Shopping in Callender

Come on Scotland pull your bloody socks up. I have eyed up a special little pub for ages which sits at a place where I regularly take good photographs. It’s normally weekend when I go there and the place always looks like it’s heaving but today I decided to give it a try.

I was full of anticipation when I went in, nice ambience etc, although it appeared a little smokey and gloomy if I am being totally truthful. Smoke coming from log fire I hasten to add.

Service was okay, nothing spectacular, but the food, oh dear, what a disappointment. I had haddock in an ale batter. I nearly needed a hammer and chisel to get through it and in the end left it. No comment was made when my plate was taken, and I couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss at the table, but when I went to the bar I told them I wasn’t impressed with my grub. She immediately apologised and said she would have a word with the kitchen. I was fully reimbursed for my disastrous fish dish, but would so much have preferred to have had it done right.

I took a different turn today and ended up in Callender after stopping at various points and getting some great snaps. If you are used to good customer service please keep driving. I suddenly realised how different the garb is up here. It is the area of the Berghaus, the Goretex and anything else that keeps out the rain. The town is filled with outdoor clothing shops with prices that range from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thought I had the job sussed when I eventually found a nice two tone job in one shop til I discovered the price tag wasn’t £49 but £149. For an anorak that I will probably hank on a fence somewhere. No way, so it’ll be back to Ebay and the excitement of the auction. Failing that the charity shop hit is coming.

One shop in particular was worthy of a clip from a Les Dawson show. There they were the two shop “assistants” leaning on the counter, yapping away. I wasn’t acknowledged in any shape or form even though it was obvious I was a genuine purchaser or would be purchaser. I struggled with zips, hangers, you name it, but no, the conversation continued. Until eventually one of them went off for yes, you’ve guessed it the vaccum. Just after 4p.m. but that was the sole thought in the mind, to get finished. I thought sod it and left.

I thought I was almost there in the final shop which had an enormous stock, but it had rails designed for giraffes and the sizes I needed to get to, involved a bit of tip toe effort. The dizzy bisom behind the counter must have watched me struggle until I asked her if she had a bigger size. To which she replied “No sorry, we don’t ‘av it.” Then stuff started getting wheeled in so again it was time to go before the doors got locked.

After the disastrous food at lunch time I promised myself a nice coffee in Callender, but oh dear, I didn’t even get that. It was bitter and sucked in the sides of my mouth. So I am off now to make my own. Next time I go out I think I will take a picnic, it is cheaper and I know it will taste okay.

Compensation for the day? Some great photographs.

Shall I return to Callender? Perhaps, I will always give a place a second chance, but I know which shops I will be avoiding. And I will be wearing an anorak bought somewhere I have enjoyed decent service.

Best entertainment of the day? Watching the several near shunts in the Tesco express car park!!

THE ROAD TO HELL

THE ROAD TO HELL

It took one and a half hours to get there, so when I bade farewell to my good friends in Sandy I presumed it would take approximately the same time to get back home.

Trouble is on the way up I had downloaded a blow-by-blow account of how to reach my destination from the good old A.A. It literally delivered me to the doorstep. But silly me, I didn’t do one for the return journey.

Head for signs that say M25. That was all that was in my head. I kept seeing signs that said, London, and I thought, fine, just keep going, you’ve come this way before, you’ll eventually hit the M25. Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell.”

But then the signs changed to Central London. I chose to ignore this slight alteration, and kept the foot down, on and on we sailed until I realised the area was becoming more and more built up.

When an area sign for Holloway appeared I knew I was in trouble. But what do you do when you are a country bumpkin? You don’t panic that’s what and you keep on going.

It was a beautiful evening and I became envious of the people strolling around, with sweaters tied round their necks. Others sat contentedly outside welcoming pubs and sipped long cold drinks. I just kept on driving, I saw signs that said things I had heard of, like Centre point, but when this large, highly illuminated area loomed in front of me I was horrified to read the words Euston Station.

Oh my God, what now. I tried not to grip the wheel as if I was in a rollercoaster.

Should I phone daughter no 4 and get her to talk me out of London, should I phone home and get boss’s son to advise me or should I just get on with it or maybe even consult a friendly copper.

Isn’t it funny how signs vanish when you need them most?

I drove and drove…Nothing!!

Then there it was, M1 North. Bearing in mind I was trying to head south in the direction of Sevenoaks, which is the other side of Dartford, I knew this was well in the wrong direction, but I was past caring, I just needed to get out of the concrete jungle. So off I went.

Now here is the snippet that I simply did not know. I did not know that motorways had no roundabouts. I thought I only had to drive to the first roundabout, go round the bloody thing and I would be in the right direction.

So I drove and drove, and drove some more. I think there were signs for Buckinghamshire, Warwickshire, Northamptonshire and then there it was Birmingham 36 miles. BIRMINGHAM????? Oh no, this is crazy. Where’s the nearest Holiday Inn, maybe I should just get my head down for the night and set off again in the morning. Or maybe I should just give up and drive to Scotland and not bother going back to work.

I kept thinking, maybe if I go off at a slip road there will be a roundabout, so I stopped for petrol, yes I needed some by now, and asked the first friendly looking geezer in the petrol station shop. “Just go off and the next slip road pet and drive ‘til you hit the roundabout, and that will put you in the right direction.”

I smiled and said I wouldn’t embarrass myself by telling him where I was trying to reach, but I took his advice.

Soon I was heading South, so I put the foot down and sailed along, dreaming of my cosy bed. M25 Eureka, I never thought I would be glad to read that sign, but wait a minute what was this? Three lanes of traffic, all going nowhere. You know that awful scenario, half a car length every 3 minutes?

I fumbled for my Travel Sweets, rather aptly named don’t you think I ejected Enrique, sorry Enrique and cranked up Sir Mick with Start Me Up closely followed by one of my all time favourites Brown Sugar. I don’t know why, but it makes life a better place. My little red car, throbbed, pulsated and spluttered on, very, very slowly. Eventually another signed loomed. “August 1^st. M25 closed 12.00- 5.30a.m.” What? Closed? Oh bloody hell. This is a joke.

But there we were, Rollers, Ferraris, Cavaliers, Kas and my little red Seat.

Mile upon mile of start stop, start stop. Huge cranes, hard hats, muck and stoor (guid auld Scottish word).

I smiled, sucked another travel sweetie and thought, yes girl, you have made the right decision. Three weeks from now I start a new job back up in my beloved Scotland, far away from closed M25s and enormous cities.

I have never sighed such a relief as when I reached the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, and even there they only had two tollbooths open. This was midnight on a Wednesday night. And all you could see both ways was a serpentine of headlights snaking their way north and south. Thousands of poor other sods, with Sat Navs, tired children and grumpy partners.

I reversed into my little corner at the side of the garage at 12.40a.m.

I left Sandy, Bedfordshire at 7.15p.m. Lots of people reading this will laugh, in fact everyone that I have told the woeful tale has giggled and shook their head, but for me it was still a triumph. I drove in the midst of London, me the original country girl, I didn’t panic and although I took the scenic route home I did get home. But maybe next time I will download the return route directions. Just incase…

And remember motorways have no roundabouts.

FINELLA

FINELLA

Coal black hair,

cat green eyes,

and a look that could

put you through the floor,

this was Finella,

this was my mother.

Intelligent, warm,

she reminisced about India,

tigers, servants and love,

mostly about love.

Vivacious, captivating,

but frighteningly complicated

at times even scary

as she battled with demons

that incited great rages.

She dealt with officialdom

like it wasn’t there,

no one questioned her,

ever,

it simply never happened

yet she never raised her voice,

simply an eyebrow that had

pedantic bullies shaking in their shoes.

Words were her weapon, her manipulating tool,

spoken or written with great panache.

Her flamboyant writing mirrored her image,

in an almost uncanny way,

as she dreamed her unfulfilled dream.

Getting the Finger out.

I have been suffering a double dose of procrastination of late so was doubly surprised when I tried to log in tonight and found I needed to use my Google account. The thing is I have been back up in Scotland, enjoying precious time with all my girls and grandchildren. There are some things that money just can't buy and a day like I had on the beach last Sunday at beautiful Elie has given me memories I shall cherish always.

All I want to do is get back to Scotland and after a recent interview it is looking as though my dream is going to come true. I will say no more right now for fear of jeopardizing events, but hopefully my next entry will see me back where I belong, away from the concrete jungle of the south where even the most ramshackle shack of a house is making silly money that no one can afford.

I keep thinking about two things; one, what is happening in China, where thousands and thousands of dogs and cats are being brutally killed. Not just an ordinary death I hasten to add, but a slow lingering fate, because it gives more flavour that way. For Christ's sake, what sort of a world do we live in?

And like every other mother on the planet I think of little Madeleine and what has become of her and all the other children who right now should be home in their in their beds. If only we could wave a magic wand and wake up tomorrow morning to good news. What a happy day that would be.

I need to start thinking about how I am going to transport all my "guff" back to Scotland. Blimey I need to do some serious downsizing in the wardrobe department, but hurrah, hurrah, I will soon be back in the land of good National Hunt racing. God Bless the full length cashmere Jaeger coat purchased for a fiver.

DILEMMAS (published in Countryside Tales)

DILEMMAS (A Winter Tale)

Dilemmas, now there’s a word that conjures up all sorts of images. People have different definitions of what a dilemma is. For me it is being faced with a situation that is going to cause some sort of problem whatever way you turn. My Roget’s Thesaurus calls a dilemma a predicament, a dubiety, a choice or an argumentation.

Whichever of these things it is, it calls for quick action, fingers crossed on a wing and a prayer.

One of my most memorable dilemmas involved a suicidal cow. Yes, I mean one that says moo. She was a Friesian cross Hereford suffering from milk fever. Don’t ask me why, but cows suffering from such a thing, are inclined to position themselves next to water. This lady was no exception, apart from the fact that she decided that not only would she lie close to the water, but in it.

I watched from the relative cosiness of the farmhouse, with my four young daughters racing round my feet. My bovine friend was now well and truly kneeling in the swirling burn that runs through the bottom of what was known as the ‘Front Field’. She lowered her head, she was giving up. My heart started thumping, panic setting in. I needed to get to her, save her, but I couldn’t do it alone. There was also the question of what to do with four small children, but when you are in your twenties dilemmas like that don’t faze you. Hubby was off chasing the oval ball somewhere. (Why do dilemmas invariably happen when the man in your life isn’t around?) Dilemma 2 reared its ugly head. I knew who I needed to help me, but I also knew where he would be, and that was somewhere he shouldn’t. There was no time to debate the ethics of phoning up the home of the married lady who was the object of our tractorman’s desire; I had a cow dying in front of me.

In my most pleasant upbeat voice I asked to speak to Roy, and yes, it was urgent.

After blabbing out the words cow in river (for it was more like a river than a burn) I told him I was on my way down there with the kids and could he please come and help me. Being a conscientious sort of guy, he didn’t let me down.

I shooed my foursome into the Subaru and set off down the front field. Four little faces peered in wonderment as I waded into the ice-cold water and lifted her head rather ungainly by the ears. You would not believe how heavy a cow’s head is.

The little faces now looked very concerned, not for mummy, but for the poor cow. Her calf sat quietly on the riverbank, seemingly unaware that there was a strong prospect he would become an orphan. I cannot remember what month it was, but it was obviously during the rugby season and it was definitely winter. I had all the necessary wet weather gear, waterproof trousers, coat, Wellingtons but the icy water made short shift of it all, my feet felt like blocks of ice as the water poured into my Wellingtons. I heard a distant drone that became welcomingly louder. The red Massey Ferguson came zooming down the road to the bottom gate. By now I felt as though my back would never straighten and my fingers would need to be amputated with frostbite. I barely looked up; instead I concentrated my efforts on some soothing words, punctuated with the odd “silly bugger”

“I’m going to reverse right back. Ye’ll need to try and get the chains roond aboot her” Shouted Roy above the revving tractor. The little faces were mesmerised. Nothing as exciting as this ever happened on the telly.

At times like this, you don’t worry too much about if you are going to hurt the animal in question, (another dilemma perhaps) more that if you don’t get a move on, she’s going to be gone to the big cattle shed in the sky. Roy reversed the tractor down the banking, flung me the chains as he jumped from his cab. I cursed and swore and swore some more as between us we managed to get the chains round her neck and under a front leg. Meanwhile Roy kept giving her a slap, trying to get her to come to her senses and stand up. When the penny eventually dropped that she was having none of it, he whizzed back to his cab and started to slowly inch forward, as I screeched instructions. The Subaru by this time was totally steamed up and four little faces clapped loudly and roared “Hurrah”when we eventually got the poor beast free of the water.

Naturally her calf was on the far side, so again Roy and I waded through the water to chase the little creature further downstream where it was more accessible for him to cross. The job was done, mother was soon unchained but somewhat weakened by her ordeal. We opted to leave her out rather than put her through the ordeal of being taken up the hill and into a byre. Before we released her we rubbed her down with straw. She didn’t even try to go anywhere, but lay back down with her feet tucked in below her. I shook out a bale for her to have a warm lie, and spread more straw across her back.

I thanked Roy for all his help and managed to refrain from apologising for dragging him away from his ‘friend’. After all, I wasn’t supposed to know what was going on!!

‘Ever the gentleman, he doffed his cap, then turned to the cow and said ‘Stipit bitch.’

Frozen but happy I squelched back into my car to enthusiastic applause from the children.

We jostled and bumped our way back up the field, to the next dilemma, what to make for tea.

A few years later we built a rather grand new shed to house our cows and calves, thus eliminating the chance of a repeat performance of my Winter dip.

COMFORTABLE SILENCE

We don’t need a special day

to celebrate our love.

Every day with you is special.

From the second you touched my hand

I knew that you were the one

I would love ‘til the day I die.

It’s not in the words you say

though they are special enough,

more in the comfortable silence.

And in the knowledge that

there have never been restrictions

and that, my darling, is true love.

FLAT BLACK CAT

FLAT BLACK CAT

I drove by in a trice,

with the usual tailgater

up my arse.

But I saw you,

lying there,

flattened, silent.

Covered in dust,

from days by the verge

forgotten, lost, but sadly dead.

I wondered if,

you belonged to someone,

did you sometimes sit on a knee

and offer a gleeful chin,

to be stroked and caressed

or were you the original TC,

a knight of the road,

a feral, living rough,

but still welcoming kindness?

Whatever the answer is,

I wish that I knew,

so that I could rest

and not be sad,

about the little cat,

at the side of the road.

POLKA DOT DAYS

Purple lupins, ten feet tall,

just a dream, just a wish,

beneath soft pink apple blossom,

that floats like gossamer on the faintest breeze.

Happy days, happy times,

nurturing sweet peas to clamber across

grey painted trellis, grey for effect,

worked well too.

So many sounds, touches,

emotions, today and always,

thinking of you, with your coal black curls,

cat green eyes and toffee apple smile.

Fun and laughter were your friends,

you taught them to be mine,

you showed me the beauty of the rose,

and what lies behind the thorns.

Each scarlet geranium takes me back

to the times when a little girl looked into

the rainwater tank, while you filled the can

that sometimes filled imaginary rivers.

You wore a polka dot dress tightly grasped

by a broad scarlet belt, you were my princess,

I wanted a dress like yours, to be so pretty,

just like you, my princess, my mum.

Even your shoes were scarlet leather,

cosseting dainty feet that loved to dance.

Laughter filled your life and mine,

and on the air the scent of Gingham perfume.

Gingham for week days, Tweed for Sundays,

a little bit here and a little bit there,

always my friend, always my mum

this morning, I thought I heard you calling.