascarrel Moss have almost all been felled – two small patches have been left but since all the tree cutting machinery is still there their turn may come soon. I wonder how many years it will be before the wood is returned to its former glory and realise that I will probably never see it fully matured again in my lifetime. I push this depressing thought from my mind and walk on.

Remains of a forest

Barlocco beach is far from the most scenic in the area but here the sea offers up a lot of its treasure – there are fish storage boxes from various Scottish and Irish ports, including a long distance traveller from Holland. Unfortunately today the sea has held onto the usual collection of children’s toys – apart from footballs. There are always footballs in various stages of decay and I always have the urge to kick them back towards the sea.

Sea sculpture

The barbeque is lit and we wait for the coals to die down. An attempt to light a fire proves less successful. Eunice tells me that a work mate of hers never brings a ready made bbq to the beach; instead lighting his own fire and and using the embers of the wood to cook with. Since he was once a Royal Marine this probably comes naturally to him. With our fire having never got started we would just be very hungry. In my previous life I would have come to the beach armed with enough reading material to last for the whole visit. Now I just stare into space. I watch as the seagulls fly over the cliff above – white against the blue sky. They glide in the swirling wind seeing where it takes them; occasionally angling their wings to change direction. I conclude that they do this for fun – otherwise why would they just not sit on the rocks and only take off when they needed to seek food.

After serving their purpose the barbeque coals are used to start the fire. As the tide recedes I clamber round the rocks at the base of the cliff in search of life in the rock pools left behind but find nothing. We head further along the beach in search of treasure and find three small fishing buoys wanted for a garden artwork project.  A green piece of fishing rope is found and used to tie them together to make carrying them back to the car easier.

Wood watching water

On the return walk we take a shortcut down a short, steep, grassy hill which goes past the four luxury holiday chalets which were controversially built here. I have always wanted to look inside one and thinking them unoccupied at this time of year I am just about to head over to the balcony of one when I notice Eunice waving. As I look more closely I see a man and woman enjoying their afternoon tea sat looking out at us. I wave back at them, grateful that I have been saved from a very embarrassing situation. What they make of me carrying three fishing buoys tied together with rope I dread to think. They are probably muttering about the strange habits of the locals as they sip their drinks having been told in the brochure of the “luxurious accommodation nestled in a private, peaceful bay”.

There are only a few weeks to Easter, after which the chocolate egg displays on shop shelves will be replaced with summer alfresco eating equipment. Until then we have one portable barbeque left. Perhaps it will be a long hot summer and sandwiches will be the food of choice. Regardless I am going to make sure that come the autumn we have a supply of barbeques stashed away in the garage. Alternatively we could ask the Royal Marine for some fire lighting tips.

A moment of madness

There are times in life when you make a split second decision that with hindsight you cannot believe you then actually carried out. Why you ask yourself did you do something so stupid……?

We head out into the forest on the mountain bikes. My bike is still ailing – this time the dropper seat post is losing height without the handlebar lever being pressed. At first the movement was slight but now it goes down centimetres within minutes. This is causing my back to rebel and my mind to be distracted . This is to be the last ride before it goes back to the repair shop for the third time this year. With Eunice recovering mentally from a block of busy night shifts we decide on a shortish route with nothing too technical on it.

A mind of its own

Coming back to the forest road after riding “The Big Easy” we head down towards the last section of red route. Riding downhill we easily pick up speed. Eunice asks me what the time is. I glance at my left wrist but cannot see my watch as it is covered by my glove. I reply that I do not want to stop to have a look. Then my moment of madness – I scrub my speed slightly, lift my left hand off the handlebar, move it closer to my right hand which I then use to try and move the glove so I can see my watch. In a split second I completely lose control of the bike and fall. I skid face down to a halt my body tangled up in the frame. My immediate thought before even trying to work out which part of me is hurt – why am I sometimes so stupid? Hearing the crash Eunice rides back to help me – she was meant to be getting away from her job of dealing with medical emergencies. I half stand up but my right leg has become trapped between the twisted handlebars and the frame. Freed from the bike at last I look round to check that nobody else has seen me fall. I have had the sense to wear knee pads but not elbow pads – a mistake leading to more loss of flesh. I get back on the bike and we continue. Eunice suggests we miss out the last section but I decide to ride it. My left hand aches and I start to worry that I have broken something and will not be able to work tonight. No work = no pay, this could turn out to be both a stupid and expensive moment of madness. I can grip the handlebar but something is clicking in my hand – I try to forget about it and just ride.

Back at the house my hand looks like it is starting to swell. I wash the bike, still cursing. We load it on the car’s bike carrier and take it back to the repair shop. Returning home I realise that I have stopped thinking about my injuries – I have an interesting collection of bruises but nothing is broken. I have been lucky. Eunice says she will wear a watch next time. I vow not to be so stupid.

A few days later I am watching the skills section of an online MTB magazine I subscribe to. It concerns “The concentration ladder” – the need to think as far ahead as possible when riding. For now just being on the bottom rung of that ladder would be progress.

Not a day to put to sea

It is another wild day, with leaden skies just about holding onto their store of rain as the strong wind pushes the clouds rapidly along. Not an ideal day for a late afternoon walk but the thought of a pub meal afterwards helps motivate me. We settle on a new route – the path from Mutehill which leads to the cliffs of Torrs Point. A stormy day needs a cliff top walk to take in the drama of the sea. Not long into the journey the rain begins to lash down. I comfort myself with the thought that if walking is not possible we can sit in the car watching the sea, while drinking tea from the flask and eating the limited edition toffee flavoured Kit Kat we have bought at the petrol station.

Torrs Point lies within the military training area and as we drive towards Mutehill the red danger flags are flying alongside the road. There may need to be a plan B. As we leave the main road there is no indication that we should not proceed up the small road which eventually ends in a locked gate. A few houses are dotted next to the road, some of interesting architectural design. As we park the car in the small layby a woman out in the garden of the nearby house looks at us strangely. I keep waiting for her to engage us in conversation; tell us we are not allowed to park here or walk along the cliffs because of the military activity. She watches as I battle to put my walking boots on while trying to do this sitting down in the passenger seat whilst holding the car door open against the wind. When I finally step out of the car and look back I see the car is actually being rocked by the wind. I become paranoid that it will be blown into the sea and upon our return we will be forced to take shelter in the onlookers cottage. Eunice assures me this will not happen and only slightly convinced we set off up the path. I conclude that without the excuse of dogs to walk the woman just thinks us mad for setting out on a walk in the late afternoon in the middle of a gale.

To our right is the tidal inlet leading to Kirkcudbright known as Manxman’s Lake. This gets its name from the fact that the castle and much of the town was destroyed in 1507 by pirates who originated from the Isle of Man. Revenge was had when a Galloway fleet raised under the impressively named Cutlar MacCulloch went across to the Isle of Man and in turn terrorised the Manx people. Today it resembles nothing like a lake. From far out to sea, bands of angry looking waves can be seen crashing their way towards the shore. Over the other side of the water stands St Mary’s Isle containing Paul Jones Point. This Gallovidian is regarded as the father of the American Navy and during his lifetime managed to be both a captain in the British Merchant Navy and the United States Navy before becoming a Rear Admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy. During the American Revolutionary War this man of the seas decided to kidnap the Earl of Selkirk, resident on the isle, and hold him for ransom in the hope of exchanging him for American sailors who had been impressed into the Royal Navy. Unfortunately the Earl was not at home so to placate his crew Mr Jones stole a set of silver plates which legend has it he eventually returned to their rightful owner. Presumably this was after he had decided to switch allegiance to the Russian Navy.

Thinking about the history of the area helps take my mind off the wildness of the weather. The raging sea is still on our right and to the left a densely planted area of trees; their branches noisily rubbing up against each other and the odd creak coming from some tree trunks. If a tree falls and crushes us we will have no need for the car which by now could be at the bottom of the lake. I hear a hammering noise and look up the wooded hill to see a tepee like structure made out of pieces of fallen tree. I blink, fully expecting so see a forest fairy chopping wood. We reach open land and find a dead sheep lying on the ground – a barbed wire fence has fallen down on top of it but this does not appear to have contributed to its death. Eunice does her usual medical assessment trying to ascertain the time of death. Unfortunately something has feasted on the sheep’s eyes so after feeling the carcase’s temperature she declares that it cannot have been dead long as there is no sign of decay. I remind her that it is so cold that no decay is possible – we are living in a giant fridge.

We pass through a gate to access the cliff edge. The gate seems surplus to requirements as the sheep have found a way through the fence so they too can enjoy the view from the top of the cliffs. In this exposed position the strength of the wind is such that standing up is impossible. Wanting to take a photo of the maelstrom below I am forced to crouch down on my haunches and even then it is impossible to keep the camera still.

Blurred Vision

The cold wind seems to rip through my body but as we return to the shelter of the trees I feel fresh and exhilarated . We walk down to a small rocky cove and drink tea and eat chocolate while watching the foam from the churned up sea dance up the beach. Two seagulls are flying low against the wind heading out to sea. They actually make good progress – if I was them I would have just found a sheltered rock to perch on. With the light going we hurry on. The fairy is still performing woodwork. A strange orange light illuminates Ross Bay and although dense clouds are overhead it seems to have travelled over to us. I can see why landscape artists flock to this area to paint.

The car is thankfully still rocking in the wind – time for dinner. In Kirkcudbright the scallop fishing fleet are firmly tied up in the harbour. We enter The Selkirk Arms – some say Robert Burns wrote the Selkirk Grace here while others say it was written by someone else and he merely delivered it at a dinner given by the Earl of Selkirk. Either way we have much to be thankful for….

Play list for a snow storm

There is no doubt that snow will fall today, it is just a question of when it will start. I need to get out into the forest as if the snow fall is significant and the cold temperatures persist it may be sometime before outdoor training is possible again. Time for a decision – run or mountain bike? Being caught in snow on a bike does not strike me as fun, especially if visibility is limited. Running seems a better idea as even if it starts to snow hard it will be easier to stay upright in the freshly fallen snow.

In the two years I have lived here I can count on one hand the number of times I have listened to music while out running. Today I might need the motivating powers of music to get me through. I compile a quick playlist lasting an hour and a half and download it to my iPod. Not much thought goes into the choice of music; I just randomly choose songs I have not heard in ages. Knowing that cold leads to increased hunger I search through my box of energy snacks for something to take with me. Mojito flavoured gel does not quite hit the spot in the middle of winter – it needs to be eaten on a hot summers day with sweat dripping down your face. Coffee gel sounds warming but comes with a large kick of caffeine. As my planned post run treat is a large mug of strong, hot coffee and I do not wish to be bouncing off the walls when I start work I instead opt for the orange flavour – at least the colour is warming. I put on my Commonwealth Games fleece hat which is meant for a six to twelve year old child but fits my head perfectly. I am not sure what this says about the size of my head and the brain it contains. I make sure that the picture of Clyde, the cute thistle mascot, is at the front of my head just in case I come across anyone out there who needs cheering up.

It is still not snowing and with music playlist on shuffle I head out into the forest. Rather appropriately the music starts with the first track of part one of Handel’s Messiah. The weather controller up above has obviously noted my presence and a few metres into the run it starts hailing – the small balls of ice fall quickly and I watch as they bounce off my shoulders and the road under my feet is soon covered. Then the snow begins to fall. I pass two dog walkers, faces barely visible under the hoods of their jackets – my greeting to them lost in the wind. I look down at my gloves which are slowly being covered in snow. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as a large snow flake which has landed on the bridge of my nose slowly melts down to a droplet of water. I retrieve the gel from my pocket and suck slowly on it. I feel completely detached from my body. My legs seem to be moving independently and the music in my ears means I cannot hear the sound of my own breathing. I am traveling over the ground without effort – it feels similar to sitting on a bus and looking out at the passing scenery. The weather controller seems to be exerting an influence over my choice of music as well. “Music of the mind” by Jamiroquai  is followed by “Ready for the storm” by Dougie MacLean. The snow begins to lie on the ground and the cold starts to grip my body. The Cure sing “Boys don’t cry” to me  and the melancholic fiddle play of Duncan Chisholm adds to the atmosphere. Hunger is gnawing at my stomach and I imagine the growling sound it must be making but I am over half way now; my “bus” journey continues. I slowly descend back down to the loch side, the wind eases and the snow stops briefly – Gloria Gaynor sings  “I will survive”. A woman passes me going in the opposite direction – a smile on her face, she walks with purpose, a climbing pole in either hand. I take my running shoes off at the back door to another song about survival; this time by Muse. I enter the warm house with the resident DJ playing “Hallelujah” sung by Leonard Cohen. In view of the weather perhaps I subconsciously chose what seemed like appropriate songs for the conditions but I certainly did not influence the order of play. Outside the snow continues to fall and for the foreseeable future it looks like the only exercise possible will be done on the turbo trainer in the garage.

Swimming pool etiquette

The mountain bike is ready to be collected – it now has new front and rear gear shifters and after having spent half a month resting in the bike shop I am looking forward to getting it back. We decide to combine the trip with a visit to our nearest swimming pool. Unfortunately we arrive thinking it is a public swimming session only to find that it is an aqua aerobics class. Glancing at the timetable we notice that it is an over 50’s only session in an hours time – we both qualify for this and making a joke that our age is obviously the reason for us arriving at the wrong time we leave to spend an hour in the local shops.

This is a small swimming pool – 15.75m long and only 6.6m wide. Walking to the pool side it is obvious that there are already too many people in it to make any kind of quality swim possible. I take up a position in the middle of the pool and resort to swimming breaststroke. A man gets into the pool next to me; he is tall and well built. It is soon apparent that nothing is going to stand in the way of his planned swim. He swims up and down in a straight line regardless of whether someone is heading straight towards him. What is more, he seems to have incredibly long legs – I keep moving further and further away from him to stop getting kicked as he passes by but somehow he always manages to connect with me. The point at which he decides to swim backstroke is the point where I decide to retire to the sauna.

This is a swimming pool of public notices. In the women’s changing room we are reminded to maintain decency at all times – even in the shower. I take this to mean we should always be seen to have our swimming costumes on. Outside the sauna there is a large notice saying that shaving is not permitted inside and that anyone found shaving will be asked to leave. Repeat offenders will find themselves banned from the premises. I cannot think why anyone would want to sit in a steamy sauna and shave. The notice does advise that if anyone needs to shave they can do so in the disabled toilet. Why only here? I enter the sauna with a puzzled look on my face. There is a man in the sauna – he is both decent and not shaving. This is the only sauna I have ever been into where writing has been etched into the wooden walls. There is no notice inside the sauna banning this activity but there is one pointing out that the emergency button is for emergencies only. I cast my eyes over the walls and pick out “Jake was here”, “Daisy” etc. When I reach “Nik is easy” I decide to close my eyes instead. Relaxing is not easy – the man is restless. He fidgets, keeps sighing and at regular intervals stands up to look out of the tiny window to the clock outside. I want to tell him to be quiet and sit still but decide to leave instead. We use the shower outside the sauna, at which point he emerges from the heat and lays claim to a large carrier bag and a 5 litre plastic bottle full of water. He appears to be here for the day and I can’t help wondering if a razor is lurking at the bottom of that bag.

Back outside in the cold air I vow not to return in the near future, especially not to an over 50’s session. At the repair shop I take the bike for a spin in the street outside to check everything is working properly, before handing over yet more money. It is now time to go home for lunch, and at my age, an afternoon nap.

An unexpected conversation on the move

I would not regard myself as a great conversationalist, especially when out in the forest. Whether out running, walking or cycling I always make a point of greeting my fellow human beings. This even includes dog owners whose animals seem intent on harassing me. Most people return my greeting. A few pointedly ignore me; some going so far as to look the other way and pretend they have not seen me. Unless I am engaged in conversation by others I keep on moving.

The heavens have once more opened and the forest canopy, which usually provides some shelter, seems unable to hold back the rain. Water cascades down tree trunks making foamy puddles as it hits the ground. Two strange holes have opened up on the path through the forest close to where it meets the fire road and the starting point of my run. Getting down on my haunches to investigate I notice that the water ebbs and flows – it is if some hidden force beneath the earth is sucking it up and then quickly spitting it back out again.

Today even my usually waterproof trail shoes give in to the incessant rain. Running for twenty minutes I see no sign of human life and have now reached the point of complete saturation. About to turn right I notice another runner approaching from the left. He is running at a pace far faster than me – not an unusual phenomena. We exchange initial greetings and I expect him to go past me. He asks me if I am having fun to which I reply that it is on days like this that I start to wish for the arrival of summer. Still expecting him to run on he slows down his pace to match mine and continues speaking. It is soon obvious that we are two very different runners. He has been running for nearly two hours – dressed in shorts which are clinging to his legs, the hood of his jacket pulled over his head, hydration pack on his back with evidence of empty gel sachets in the mesh side pockets. Wearing glasses through which he can now see very little due to the heavy rain, he is ruing not having chosen contact lenses instead. Here is a runner with a huge goal for the year – he is hoping to complete the Bob Graham Round in June. This challenge, starting and finishing in Keswick, is 70 miles long and involves around 27 000ft of ascent up 42 of the highest peaks. In addition, to be recognised as a member of the club, it needs to be completed in under 24 hours. My vague plans of possibly running a few half marathons this year seem very tame when compared to this.

The road divides again and we go in opposite directions. I hunker down inside my own head for the last third of my run. Five minutes later I hear the sound of a runner fast approaching from the rear. He draws level with me again and admits he has taken a wrong turning. Instead of him heading off at speed to the warmth of his awaiting car we continue our conversation and the topic turns to mountain biking and the local Hardrock Challenge. He has done the running leg as part of a two man team; I still toy with the idea of completing the whole race on my own. “My friend broke his back while cycling the red route here. Not that I want to put you off. I would never consider doing it all myself” he says as he turns off to the car park. I head back up into the forest and am left wondering why someone who is planning to take their body and mind to the limit for nearly 24 hours over extreme terrain thinks the Hardrock would be beyond them. Two very different runners but for a brief period we have shared our passion of sport, and in spite of the weather, our joy at being out in the forest. Also it leaves me thinking that perhaps I should challenge myself more…..

The Drovers’ Road

With the forthcoming mini break at Peebles in mind, we take the mountain bikes up into the forest to assess how the freezing conditions have affected the trails. We quickly find out the answer – it has made even riding on fire roads treacherous. Sensibly walking a rocky section, my bike slithers sideways ever further away from me as I try to not fall over. In addition my newly serviced bike still seems to have the same problem with the rear derailleur shifter, requiring my right hand to stretch and contort at a strange angle before it can be persuaded to change gear. This makes the decision easy – the snow which we know has fallen in Peebles plus a dodgy bike do not make for pleasurable riding. We revert to activity plan B – walking.

The drive up reveals how much snow has fallen – the world is covered in a thick white layer and even the giant wind turbines seem to have taken on the colour. Our hotel was once a grand establishment but is now looking rather worn, hence the special winter rates to attract custom. The management still seem to believe it is grand and so it appears do many of the guests; dressing up for afternoon tea and cake in the lounge. Entering our room I begin to realise why guests have taken to sitting downstairs. In spite of the central heating radiator being at its highest setting the room feels incredibly cold. Enquiring about additional heating at reception does not have a positive outcome. I fleetingly toy with the idea that it would be warmer to sleep in the corridor outside our room but then realise that since we are opposite a guest room which has a posh sounding name rather than just a number there might be a complaint. We  leave to walk up to their sister hotel to make use of the swimming pool, which comes as part of our deal. As we pass reception the chef is complaining to the receptionist about the unacceptable cold temperature in his kitchen.

After two years of not having swum I am pleasantly surprised to find that I still know how to. Conveniently the pool is only 20m long so I am able to touch the wall before I begin to run out of puff. I largely manage not to embarrass myself apart from when returning a ball which has strayed over from the children’s swimming lesson area I manage to catch the instructor full in the face with it. Above all we are warm and alternate between pool, sauna, jacuzzi and steam room for at least an hour and a half. When the children go home we childishly activate the water cascade and frolic through and under it. Walking back to our hotel we are glowing and seem not to notice the sub zero temperatures.

Surviving the night, albeit with heating on “full”, plans are made for the day’s expedition. At breakfast I look up at one of the light fittings on the wall. It hangs at an angle and one of the two bulbs is missing; this sums up the state of the place. Suitably layered up in warm clothes we head to the edge of town and the start of the Cross Borders Drove Road. These roads date back to a time when cattle were physically walked from the far north of Scotland and its islands (in this case having to be swum over to the mainland) and then down through England; some going as far south as London. Drovers apparently survived on a diet of oats and whisky while on the move, occasionally supplementing this with black pudding which they made using blood from the cattle they were driving. This method of moving cattle declined in the 19th century when less physically exhausting and time consuming modes of transport began to be used. As we begin the walk up to Kailzie Hill the thin covering of ice and snow makes keeping ones balance difficult. I slip numerous times but manage not to fall over completely. Since we will be returning this way I try not to think about how I may be reduced to sliding back to town on my bottom. As height is gained the snow gets deeper and makes walking easier.

21st century droving

There is evidence of mountain bike tyre tracks in the snow and numerous footprints but as we get further from civilization these become less and less. The road goes up between two stone walls possibly built to make containing the moving cattle easier. There are sheep up here but not all of them seem interested in eating from the pile of straw the farmer has recently delivered. Instead they use their hooves to clear away the layer of snow in order to expose the grass beneath.

Weather beaten trees

Near the top of the hill we see a runner coming down close to the wall, stopping at intervals to take photos. They seem to have a fancy camera dangling from their neck – not something I would personally try as it would not stand much chance of remaining in one piece. After our own stop for photos we find a semi sheltered spot for a snack; although an apple is not a fitting snack for a drover.

Photo break

Following the route taken by the runner we get good views of Glensax Burn as it twists and turns in the valley below. There are numerous stone enclosed sheepfolds to be seen, they are minus sheep and some have had trees planted in them. Shelter for sheep or just an alternative use for them I wonder.

Looking downwards

The way home

As predicted, the return walk sees me struggling to keep my balance numerous times. I reserve my best moment for close to the town when I am forced to hold on to a wooden fence as I slip down a small incline backwards.

With the hotel room no warmer we head back up to the swimming pool. Dinner at a local pub sees us huddled round the wood burning stove, which in spite of glowing red hot, does not seem to transfer much of its heat out into the room.

Checking out of our hotel the next day, the receptionist asks if we enjoyed our stay. We just say yes and refrain from repeating our complaints about the cold room. We drive home via St Mary’s Loch, passing close to Yarrow which is where yesterdays drovers’ road would have taken us out at – that is if we had fancied a 24 mile round trip in the snow. On entering the house I glance at the temperature on the central heating thermostat – it only reads 15 degrees but it feels toasty warm. I can only imagine how low the temperature in our hotel room really was.

Triple warnings

For days now the country has been buffeted by gale force winds. The wind comes in waves and with it brings torrential rain and at its height snow showers. The speed of the wind is such that the mini blizzards last only minutes – the snow flying through the air almost horizontal to the ground. At night the darkness seems to amplify the sound of the wind. It can be heard building up in the forest and it is as if the trees spit it towards the house. The roof makes strange noises as it hits and lying in bed I half expect it to fly off. Every morning I draw back the curtains and look over at the forest expecting a scene of destruction; thankfully I am greeted by the sight of the garage still in one piece and all trees still standing. During the quieter periods large groups of seagulls take to flying aimlessly over the town and the nearby forest. I watch them bending their wings to change direction and wonder what the purpose of this mass flight is.

It is not the weather to be riding a mountain bike in the middle of a forest so I take the opportunity to have the bike serviced. I retreat to the cold garage and dressed as warmly as if I was going out on a road cycle, reacquaint myself with the turbo trainer. A small window looks out to the forest and for company I have the potted Christmas tree acclimatising to life outside of the warm house. I glance over at my road bike propped against the wall under a cosy blanket and imagine being out on the open road once more. I venture out into the forest for a run, trying to ignore the fact that it is raining hard, splashing through puddles which cover my running shoes. We go for a walk listening to the creaking trees and plan a new trail for the mountain bikes, picking up broken branches as we move, knowing the path will not stay clear for long.

The mountain bike returns and with it another weather warning. Today the seagulls are not soaring through the sky. I find them huddled on the small island in the centre of the lake in the park. They have been joined by a solitary swan and I wonder if I should take their apathy as a sign that nothing good is going to come of today. It starts to rain and I drink tea and do the crossword. The wind is making me feel uneasy and I think of putting off any outdoor activity until after lunch. Perhaps the weather will have worsened to such an extent by then that I will have the perfect excuse for staying in. Suddenly I find myself changing into my biking clothes, the bike is out of the garage and I head into the forest.

I ride the skills loop and passing through the trailhead car park, notice it is empty. The wind feels like it has penetrated my brain and I keep changing my mind about the direction of the ride. On two occasions I find myself riding in circles on the fire road while I think of a route. I head up to Spooky Wood. Lost in my own thoughts I am suddenly brought back to reality as a deer runs straight across in front of me; a panicked look on its face. Normally so graceful and measured in their movements it is as if the wind is causing them disquiet as well. A few hundred metres on another deer careers across the road.

I have never found “Spooky Wood” scary. Granted the trees are very dense so it is always dark and the trail has an almost constant drop on its right. However, there is nothing technically challenging so it is just a question of keeping the bike on the track. Today things are different – a tree has come down across the trail.

Sudden stop

As I stop to take a photo and lift the bike over the obstacle strange noises can be heard in the trees above me. I look up at the swaying trees but can see nothing. I start to imagine trees toppling down on me and by now well spooked I get back on the bike and pedal hard with the aim of getting out of there as quickly as possible.

Leaving the dense wood behind, calm instantly returns to me. I decide to head home via “Rock Don’t Roll”. This trail has become very eroded and there is even less chance of doing any rolling. I manage two out of the three short, steep, rocky climbs but chicken out of the stone causeway. The last part of the trail resembles a fast flowing stream but by now the lower half of my body is soaked so it does not seem to matter.

Returning home I notice that the snowdrops are beginning to flower – the first sign of new life for the year. Switching on the computer I check the weather forecast. There are now three weather warnings for the next few days – wind, then rain followed by snow and ice. I may be spending more time in the coming days talking to the Christmas tree.

Signs of life

Santa’s parting gift

Frosty George

Winter has decided to makes itself known. Out running in the forest we notice strange white puffy lumps at intervals – some lying on the ground; others nestling in the branches of trees. It has not snowed – the logical explanation is that frost has built up in the forest canopy and been dislodged by birds and squirrels. My childlike imagination believes it to be clumps of snow fallen from Santa’s sleigh as he returns home after his Christmas deliveries.

The next day I survey the wintry scene from the warmth of the kitchen. Feeling guilty that the birds are running out of food I brave the cold to replenish supplies. My gloveless hands instantly feel numbingly cold. The lid of the squirrel feeder has frozen shut so to entice them into the garden I put some hazelnuts on the bird table. I attempt to crack the ice which has formed on the bird bath but the layer is so thick that even using a hammer might not do the trick. George the gnome sits impassively in the rockery surveying this white, silent world; frosty needles protruding from his body.

I return indoors to keep watch on the bird feeder. Within seconds a Jay descends and hastily picks up a hazelnut before flying off to enjoy breakfast in a more private place. Although plentiful in the forest Jays never come into the garden, so how did it know about the nuts? I begin to feel that although I seemed to be the only life out there many pairs of eyes were watching my every move….

Christmas dinner with a difference

Christmas message

It’s Christmas day – I wake up with the Cliff Richard song “Mistletoe and Wine” rattling round in my head. This is not a good thing – since the beginning of December I have been forced to listen to endless Christmas songs played on the shop’s radio station. While some tunes played at this time of year will always be classics e.g. “The Power Of Love” by Frankie goes to Hollywood and “Fairy Tale Of New York ” sung by The Pogues and Kirsty McColl; there are only so many times someone should be subjected to “Santa Claus is coming to town” and “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”. Being charged last night with working the late shift, the evening passed in a blur with an endless stream of customers, many seeking what they had no hope of finding in a small convenience shop on Christmas Eve. A feeling of relief descended upon me as I turned the key in the lock and walked home with only the twinkling stars in the sky to keep me company.

We decide to go to White Port beach for an alternative version of Christmas dinner. Our desire to make the most of the sunny, still day is such that we leave the presents unwrapped under the Christmas tree. Nature produces it’s own present for us – putting on my walking boots at the entrance to the Almorness estate , I notice a bird of prey swooping above the trees straight ahead. It is a red kite and is soon joined by two others – a rare sight over this part of the country. They soon fly off and we start the hour long walk to the beach. This does not go without incident as we take a different route and end up faced with climbing a barbed wire fence. I refuse, as not only do I hate climbing fences, but I have no desire to rip my skin to shreds and have to possibly attend the nearest Accident and Emergency. We retrace our steps and get back on track. Pheasants, sensing that a shooting cease fire has been declared, strut their stuff in the fields and the harsh sound of their “karork – ok –  ok” call fills the air.  We pass Horse Isle Bay and admire the view over the water to Kippford and Rockcliffe, imagining the Christmas feasts which will be enjoyed in some of the grand houses there. In places the ground is extremely boggy and it is necessary to work out a route where ones boots are not likely to disappear under the mud. I hear a strange roaring and quickly realise that it is the sound of the incoming tide lapping the sand. Just over the rise is the beach and it is deserted; no one has walked on it at all today.

Time for Christmas dinner – the disposable barbeque is lit and while we wait for the coals to develop some heat we explore the beach.

Restaurant decorations

Then we get down to the important task of cooking dinner. Two people and a dog arrive, but seeing us, don’t come down to the beach but walk on.

Festive sausages

The sausages are served between rolls with dollops of tomato sauce, washed down with tea as we sit enjoying the tranquillity looking out to sea.

Wave watching

As the sun begins to dip behind the hill we do the “washing up ” and head back to the car. Once more approaching  Horse Isle Bay we see a further four people, two of them are having a more sophisticated version of our dinner – they have a picnic blanket, plates and proper cutlery and I would not be surprised if they had Christmas crackers hiding in their rucksacks.

Screel Hill gets ready for bed

Back at the car it’s muddy boots off and we head for home and the opening of presents.This has been a Christmas day that will never be forgotten. Tomorrow it’s back to work…..