The plan for today is as follows: Bealach na Ba, Eilean Donan Castle, Kyle of Lochalsh (possibly), Culloden, Inverness, train home, hysterical weeping.
I sit down for breakfast with a marvellous view outside.
This means that I can see that it’s raining. Wait, no it’s stopped. Wait, no, it’s pissing down. Wait, no, it’s stopped again. I think this is what is meant when they refer to the weather as “changeable”.
I pack for the last time and make some plans for my time in Inverness. Oh no, a second hand bookshop…
The road from Shieldaig to the Bealach na Ba is single track and huge fun to drive. Then I get to the Balach na Ba. This is also a single track road with some very tight hairpin bends and gradients of up to 20%. It boasts the greatest road ascent in the UK, gaining over 2000ft in under 4 miles. It is one of the things I have been looking forward to on this trip – and so I am praying that the weather stays reasonable.
It does.
There are some things in this world where the expectation exceeds the reality and you walk away disappointed. There are remarkably few experiences that live up to the expectation, and they include:
The pyramids at Giza
Standing right by the main waterfall of Dettifoss in Iceland
Seeing Gemma Collins fall over on stage
Driving the Bealach na Ba
Having just been down a single track road, I didn’t think it could narrower – but it seems that it can. Add in hairpin bends and a vertiginous drop on one side and it gets the adrenaline pumping. I follow two motorbikes up it and get very confused when they stop on what seems to be a blind bend to take some pictures.
I then realise that there is a parking place here, so I stop and do the same. We then proceed. All goes well as we head up past a parked motor-home and even when we meet another motor-home gingerly driving down.
By the time, I get to the top, I am almost shaking from pure adrenaline. It’s when I get out that I realise how windy it is – and how much colder it is than yesterday. But that does nothing to detract from the moment. I am so glad that I did this and that the weather held off.
Pretty much the definition of the “road less travelled”.
I then head south to Eilean Donan Castle. The road on the way alternates between single and double track – often without warning. The unsigned single track tunnel is massive fun as I nervously peer through it and then drive on as fast as possible – as does everyone else!
Eilean Donan is a massive culture shock. I’ve gone from barely seeing anyone to this crowded site that is clearly on the main tourist track. The car park is packed and staffed by burly people who are VERY proscriptive about where you park and how much room you leave between vehicles. As a result, we are all doing that thing where you have to convince yourself that you are much slimmer than you are as you try to slide out without damaging the car next door.
It is swarming with Chinese and American tourists. I decide very quickly not to go inside, despite the allure of getting a reduction due to my advanced years and decrepitude. Outside is littered with people taking the same shots: several are the “oh so original” shots where “if you stand there with your hand out flat, it looks as though you’re holding the castle”. Oh my, how mother and I laughed at that one!
One Chinese woman, in a sort of variation, is exhorted to jump with both hands in the air and yell “HEY”. She does so, and her friend misses the shot. She repeats this – and it gets missed again. And again. And again. By the fifth iteration, I am the only person finding it amusing.
I head for the gift shop which looks like Harrods five minutes after the start of the January sales. People are acting that way as well, and after having been unceremoniously prodded, poked and shoved, I decide to move on with my pocket only lightened by the cost of the car park. I ruefully realise that has constituted more physical contact than I’ve had from my doctor over the last 5 years.
I start to head back to Inverness. The weather has decided to stop lurking and it starts tipping down with rain. The temperature also plummets and the car cheerfully warns me that it is 4 degrees and there is a risk of ice and frost. As with earlier in the day, the rain stops and starts – but the periods of rain are longer than the gaps in between.
I stop at Tarvie services for coffee, chips and their signature burger (which includes haggis). While waiting, I queue for the loo. The guy inside takes so long that I almost call for help. The rain is just spitting now but it’s still uncomfortable standing here as there is little shelter. While I’m waiting, a Chinese girl turns up and walks straight past me and tries the door. I give her my usual “No, I’m just stood here for my health” comment and she scurries off. Luckily the guy inside isn’t dead. By the time I return, by lunch is ready and I stand outside to eat it…where it is now sunny!
The sun lasts until I finish my lunch, when the rain starts again. I head on down to Rogie Falls, where I sit in the car looking at the rain. I decide to give it 15 minutes before giving up. Alas, the rain keeps coming down, so I head back onto the long road to Inverness.
I have one last place to try, so I drive through Inverness and head for Culloden. Like Eilean Donan it is packed with cars and coach parties, so I swing the car around and head back to Arnold Clark. (I’ve since been told that it’s quite disappointing, as it’s just a field).
I hand the keys back and it’s a bit of a wrench. I’m trying to convince myself that the holiday isn’t over, but realistically I’ve got a 4 hour wait for my train, a 1 ½ hour transfer at Edinburgh and the Caledonian Sleeper home. I should be home by 09:00 tomorrow.
At the train station I put my case and bag of “stuff” (including Hamish the Coo) into left luggage while I head to Leakeys – a renowned second-hand book store. On the way, the heavens open and I put my jacket on for the first time this week. On arrival, I shuck my jacket as it is baking inside. Leakey’s is huge – by the time I get to the third set of shelves, I have an armful of books.
Heaven will look something like Leakeys.
It is packed with American tourists who think they are in a library and are communicating in whispers. Some are trying to ask intelligent questions, and I particularly enjoyed the following exchange:
“Do you sell Jane Austen here?”
“Austen? It seems unlikely, but if we have any she will over there…under A”
I always enjoy that level of withering sarcasm.
I exit the shop £60 worse off – but it’s a bargain as it includes a tote bag! Halfway back to the station, the rain starts again. As I haven’t put my jacket on, I take shelter in a series of doorways.
The rain stops me exploring Inverness further, so I head back to the station where I have nearly three hours to go. Recalling my journey up here, I get some provisions from WH Smiths. (By the way, it is just me who finds it odd that a shop in Inverness stocks Buxtons rather than Highland Spring?) I then settle myself in the Ness & Thistle with a pint of Tennants.
I don’t know why I photographed it, but I did
With a couple of hours before boarding, I read some more of Bloodring. It has improved, though the main character has a bad habit of delivering exposition. I’m also concerned that there is a lot of reference to her being “on heat” and I have a horrible feeling the book might descend into fantasy sex territory.
Scottish Rail then confuses me when I see a second Caledonian Sleeper which is due to leave at 20:45. Surely, this means that I will be joining that train at Edinburgh? If that’s the case, why don’t I just get on here? I then confuse one of the ticket inspectors by asking him – and the two of his colleagues that he then discusses the matter with. In the end, I have a chat with the lady in the ticket office who explains that it’s a different Caledonian Sleeper.
Finally, I get onto the original train with case, rucksack, tote bag, Coo and sundry other items. As I struggle to a seat, the rucksack makes a bid for freedom and slides down, trapping my arms. Before I can put my bags down, a generous fellow passenger helps the decrepit old man out. And that really makes me feel like that. I settle into my seat having divested myself of my luggage and we head off to Edinburgh.
I keep looking up from my book at a guy sat diagonally in front of me. He is facing me, so I can see the way he is carefully cradling his bag – in much the same way that the guy in Basket Case cradles the bag containing his mutant twin. My fellow passenger has the look of a feverish accountant about him, so I’m more than willing to believe the worst. He then starts talking to his bag – which worries me until I realise he’s talking into his phone. He clearly wants to end the conversation as he keeps saying “Chow chow chow” and trying to end the call. Unless he was just identifying dogs for someone.
At Edinburgh, I head off to try and work out where to go. The man who helped me with my rucksack turns out to be looking for the sleeper to London as well. There are no signs anywhere for it, so I go to the ticket office and ask and then lead my fellow traveller over to platform 11.
At platform 11 there is a cluster of Scottish Rail employees, a line of ticket barriers (all of which are open) and, past the ticket barriers, one of those sinuous queues that they use at theme parks. I disturb the staff by asking where to go and am told to go and stand in the queue. We both do this and I get to observe the odd approach that the staff take to dealing with their customers. They let people walk through the barrier, past the queue and up to the train. Only at that point do they shout to them, sometimes having to run up to stop them getting on the train. They then lead them to the back of the slowly growing queue. Interestingly, virtually no-one thinks it odd that there is a queue or that it might have any relevance to them as they sashay past.
Eventually, they let us on and I head on to stake my claim to my reserved seat. My fellow passenger is now walking up and down in a state of confusion – on a service where you have to book a seat, he doesn’t have a reservation. This is confusing everyone. I hope they can get him sorted out as he is (understandably) getting quite frustrated. When you consider that it’s gone 23:00, it’s not surprising. He walks past 10 minutes later, looking much more relaxed as the staff have found his seat.
The three seats ahead of me are taken by a family. They are difficult to ignore as the three of them seem to have enough luggage for about twenty people and the father manages to slam most of it into my leg as he repeatedly walks past. I note that he does not pause to apologise. They then spend about 10 minutes stowing their luggage in as inconvenient a manner as possible. I should point out that they are in the seats closest to the luggage racks, so their frenetic activity blocks the aisle completely and is mainly made up of the father stood with his arse in my face while he and his wife loudly complain about everything. What excellent travelling companions they are going to be – I just hope they go to sleep quickly.
Just as I think that, they demonstrate their excellent parenting skills by giving their son an iPad and then ignoring him. They adjust the volume so that it is just audible to the rest of the carriage. I idly check the windows to see if defenestration is a workable solution. I feel quite sorry for their son. He tries to talk to his mother, but she is far too busy looking at something on her phone.
We are then joined by two guys who are so concerned about making noise that they communicate in stage whispers while simultaneously throwing their luggage around which results in them making far more noise than if they had spoken normally. They then have a long discussion about how much alcohol they should order and have problems deciding whether they should have 3 or 4 cans each. Fuck me, it’s turning into the Voyage of the Damned.
They are joined by a third guy whose ticket is behind me, but decides he would rather sit in someone else’s seat across the aisle from me. What a shame that the two Americans who have those seats choose that moment to turn up. Unfortunately, I now have all three professional drinkers behind me.
The newcomers are very keen to show each other things on their phones. They do this while playing music at full volume. The one closest to me looks up, sees me glaring at them and the volume gets turned right down. It’s good to know that the glare still works.
The mother in front of me decides that she cannot risk one of her bags in the luggage rack – despite the fact that it is literally 6ft from her. She jams the bag in between her and her son, guaranteeing that both of them will be uncomfortable all night.
Ironically, by 02:30 I am the only one in the carriage who is still awake.
I doze fitfully, and get as much sleep as I did on the way up. The silver lining is that I get some great views over the countryside on what looks to be a glorious day. As time passes, it becomes clear that we are doing quite a lot of waiting around. Initially, I think that this might be to ensure that we don’t get to London too early. However, as we remain stationary I check Trainline which says that the train is going to be delayed at Euston – but gives no idea of an ETA. At 06:30 we are stationary at some benighted hole north of Watford Junction. (This later turns out to be Milton Keynes, so the description was pretty accurate). If this carries on much longer, we will arrive right in the middle of rush hour. My fellow passenger from Inverness stops to tell me that the delay is due to a body on the line ahead. This is shortly followed by the internal display referring to a “police incident”, so he’s probably right. For the moment, we just sit here.
After an hour, we are told that the line ahead of us is closed and they have no idea how long we will have to wait. The staff bring around water and cereal bars. The three guys behind me interrogate the staff, while making it clear that they are very important people. They have an extended discussion on what to do and finally decide to disembark and get a taxi. As they aren’t worried about the £160 they have been quoted, they may indeed be very important people. Just as they decide to get going, the train starts moving. I resist the temptation to chuckle. I always like travelling with people who are getting stressed and angry, because it always seems to make me much calmer.
We finally arrive 2 hours late and Euston Station is swarming with people. I experiment with various configurations of my four bags, eventually landing on one that allows reasonable movement and I stagger to the Northern Line. As I get to the bottom of the stairs, the train is at the platform. I struggle on and the doors snap shut, trapping my rucksack in an iron grip. I’m pinned. My fellow travellers look at me with all of the empathy and concern of a dead goldfish. Luckily, the automatic systems open the door and I am released to collapse into a seat. I refrain from sarcastically thanking everyone. At Tottenham Court Road, I head for the Elizabeth Line, forgetting that the journey is about three miles. My back is by now complaining and I am not looking forward to the walk home from Slough station.
At Slough, I cross the footbridge and realise that I’m not going to make the walk home. So I get a taxi. I apologise that it’s such a short trip, but the driver is great about it. He complains that it’s windy and cold and I chuckle as it’s far warmer than Scotland was yesterday. And finally, I’m home.
This has been a truly amazing week. There have been some ups and downs, but it has been an incredible experience. The high points are:
Old Pulteney Distillery
Duncansby Stacks
Borgie Lodge Hotel
Smoo Cave
The driving!!! (Especially the western roads)
Ardbeg Guest House
Tigh an Eilean
Bealach na Ba
It was bloody expensive: but SO worth it. The question now is what I do next.
It’s not a great nights sleep. There is a ton of noise outside and because the window doesn’t close properly, I can’t block it out. I’m damn glad it’s not cold, because otherwise it would have been bitter here. At least I now know how Raskolnikov felt like in his draughty garret. My back is feeling better this morning, which is a relief.
The room gives me another joyful surprise when I go to use the shower. The last person who used it decided to turn it off at the wall rather than on the shower unit. As a result, when I turn the power on, it springs to life with the water aimed directly out the shower door and onto my towel. I rectify the situation and then begin the Ullapool Shower War. It goes as follows:
· Press button – water comes out, then stops
· Press button again – same result
· Hold the button in – works briefly, then water stops (The shower, by the way, is amusing itself by alternating between scalding and freezing)
· Jam the button in place to get a constant stream of water
· Move the shower head to a position above me. Shower head comes off in my hand
· Replace shower head, which now faces the wall
· Attempt to adjust shower head and shower fitting comes off in my hand as it was clearly not secured properly
· Finally shower one handed. No wonder the last person just turned it off at the wall
Having survived the USW, I head down for the wonder that will be my “Continental Breakfast”. (By the way, have you ever wondered which continent this is from?). The FBI continues to impress with its’ commitment to service as the waitress wanders around with an expression on her face that implies she has been sucking lemons all morning. I look past her unresponsive form to see what is laughingly called a “breakfast buffet” strewn over the bar of the pub. She doesn’t speak to me but grudgingly confirms that I can sit anywhere when I force her to engage me in conversation. I deliberately sit at the only table with a Reserved sign on it. I impatiently await anything resembling service.
(To give you an idea of the quality of the buffet, the bread is a sliced loaf which is elegantly served in the plastic bag.)
I decided not to pay for anything but I am lured away from this position by something described as Ullapool Smoked Salmon. This turns out to be scrambled eggs with a couple of slices of salmon and one slice of toast. Taste nice, but not worth the £12 they are charging.
Breakfast is accompanied by a new book – Bloodring by Faith Hunter. So far, it does not seem to be terribly well written.
Outside is glorious with a much better view of the loch and mountains.
Today I’m off to Shieldaig. Should be some waterfalls and a falconry en route. Showers were predicted today but it’s currently sunny with clear skies. As I head off I pass a line of motor-homes waiting to get into the petrol station. I’d seen something about this on FB a couple of days ago. I head off, glad that I don’t have to refuel.
My first stop is at CorrieShalloch Gorge. I’m there too early for the main car park, so I head up the hill slightly to the overflow car park, where I am treated to the lovely sight of a man from a motor-home taking an indiscreet piss in the hedge. There is a path here with a circular walk, so I head off down it. It is sheltered amid trees for the most part, but there are some fantastic views down thegorge and over the mountains opposite. Part way round, I come across a footbridge to the other side, which is another one like Smoo Cave and it shakes alarmingly as you step on it. As the gorge below disappears to unseen depths, this is a much more alarming prospect.
I meet up with a Scottish Couple who are completing the same circular path. The lady is disappointed and says there isn’t much to see. Granted, it’s missing a troupe of dancing elephants, but it is a satisfyingly deep hole in the ground and I really enjoy my walk around.
I head back up towards the car, my back twinging enough to make me decide not to progress up to the main area of the Falls. Instead I open the gate to surprise a coachload of German tourists who are clustered around it, clearly nervous about daring to open it. They look first surprised, then sheepish as I amble past them.
There are a lot more motor-homes on this section and I follow one out of the gorge as it plods along at 35 mph. I spot an opportunity and I and 2 motorbikes tank down the next spectacular stretch of road. Which of course, has nowhere I can stop and take a bloody photo!
I head down to Dundonnell where I stop to take some pictures at the side of the loch, and then proceed to an amazing beach at Gruinard Bay.
The road from Aultbea to Poolewe is a really fun road, spoiled by the number of motor-homes which are a serious pain along here. I get stuck behind one who is blithely ignorant of the queue he is causing behind him. He doesn’t need somewhere to pull over to take a photo – he just stops in the middle of the road! I find somewhere to stop and let him get a decent distance ahead. Just as I’m getting ready to go a coach goes past and I gloomily predict I will now be stuck behind him. Not so – he pulls over as soon as he can to let us past. What a class act!
As I head down to Badachro along a very exciting single track road, I can see that it’s slowly getting cloudier. But it’s still sunny when I get to Victoria Falls. Surprisingly, there is a signpost indicating the wall to the Falls. Just the one, though. This is a lovely little walk, especially as the sun refuses to give up and is making it really pleasant. The falls are very photogenic, but it’s not quite the same as the mighty Zambezi.
I head along Loch Maree and stop several times to take some more pictures.
Then to Beinn Eighe, which is another wasted opportunity. There is a visitors centre here – but it’s completely unstaffed and no retail opportunities at all. There are 4 walks of differing lengths and difficulties, but no signage to tell you where they start. The hides for observing the bird life are great, but the rest of this place (and the entirety of Scotland) needs some bloody signs!
I then head down to Torridon which is at the end of a very exciting single track road. I go into the Torridon General Stores for a late lunch: cappuccino, black pudding & egg roll and a slice of salted caramel sponge. Eaten sat at a table while the locals doing their shopping peer at you and furtively make signs against the Evil Eye.
I then drive down to Shieldaig and my overnight accommodation at the Tigh an Eilean hotel. It is beautifully situated at the water’s edge and is really attractive. I ask the receptionist how to pronounce the name of the hotel and she shrugs and makes something up. She politely explains that she doesn’t really know as she is foreign – indeed, she has the sort of accent that appears about 23 of the way through Eurovision. I head upstairs. The stair are a death trap as the ceiling is only about 5ft9” in height. The room is very nice, though I change my mind about opening a window as I am directly above the bin storage area.
I’ve booked dinner for 18:00. This is my last night in Scotland, so I mean to make the most of it. Beforehand, I head down to what is rather grandly referred to as the Residents Bar. This is basically a room with comfortable seating and a drinks fridge at hotel minibar prices. But it’s my last night, so I splurge £2.50 on a can of Diet Coke. This must be what the Romans felt like during the worst excesses of Nero!
They have a seafood platter on the menu. I’ve never had one, although I’ve seen a friend of mine demolish one. It has langoustines on it, which I have never had, so I decide to give it a go. I match it with a glass of Chardonnay and decide to order the Scottish cheese plate for dessert. The waitress recommends the pannacotta, so I change to that.
The seafood platter arrives and I’m glad that I ordered the small one. Quite quickly there is an issue – it’s all stone cold. I had never actually realised that a seafood platter would be served cold. Eating it becomes quite challenging and I discover that I really hate the taste of cold shellfish. (The exception is the smoked salmon on the plate, which is about 4 times the amount that I had for breakfast). I give up about halfway through, much to the consternation of the waitress who is sure that she warned me it would be cold. I am equally sure that she didn’t, but I let it go.
At least I made the effort – the person on the table next to me doesn’t and I overhear them ordering a Chicken Pakora and a Meat Feat Pizza!
The meal is finished with a lime pannacotta and orange sorbet. The pannacotta doesn’t wobble, but both taste delicious.
I finish the day with a wonder along the water’s edge, enjoying the quiet and the view – and then enjoying a sign I find on the community noticeboard.
I slowly head back to my room. It’s nearly over. Last day tomorrow – and rain is forecast.
I stay up for a while, but the Northern Lights do not put in an appearance.
I have a very good night’s sleep. During the morning ablutions, I note that the windows in the bath are half frosted so that I can see out while my more personal regions are covered by the frosting. While wondering how this works for women, I turn around to see a full length mirror opposite me, so someone stood outside can get a full view anyway! However, we are in the middle of nowhere, so the chances of a random passer-by are remote – much like this location!
The view from the bathroom
Yesterday’s clear skies have been replaced with a grey miasma that looks as though someone has forgotten to turn the sky on. I check the weather report and it says that it’s going to be cloudy all day with some rain this evening – that sounds pretty good to me. The journey to Ullapool has several potential stopping points along the way: Kylesku Bridge, Weeding Widow Falls, Clashnessie, Clachtoll, Lochinver (which an apparently amazing pie shop), Loch Assynt, Knockan Crag and Rhue Lighthouse. Or whatever I feel like stopping at!
The lady I was talking to yesterday (Caitlin) has kindly left out some books so I can re-check where I’m going today. They also show me how much I’ve missed. The area I’ve just travelled through is referred to as the Lonely Lands – which is an excellent description.
Breakfast is amazing. Susan keeps offering more food, which I steadfastly resist. The homemade bread is particularly good and I’m genuinely surprised when she tells me it came from a bread-maker.
All things considered, my first trip to an AirBnB has been very good indeed.
Although it’s not actually raining, there is a lot of water in the air. As a result, it feels as though I’m driving through rain. I stop off at Kylesku bridge, which is suitable impressive. I reckon the views here would be excellent normally, but today the clouds are very low. Despite the lack of rain, I’m distinctly moist after I’ve checked out the War Memorial and returned to the car.
As I drive on, the weather decides it’s bored and starts to actually rain. As a result, I decide not to make the trek to the Wailing Widow Waterfall. As I drive past, I chuckle at the sight of a line of bedraggled people in waterproofs who are heading up to it and look suitably miserable.
The road down to Drumbeg is a single track road which is sign-posted as unsuitable for coaches, caravans and (the implication is) motor-homes. The driving is all the excitement of yesterday, but with shorter sight lines and much steeper roads. Part of the time the road is halfway up a cliff, so it’s very important that everyone drives sensibly. I’m following a car through and keeping it 2 passing places ahead as previously. It’s all going very smoothly until we meet three motor homes driving in convoy. They completely block the road and drive along with the sort of vacuous expression usually reserved for deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming car.
There are a surprisingly large amount of cyclists around today and I keep stopping to let them by. Most are extremely polite despite clearly being both wet and knackered. Several swan past as though this is their right and can’t be bothered to even nod. I lump them in the same box as the motor-home drivers.
The road continues, one particularly steep ascent with a warning “Slow. Blind Summit.” Wait a second, I’ve had loads of summits with no view. This one is more like the peak of a rollercoaster and as there is nothing coming up the road towards me, I can descend appropriately. WAHOO!
The roads on the approach to Clashnessie beach seem even narrower as there is a rockwall on the sea side and a cliff on the other. Luckily, I only meet one motorbike and a single cyclist who manfully pedals up the hill as I wait. The beach is very windswept, so I don’t pause here for very long.
The situation is similar at Clachtoll beach where the amount of water in the air encourages me to drive on to Lochinver. I clearly manage to get to the next level of the NC500 Driving Game as the normal hazards of the road are now joined by dozens of sheep. They act exactly as expected – slow to wander off the road, but fast to suddenly decide they want to plunge across the road 6” in front of the car. I pass the Sheep Level and end up on a steep descent following two cyclists. I’m actually quite happy to slowly follow them down, but one spots me and they very politely pull in to a passing space and let me go by. As I get clear of them, I come across a stream of motorbikes from the south. I pull in and they all wave politely as they pass – except the last one. Maybe they feel that I’ve been thanked enough.
I head into Lochinver and go to the renowned Lochinver Larder – which is closed because it’s a Sunday (which goes some way to explain the horde of cyclists out and about today). It’s probably just as well, as I’m not exactly hungry yet. There is a bookshop next door which is rather pathetically stocked, although I pick up a book on rural walking.
I press on to Loch Assynt and Ardvreck Castle. It is still very moist, though still just short of raining. I tramp down to the castle and make a highly sarcastic video, narrated in a comedy Scottish accent. This raises a few eyebrows and I hurry back to the car. Then my eyebrows are raised as I encounter a woman struggling to get a pushchair down this narrow earth path. I don’t rush to assist her as the pushchair contains two corgis – clearly she is making her own cross to bear.
Today, Susan recommended two places to eat to me: the Lochinver Larder and the Elphim Tea Rooms. The Elphim Tea Rooms are sat on the side of a narrow valley and by the time I get there, the weather has closed in and it is decidedly chilly. I tell the staff that Susan recommended them and once I confirm who she is, they nod sagely. Hopefully she will get good things back from them.
The tea rooms are quite crowded and I briefly feel guilty at taking up a 4 person table. Not sufficiently for me to offer to share as half the people here are from motor-homes, so they could always go and sit in them.
I order Bacon and Lentil Soup with bread and Lime and Polenta Cake. The soup is a bit bland, but hot and hearty. The cake is lovely.
I head on to Ullapool, making a single stop at the Rhue Lighthouse. It’s a nice (if blustery) walk down to the lighthouse but as the weather seems to have improved, it’s worth doing. There are very few other people doing the same and it really gives a sense of how quiet and lonely this place can be.
In Ullapool, I am staying at the Ferry Boat Inn, which is on the seafront. I manage to snag a parking space virtually directly outside and prepare to use my parallel parking skills in the sight of a large audience. To my relief, I slide the car straight in on the first attempt and mentally I congratulate myself (“Well done, Reginald Molehusband”. For those of you who do not understand the reference, he was the subject of a public information film in the 1970s on how to parallel park. And, for some reason, it has stayed with me.)
The view is amazing and, to my relief, the parking is free because it’s a Sunday.
I head into the Ferry Boat Inn (or FBI as they cleverly call it) and I sit down while the somewhat harassed staff serve other people. I’m sat not far from a man that the staff refer to as The Gerbil
(and do so sufficiently loudly that I and several other patrons pick up on it). He is a type of person that I recognise from other pubs. He inhabits a stool by the bar, knows everything and “helps” the staff out. One of the staff hides every time she is alone with him, the other has a fake smile on her face normally only seen in selfies of those women who have made their faces look like plastic. By the time I finish my pint of cider, his help has included:
· Giving people menus when the kitchens are already closed;
· Loudly discussing the fact that the pub has increased prices by 20p per pint – and there wasn’t even a budget!
The staff look extremely relieved when he wanders off, as do several tables of confused foreign tourists (which includes the German couple that I met at the distillery in Wick).
Food is served here and, despite the somewhat dishevelled appearance of the FBI, it comes with a good dose of pretension: a twice baked oyster soufflé and a cranachan terrine are both on offer at ridiculous prices. I decide to avoid it and eagerly await my continental breakfast in the morning.
I climb the narrow stairs and find my meagre room.
The window is stuck ajar – so it’s a good job that it isn’t too cold. My back is really acting up, so when I go to make a coffee and find there is no milk, rather then heading downstairs to the lugubrious staff, I decide to make do. I prop myself up, take some painkillers and wait for it to wear off. It’s happened pretty much the same every evening – it seems fine, then when I relax at the end of the day it decides to have a fit. If it goes as usual, I should be fine in a couple of hours. Until then – black coffee 😦
To add insult to injury, there’s only one pillow. Good grief! It’s like living in the Dark Ages. I blame people in little boats…
I drop off quite quickly but wake up again at around 23:00. I can now hear someone in the next room as my head is right by the adjoining wall and they are snoring. This isn’t normal snoring though, it’s a bizarre noise which is a repetition of something like ooo – OOOOOOOO – waaaaa. The “waaa” tends to vary in length and it is simultaneously funny and annoying.
Despite this entertaining backing noise, I drop off and have a good nights’ sleep and wake up bright and early. Today is a relatively short day and I’m heading to Lochinver via Durness and Smoo Cave. I’d like to get to Cape Wrath but there aren’t any roads, so I might have to make do with getting as close as possible. I also need to go shopping at Durness as this evening is self-catering.
Breakfast is amazing – 10/10. It’s a really good start to the day.
While I’m working my way slowly through it, I chat with a young couple from Cornwall who are doing the NC500 clockwise. They’re doing it in the same time that I’m taking and doing it on bicycles! Well, that makes me feel pathetic, although the husband admits that it’s taking quite a toll on his posterior. There is also a terribly polite Dutch couple here who are going round anti-clockwise like me. They also hated Wick, which just goes to show what sensible people they are.
Much though I’d like to hang around here for a while longer, I do have to get going and so I start navigating through the narrow roads surrounding the hotel. My first stop is at the Kyle of Tongue. The road here goes across the Kyle in a spectacular curve and the aerial view of this was what encouraged me to do the NC 500 in the first place. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to park up to get a similar view. However, the view from the roadside is still amazing and I get out and take some photos. It’s definitely brisk today, but well worth it.
Just so you understand why this place inspired me to do the NC500, here is the view from above.
I then drive off, out of the Kyle and head across the Moine. The Moine is bleak and windswept. Again, there are very few places to stop, and when I eventually I find one I pull over. When there are no cars, there is absolutely no noise here apart from the wind. I stand in a flat area with excellent views of several Bens: Hope, Loyal, Tongue, Breac and Hutig.
From the Moine, the road heads back towards the coast and as I leave this flat, central area, the landscape changes. There is only one thing to say about this section of the NC 500: What a road!
What
A
Road!
It’s single track all the way and the scenery is absolutely spectacular. The further I go, the closer I get to the crags of the western ranges and they are amazing. However, there is nowhere to stop, so I have little chance to stop and take photos. I could do what some people have done and park in one of the passing places, but I refuse to do that so that I don’t become one of the people that I am currently swearing at. After a while, I find myself behind another car, so I slip back into the standard approach that I’ve been taking and it works really well. Until I come across some muppet who’s using a passing space to park up and take photos.
I get to Ceannabeinne Beach which has the Golden Eagle Zipline across it and I get there in time to watch someone fly across the bay. It’s a fantastic beach and an amazing view. The car park is halfway up the cliff and I head down to ground level. When I get back up, a biker pulls over and stands in the middle of the road on a blind bend so that he can take a photo. Seriously, do you want to get knocked over?
On the way to my next stop at Smoo Cave, I get a demonstration of what happens when you drive like a dick. I pick up someone behind me who, rather than the sensible 2 passing places tactic, decides to tailgate me. This causes huge fun (for me) when I pull into a passing place that only has enough room for one car. When last seen, he was reversing back to the previous passing place and making a right pig’s ear of it!
Smoo Cave has a tiny car park and I’m lucky that a couple in a van pull out just as I arrive, so I snag their space. The descent to the cave is down a switchback series of steps and then across a wooden bridge. For a moment, I think I’m having a heart attack as the bridge seems to be moving under my feet. It turns out that the bridge is, in fact, moving as it is not fixed at both ends. I comfort myself by watching other people who react to it even worse than I do.
Smoo cave is a large entrance and a relatively small interior. You can access the waterfall chamber without paying – but unfortunately, the last couple of days have been too dry and the waterfall isn’t flowing. The tour starts off in an inflatable boat and I watch a group being paddled across. I then head back outside and pay for the tour. The guys running the tour (Fraser and Callum) are excellent. Both are part of a caving group that works to explore the caves and are very keen about what they do. The money for the tour goes to funding the continued exploration of the caves. It is short, but interesting and I would recommend it to anyone. Which I almost immediately do, as on the way back up the steps I encounter the lady I was speaking to last night and I convince her and her sister to take the tour as well.
On to Durness now and lunch at Cheese n Toasted because they are award winning toastie makers. I opt for the Highlander: 3 cheeses with haggis and peppercorn sauce. Add a bottle of water and a hot chocolate and I’m golden. Cheese n Toasted is right beside Durness beach, and although it’s windy, it’s a marvellous view over lunch.
I’m not going to be able to get to Cape Wrath. The closest I can get is Balnakiel Beach, so I stop off there and have a little wander around. I then grab some provisions for the evening and take a slow drive to Riconich. The scenery is amazing and the driving is great fun. I’m getting used to the roads now and am taking on some of the challenges with more confidence – this includes a convoy of cars and, later on, a long group of motorbikes. All are very sensible – and very polite as I wait in passing places for them to get by. I mention this, because some people seem to think that the road is wide enough for a car and a motorbike – believe me, it isn’t.
At Riconich, I head for the Ardbeg Guest House (Ardbeg House B&B in beautiful area NC500 (Room 2) – Bed and breakfasts for Rent in Rhiconich, Scotland, United Kingdom – Airbnb). This is my first AirBNB and is a bit of a surprise. It’s a lonely building, sited at the entrance to a side road to the main route. Anywhere else, this would mean that there would be constant traffic noise – not so here, when the traffic is extremely rare. I’ve got my instructions for getting in and am a little nervous as I’ve heard some horror stories about them.
The somewhat lonely Ardbeg Guest House
I didn’t need to worry. Susan, the owner, is incredibly friendly and she shows me to my room and then to the guest lounge. She then insists on giving me Lemon Drizzle cake which is homemade and tastes absolutely excellent. I spend the next couple of hours drinking coffee and chatting with another resident and we put the world to rights.
They are dining elsewhere, so the evening is left to me and my array of unhealthy snacks. I have been warned that there may be a borealis tonight, so I will try to stay awake.
At about 02:00, the people upstairs decide to have a pogo party. Or they go to the loo. Whichever one it is, the resultant creaking and groaning wakes me up. Surprisingly, I drop off to sleep very quickly (I suspect the positive influence of good Scottish air helps and it is nothing to do with the whisky). The rest of the night passes pretty smoothly and I wake up to find that I’ve been bitten … weirdly, only on one arm. Cursing quietly, I navigate the rather unimpressive shower and get ready for the day.
My plan is to get some breakfast on the way out of Wick but I need to get going as I have a lot to take in today: John O’Groats, the Duncansby Stacks, Dunnet Head, Thurso and Tongue. As I head north, I discover what Wick is really good at: potholes. The road heading north is strewn with massive holes that cause you to lurch across the road to avoid plunging into Stygian depths. The locals are clearly familiar with them, and you can see vehicles ahead of you suddenly moving into the wrong carriageway to avoid disappearing into the Lost World. I split my concentration between avoiding the holes and looking for somewhere to get breakfast. I don’t see anywhere suitable for a stop, so give up and head for John O’Groats.
The sat nav in the car decides to join in with the Scottish aversion to signposts in failing to recognise anywhere known as “John O’Groats”. Despite my finding that very hard to believe, I head for Duncansby Stacks instead, and the sat nav picks that up. Access to the stacks is on the road approaching John O’Groats – just showing that the sat nav has no idea what it’s talking about. The road I turn onto is a tiny single-track road, clearly suitable for nothing larger than a car. Of course, at the end in the small car park, 3 huge motor-homes are parked in an area clearly marked “Coaches Only”. I’m very glad to have met neither motor-home nor coach on the way up here.
The car park is by a lighthouse and is perched on a headland with amazing views of the sea on three sides. The Orkneys are dimly visible to the north.
Luckily the weather is good today or this would be a horrible place to visit. As it is, it’s extremely windy and I can imagine what it would be like in a storm. The Duncansby Stacks are a short walk from the car park, over a low hill which does a great job of hiding them from initial view. The stacks are amazing and as I walk down the low field towards them, I get a great view. There are a few people here already and as I approach one of them, sporting a much more impressive camera than me, tells me that they have just spotted a Minkie Whale. Naturally, it doesn’t return while I’m there.
But that doesn’t matter because the stacks are incredible and are the first “wow moment” of the holiday.
I head back and at the car park have a quick chat with two American tourists who are in search of puffins. I can’t help them with that, but tell them about the Minkie whale and they get very excited and hurry off towards the stacks.
I then head off for John O’Groats which seems to be a large car park with some retail opportunities surrounding it. The sign is very similar to the one at Land’s End and you can tell how early I am, because I manage to get several shots of it without having to fight a crowd of people off.
I recall being vaguely disappointed when I went to Lands End – and John O’Groats has much the same effect. I’m too early for the cafes to have opened, so I head into the souvenir shops (pretty much the only ones that I find on the NC500) and get a load of stuff for people at work (the usual: chocolate, fudge, shortbread). I also collect my travelling companion for the remainder of the journey: Hamish, the Highland Coo.
Hamish would like it to be known that he picked me and that the holiday from now on is his idea rather than mine. That’s good, because I can blame him for what comes next.
While online yesterday evening, someone asked if I was going to visit the Castle of Mey. I hadn’t planned to but as it’s not far along the coast, I decide to give it a try. The sat nav unerringly directs me off the main road and at a sharp right hand bend, sends me down a small track that goes off to the left. It quickly becomes apparent that this is a farm track and is heading steeply downwards. I look behind me and realise that the angle of descent makes reversing an unwise decision, so I have to plough onwards. As I go down, the track becomes two deep ruts with a massive raised section in the middle, so I’m driving along at an angle with the left wheels on the central section, and the right wheels on the far side of the trench.
Just as I’m about to give up, I come to a farm gate with an area beyond that is big enough to turn around. From here I can see the Castle of Mey, but I have a horrible feeling that the road will either become undrivable or I’ll encounter a locked gate. So I turn around and edge back up the hill to the road – where the sat nav still encourages me to take the farm track.
The farm track as seen from the Castle of Mey.
Heading back to the main road, I find a much more sensible turning about a mile further on and I drive down to the car park. It’s just gone 10:00 when I get there and the castle doesn’t open until 11:00. I take some photos from the outside (including one showing the other end of my exciting farm track) and wonder whether it’s worth waiting for it to open. My decision gets swiftly made when 2 coaches full of elderly women arrive – time to move on.
Next stop: Dunnet Head. This is the most northerly point in the mainland UK and the approach is along yet another single track road. There are more vehicles around now, and I get used to using the passing spaces – a skill that will become increasingly valuable as the holiday progresses. Just as we’re on the final approach, I pass a car parked near a small loch (at what point does it become a mere?) and see a man clad only in a pair of swimming trunks walking back to his car. Shivering in sympathy, I head on up to Dunnet Head which is bleak, windswept and slightly rainy. Top of the world, ma! (Well, top of the country, at least). Getting out for a wander round and the door of the car nearly gets pulled out of my hand. Ironically, this is the first place that I see a guy in a kilt (tick!) and he’s looking less than confident as the wind billows around him.
On the way back, the swimmer is sat in his car. Ironically he is now wearing a huge sweater and big woolly hat and looks colder than he did earlier.
My journey now takes me to Thurso where I will grab some lunch – and, actually, breakfast. I have a wander around the main street and have a chat with a police officer about a good place to eat. He has no idea as he is based out of Wick. I commiserate with him, but before wandering off he directs me to the Y Not Café. I get there at about 11:45 and settle down with the menus. Multiple. You see, they serve breakfast until mid-day, then there is a menu that runs until 17:30 and a third menu that has no time limits on it. I’m really not sure which one I can use.
The waitress removes my confusion by saying that I can order from whichever menu I want – which then raises the question as to why they have three menus! I make my selection and announce that I will go for the Cheesecake of the Day for dessert – which, unfortunately, has not yet been made and so is unavailable.
I go for their signature burger (the Y Not burger) which is excellent – though it’s a shame they can’t follow basic instructions and as a result it comes with both tomato and coleslaw.
The ambience of the place is really nice, but somewhat marred by the couple sat near me with their delightfully noisy baby, who emits a variety of ear piercing shrieks that are guaranteed to remind you of a particularly gruesome slasher film. Despite this, it’s a good lunch and the staff have been very pleasant – so when I realise they have under-charged me, I point it out, rather than cackling with joy as I head for the hills.
Heading firmly west now, I stop off at St Mary’s Chapel. Navigating here has annoyed the sat nav system no end and it has taken multiple opportunities to steer me back onto the main road. Ignoring it, I park up in somewhere that looks like a widened entrance to a nearby farm and look around for the path to the Chapel. There is at least a sign here, though it’s not near a path and there are no visible marker poles
It’s a pleasant walk in the sun and wind and I head down the path, until I finally find a signpost – conveniently placed so that it is just out of sight of the car park. It again directs the walker to follow the marker posts – and there still aren’t any. At the bottom of the valley I can see a footbridge, and so I hopefully head in that vague direction as one was mentioned on the original sign. The path meanders down the hill and into the valley, where the footbridge crosses a scenic little river. Then it’s up the other side, presumably in the right direction because once again there are no signs.
Working my way up to a stile, I still haven’t seen anything that looks a chapel. Finally, I see a building surrounded by a wall and head towards it, wondering if this is what I’m looking for. It is – but I can’t get inside as the gate is too narrow for me to get in! Grumbling at this weightist entry way, I take a few pictures.
This is a wonderfully remote location with no sounds but the birds and the waves – and the insects, which encourages me to reapply the jungle formula. I then head back up to the car.
So far, the driving around the NC500 has been pretty standard, with the occasional foray off the main track and onto some single track roads. As I go past Bettyhill, this all changes. With no signage to warn you (no surprise there!) the road suddenly narrows and the central markings disappear. The driving suddenly gets far more interesting and I start to get used to looking ahead for the passing places, which almost immediately become necessary.
I have read lots of people who have complained about the narrow roads, the inconsiderate drivers and the “bloody tourists slowing down the local traffic”. There are a few comments I would like to make about this: 1) Driving on a single track road is actually pretty easy as long as you (and the other drovers are sensible). You don’t look at the passing place ahead of you, you look two ahead. That gives you plenty of time to react and to get into that next passing place. You also need to assume that everyone approaching you is the width of a car – you might think you can safely get past that motorbike, but they won’t think so as you push them towards the edge of the road.
2) The vast majority of drivers I came across were sensible and considerate. Most made sure to use the passing places properly (i.e. not use them as places to stop and take photographs from) which is important as many are only big enough for one vehicle at a time. There is always the occasional idiot, but as long as it’s just one, they are manageable.
3) The basic rule here is that if someone is coming up fast behind you, get out of their way and allow them to pass you. They may be a local who is more used to the road than you are or they may be an idiot. To be blunt, it’s very difficult to tell! I only had a couple of times where someone else caused a problem, and I never worked out to which group they belonged.
I have to admit something here – driving on single track roads is FUN! I had to be so much more alert than on “normal roads” but the roads themselves were more interesting. As this section progressed, there are sharp bends, roads with steep drops on one side, walled roads, roads along the side of cliffs, roads with limited visibility and sudden peaks and troughs – in short, roads that are fun to drive. I’m more glad than ever that I’ve driven anti-clockwise because I’ve got my confidence back before heading into these roads, so I can really enjoy myself.
The increase in interest in roads is matched by the scenery. The further west I go, the better the scenery. Today is impressive, but over the next few days I get to drive through some truly majestic scenery. And the worst of it is that I capture so little of it as there are very few places to stop. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to imagine it. While I’ve seen some good things so far, the road west of Bettyhill gives me my first taste of why so many people enjoy driving the NC500. This holiday is now officially worth it.
However, I’m getting ahead of myself. Just outside Bettyhill is one of the well-known landmarks of the NC500: the Crumbs Cake Cupboard which stands out from afar as it is painted a garish shade of pink (probably cerise, actually). There is little left there when I arrive, but I buy a bottle of water and a slice of Mint Aero Brownie that I consume later on (and is very tasty).
I then head off to my overnight stay at the Borgie Lodge Hotel (Borgie Lodge Hotel). I’ll say now that this place is more expensive than anywhere else I stayed on my holiday and the only reason I booked here was that there was nowhere else available locally. But, I’m incredibly glad I stayed here and would recommend it to anyone. The Hotel is stately and with some great views across the valley. The staff are incredibly friendly and while the food isn’t the cheapest (the main course special was £30), it’s very good quality.
As I drove up to park, I for a moment wondered if I’d come to the right place. It was clearly not the place to take a coo, so I left Hamish locked in the boot of the car. (He moaned about that all the next day). I’m soon settled in a comfortable room, which isn’t en-suite – but just down the corridor is my personal bathroom. The room has two single beds as well as some comfortable armchairs and I settle into one with a view across the valley to keep an eye out for the deer that I’m assured sometimes come up the hotel.
None turn up, unfortunately, so I head down to the bar and start the evening off with a pint of Thistle Cross – a 6.2% cider which is surprisingly light and worryingly quaffable. Rather than my usual tactic of sitting down with a book, I have a long chat with the barman, who is one of the co-managers of the hotel. We discuss the various types of whisky in his remarkable selection and he regales me with some of his stories. He’s lived here all his life and talks about swimming in the sea (which just makes me shiver) and soon I’ve been told about swimming with seals, the island of inbred sheep and nearly swimming with orcas.
He then gets away from his clearly annoying customer and I end up talking to someone who is doing the NC500 with her sister and we spend a happy half hour comparing and contrasting where we have been. Eventually, I head into the restaurant where I’m not sure how hungry I am, so I opt for a starter and dessert. As a result, I have mushrooms Alfredo and cranachan (tick).
The manager serves me and rather apologetically comments on the crispy leeks on top of the mushrooms Alfredo. It seems that the chef likes to experiment – but judging from the taste his experimentation is worth it.
I consider heading back into the bar and grabbing some more cider, but fatigue wins out and I slump back to my room.
After a disappointing first day, I am temporarily entertained by the bedside lights which operate by touch. I spend a happy half hour going Dim/Bright/Off/Dim/Bright/Off before finally getting the hang of them. I then settled down for a really good 6 ½ hours sleep.
I’m woken by an insanely loud dawn chorus – which is the only sound from the outside. The weather has cleared up and so I can now make use of my external decking and get some photos across to Loch Fleet It’s beautiful out here and I keep my fingers crossed that this is a sign of better things.
The first test is the shower and as the first one of the holiday, it does pretty well. It’s easier to use than the lamp and the temperature is perfect – 10/10. The soap is in a pump dispenser and is not so good. Initially I can’t get more than a pathetic dribble out of it. The problem is solved with brute force and ignorance.
After my ablutions, I check my boots – which are still damp after yesterdays unanticipated stream crossing. Luckily I have trainers and I’ll just have to be careful about any unwise short cuts.
Before breakfast, it’s time to make an experiment. I’d seen a lot of videos on Facebook which were clearly shot by passengers and which showed some spectacular scenery. As I was on my own, I wouldn’t be able to rely on someone else and I knew that there would be a limited amount of places that I could stop. So I bought myself a Go-Pro with the thought that I could set it up, fire it off to capture some scenery and then when I was able to stop, I could download it to my phone. A very cunning plan. My cunning plan is foiled when I attempt to plug the camera into the cars cigarette lighter – only to find that it doesn’t have one. I might be able to use a USB cable – except that all the car has is a tiny USB port. Dammit. Another cunning plan foiled.
I head back in for breakfast, as my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since a Mars Bar about 17 hours ago. I head in, confident that the order I put in last night will give me an unhindered breakfast. I hadn’t taken into account the fiendish coffee machine which I manage to get to deliver hot water instead of my desired beverage. The man who met me yesterday managed not to look superior as he deftly sorts it out and I’m soon tucking into an excellent breakfast. It’s a definite 8/10 – and the only reason it doesn’t get full marks is I get better ones later in the holiday.
I am now replete and I review the plan for the day: Dunrobin Castle, Helmsdale, the Hill O’ Many Staines, Whaligoe Steps and the Pulteney Distillery Tour. Let’s see how this plays out. I’ve seen a lot of things online asking how much people should plan. Some favour the “free spirit” approach, while others rigidly plan everything they are going to do. I’m taking the middle ground – I have an idea of what I want to do each day, but I’m open to heading off to look at something that seems interesting, or amending the list as I go on. The main problem with the NC500 is that there is so much to see and do, that any attempt to do everything will lead to nothing more than insanity.
I bid farewell to the excellent Strathview Lodge and drive off down the overly steep drive. As I do, Greatest Hits radio gives me a good start as they play “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow”. The lyric “Yesterday’s Gone” seems particularly appropriate and I take it as a good sign. And talking of a good sign, as I drive past Loch Fleet, I see something that I hadn’t registered yesterday – a sign warning me about otters. Presumably they cross here, or they have particular issues with Steve the Otter. Whatever the reason, I don’t see any and I head towards Dunrobin Castle.
I arrive at the castle at 09:00 and park up in the completely empty car park – mainly because the castle doesn’t open until 10:00. I decide not to wait – I have a lot to see before the Distillery Tour, so I get some photos around the outside and jump back in the car.
I head up the coast until I get to the village of Helmsdale. This is a fishing village with a harbour, but I couldn’t park anywhere near it as the available spaces were all crammed full of motor homes. Instead I park right back on the main road near the bridge which, I discover with some delight, is a Thomas Telford bridge. I head across and up to the War memorial. It’s sunny today but very windy – which I was assured this morning is a good thing as midges can’t cope with winds of over 8 miles per hour.
I wander down into Helmsdale and find a very pretentious little history centre, which I decide not to look around. I grab a few photos and head back to the car.
I should point out that I’m worried that I’m going to lose anything that I take with the SLR. But I want to take the opportunity to use it, so I’m doubling everything up, taking photos with both the SLR and the iPhone. This results in some odd looks from people as they watch me taking photos with my iPhone while I have the SLR slung over my shoulder. As I go on, I develop a strategy – SLR as I’m walking one way, iPhone while heading back. I don’t want to risk losing the SLR pictures, so I’m just hoping the single memory card I have left will have enough capacity. A friend has already said they may be able to recover my pictures from the first day, so I don’t want to play with the original memory card.
When I get back to the car, it occurs to me that it’s actually very sunny and the wind has given me a false sense of solar security. I put on some sun screen and then head off to Badbea…. And almost immediately have to pull over as sun screen gets into both eyes and it bloody hurts! Having sorted it out, I head off.
Badbea is a clearance village. This dates from the time when landowners (predominantly English) took crofters that were living on their lands and moved them all to villages on the coast. This allowed greater grazing land for their sheep and the crofters were encouraged to take up exciting new careers in fishing and clinging to the side of cliffs. I am expecting a good dose of English guilt and as I head down the tiny path to the memorial, I get a good look at a place that you can find in the dictionary under the word “bleak”.
There is very little of the village left which clings on scrubland at the top of a cliff. The sea dominates 180 degrees of the view and it’s clear there would be absolutely no shelter from any storms coming in. It’s horrendous to think about people being forced to live here and completely understandable why most of these clearance villages no longer exist.
Off to something more fun – the Hill O’ Many Stanes. I read several things about this saying how disappointed people where when they found it. Finding it is a bit challenging as the layby bears all the hallmarks of being an entrance to a field and has room for 2 cars. The hill is reached by a short walk and is exactly as described – it has a lot of stones on it. These aren’t huge sarsens or dolmens, no, they are about a foot high at the most. It looks as though someone saw one of the great Neolithic compounds and decided to reproduce it in miniature. I stay there for longer than really needed out of sheer bloody-mindedness and then head on to what should be one of the highlights of the week.
The guidebook that I left in Slough waxed lyrical about the Whaligoe Steps. These are (as the name suggests) a long set of steps that goes from the clifftop to the waters edge. I am somewhat concerned about my fitness to get back up, but dammit, I’m going to give it a try!
Or I would have.
I find myself defeated by a combination of two things: (1) the satnav in the car; (2) the Scottish aversion to signs. Firstly, the satnav doesn’t have the Whaligoe Steps on it. It does have Whaligoe though, so I head that way confident that such a renowned tourist spot will be signposted. Which brings us to secondly and the fact that the Scottish people don’t seem to like signs. I drive down the main road and come to Whaligoe. Here there is a crossroads with a very small road inland and what looks like a wider than normal drive towards the sea. The way inland is signposted for a hillfort of some kind. The other way has no sign at all. All this I register as I sweep majestically past and the Satnav rather smugly tells me that I need to turn around. The opportunity to do this doesn’t come for about a mile, but I head back, hoping to see the entrance that I have missed. And again, I sweep majestically past. On the third attempt, I turn inland, hoping to find somewhere to park up or a local person to speak to. I find neither – and nor do I find the hillfort. Finally, cursing the Scottish lack of signage I head off towards Wick. Of course, I later find out that I should have driven down the unsigned driveway.
After that disappointment, surely it’s all uphill from here. Sadly no, because my next stop is Wick. There are various ways to describe Wick, and the one I’m going to select is “festering dung-hole”. It has the problem that a lot of places have – everywhere on the High Street is closed. But Wick has taken it to the level that makes it an art form. Those places that remain have that “come in here so that we can slit your throat and turn you into pies” vibe about them. Despite this I have a wander around and find that even Christ doesn’t want to come to Wick. There is a Thomas Telford trail – which I don’t follow. The best thing about Wick is that it’s easy to spell.
Wick’s main claim to fame is that it has the shortest street in the world – which is significantly smaller than Mackay’s bistro where I’m having lunch.
Ideally, I would move on – but I have a Distillery Tour booked and I’m over-nighting here, so I’m just going to have to put up with it. I settle down in Mackay’s and wait for my soup and a sandwich – a cheese and chutney sandwich with Cullen Skink. While I text a friend of mine about my Go-Pro issues, lunch arrives. The Cullen Skink is excellent.
This is a good time, to introduce my checklist of things that I want to see while I’m in Scotland:
Haggis (tick – had some with breakfast)
Whisky (tour later)
Scotch pancakes
Cullen Skink (tick)
Kilt
Highland coo (I had a potential sighting earlier, but I was driving too fast to be sure)
Tam o’ Shanter
Someone tossing a caber
Someone called Morag
Someone saying “och aye the noo”
Cranachan
A Capercaillie
Lunch is pretty good and is finished off with a strawberry and almond cake. Is it enough to redeem Wick…no.
My friend has advised me that there is a phone shop on the benighted Wick High Street that has a good reputation. So I head over there to see if I can get the cable I need. I fight my way into the shop – literally, the door is stuck and I have to force it open. I am then unable to shut it behind me. I explain my problem and the assistant provides me with a suitable cable. I then head out of the now insecure shop and back to the car to test the cable. Immediately there is a problem. The cable doesn’t fit in the same way that the other one did, so it’s impossible to mount the camera properly. Despite this, I manage to get it plugged in and drive around Wick to see if I can make it work. I successfully record some footage and then park up near my overnight accommodation to see if I can transfer it to my iPhone. Which does exactly the same as it did to the SLRs memory card. I later find out that this is a “feature” of Apple products. But basically, the Go Pro experiment is over.
I head into the En-suite Rooms – which sound suitably impressive. They aren’t. The outside looks like a complete shit-hole – which fits very well into the general Wick ambience. My instructions tell me to look for a numbered door – none of the doors have numbers. The upside to this is that while I’m looking for the right door, I find a list of flat number and one of them is for someone called Morag (tick!)
Inside, the rooms are actually quite nice and well looked after. This is some form of half board though and downstairs is a large communal area where they have provided tea and coffee – but no milk. If I’d been expecting self-catering it wouldn’t have been too bad. As it is, by the time I realise (which is much later) it’s too late. The floors are all bare wood that creaks alarmingly as I walk across it. I really hope that fact won’t become relevant later ….
Meanwhile, time to head off for the Pulteney Distillery Tour. There are 5 of us on the tour – I am joined by two French guys and a German couple. Jackie, our guide, gives us a great introduction to whisky making and then takes us on the tour. She is informative and funny and the tour is superb. Walking into the storage areas is amazing as the air is just filled with the smell of whisky.
She takes us through the whole process, including introducing us to Mr and Mrs Fraser, the flying cats. (Ok they’re seagulls, but they perform the same function as cats should – they keep the vermin under control). Finally, Jackie takes us into the tasting room where she presents us with our complimentary whisky glass and a sample of two of the whiskies. Then, into the retain opportunity where she plies us with several tiny samples. Tiny – but potent! She starts with the cask strength and works down from there. As a result, my resolve to buy a £20 bottle is chipped away until I leave, weaving slightly, and clutching a bag with a £75 bottle of whisky in it. Easily the best thing about Wick.
I stagger back to my room and then discover the lack of milk. I consider going out to get some or even calling in a delivery, but the alcohol wins the battle and I drift happily off to sleep. Until about 11:15, when the people on the floor above come home. It would appear that they too have bare wooden floors which creak as though a pair of hippos was having a romantic entanglement in the room above. Don’t worry, I’m sure they won’t be up in the middle of the night …
As both of the people who follow this blog will be aware, I have a habit of visiting multiple places on my holidays. This year will be different. Not in that I won’t be visiting multiple places, but this time I’m doing it by car rather than by public transport. So, not that different at all, really. Anyway, on with the show.
Since I last darkened your door with my rambling drivel, it’s been a bit of an odd year. My back has still been bad and made me cancel my original plan, which was to do the Cotswold Way. I’ve had an officer take me to an Employment Tribunal because apparently I’m a bad man and she should be allowed to turn up to work drunk. I’ve been put on a project at work for three months which has been huge fun and has given me the chance to practice driving – which is useful for this holiday.
The NC500 was something that wasn’t really on my radar. I’d seen the name, but what got me interested was a picture of the Kyle of Tongue.
I took one look at that and wanted to go there. So I started doing some research. I did all the sensible stuff and bought the Robbie Roams book and made the decision to use a car rather than something larger. I also joined several Facebook groups about the NC500 and that’s where the problems started. What was immediately clear is that a lot of people on these groups really hated the NC500. There were a lot of people complaining about roads being clogged up, a lot of hate about caravans and “wild camping” and (on a group called “NC500 The Dirty Truth) a load of vitriol being hurled about tourists generally.
It actually got bad enough that a couple of months before my trip, I considered cancelling it. If you find yourself in the same situation, here is my advice: DON’T. I had an amazing time.
One of the decisions I had to make was how long to spend on the NC500. In the end, I went for 7 days – this was solely limited by finance. Since going, I’ve been asked several times how long people should take. I honestly don’t know – I have the feeling that if I’d spent 30 days there, I would still have come away with more to see.
Anyway, having done my research, I decide to hire a car in Inverness and do the NC500 anti-clockwise. I also decide to get to and from Inverness by using the Caledonian Sleeper – then I don’t have to worry too much about luggage and I avoid the extra time required for checking in at airports. I’m not getting a cabin as I have a well-documented ability to fall asleep on any moving vehicle. By the way, there are a lot of views on which way you should do the NC500 – I would always go for anti-clockwise. The east coast is attractive, but the west coast is spectacular. Going clockwise makes the east coast a bit of a disappointment.
There are clearly some concerns when approaching the NC 500. The main ones seem to be:
Midges
Ticks
Bad drivers
Motorhomes
Crappy weather
Pot Holes
As a result, I made sure to stock up on Jungle Formula and purchased a Tick Comb. I’d already bought the excellent Robbie Roams book, and I supplemented this with a map of the NC500. I then used both of them to sort out a rough itinerary – I’d recommend everyone to do this as there is so much to see and do. I’d been speaking to a friend at work about going and made the mistake of telling him that I was going to be taking pictures on my iPhone. He would have none of this, so insisted on lending me his spare digital SLR. I’d also realised that there was a lot of scenery that I’d be unable to capture while I was driving, so I bought a little Go-Pro that would run off of the cigarette lighter in the car.
I think you’ll agree, that I was ready.
The day dawned for me to head off and, as usual, I left all my packing to the last minute. The Caledonian Sleeper doesn’t leave until 21:15, so I don’t leave the house until after 19:00. Which feels weird – there’s something not right about starting a holiday in the evening! Anyway, I grabbed my rucksack and my little suitcase and headed for the railway station.
Since my last trip from Slough, they have remodelled the station. This has involved putting a fence on the main platform to stop people rushing out of the booking office and straight under a train. They have also moved the barrier into the booking office. So I wander straight in to get my pre-booked ticket from the automated ticket machines. Which are not here any more. I have, of course, walked straight past them as they are now outside the station which makes it convenient for the homeless people to bother you – which is exactly what happens.”
“I’m not homeless, but I’ve been trying all day to get £5 to get my electricity turned back on.” The gaping holes in her story pale into insignificance as I have previously dealt with her at work, so I politely decline, collect my tickets and head through the barrier, leaving her to find some other mug kind Samaritan.
I head up and over the bridge to the platform where the Elizabeth Line waits. There is a rush of people panicking to get to it but I stroll casually across, seemingly unconcerned. This is for two reasons: (1) I am, as usual, nearly an hour ahead of schedule; (2) I know there’s another train in 20 minutes. I can understand running for a train if you have to wait for an hour – but 20 minutes? Not worth the effort. My refusal to walk faster than an amble does mean that a child runs full tilt into me as his mother manhandles an unfeasibly large wheely bag across the footbridge.
Having found a place to wait for the next train, I get out the first book of the holiday: Ben Hur by Lew Wallace. I’m almost immediately surprised by how religious it us … I don’t remember that from the film!
The Elizabeth Line turns up as predicted and my fellow travellers on the platform show a serious lack of commuting etiquette as they try and surge on without letting people get off first. I get a thank you from a harassed-looking lady as I let her off as a family of approximately 20 people swarm on. I mutter darkly at them – damn, it’s a bit early in the holiday for dark mutterings!
As I settle into my seat I look up to see the opposite platform absolutely packed with commuters heading home. By the time I get into central London to change to the Northern Line, the trains and stations are full of people talking slightly too loudly – a sure sign that they have been in the pub. Most are clearly off for a night out, which makes me feel even more disconnected.
I arrive at Euston an hour early and head down to the platform, which is tucked away in a corner of the station. To my surprise, there is already a queue of about 20 people which includes a loud American family who are having a “spirited discussion” with a lady at the barrier. As they step away, it appears that “spirited discussion” is their default and so I sincerely hope that I’m sat in a different carriage from them. As I settle down to Ben Hur, I realise that when I packed, I forgot a few things – Robbie Roams, the map and my itinerary. And probably my tick comb. Bugger.
They let us in about 15 minutes after I arrive (clearly recognising the impact of my blog HAH!) and I head down to find my seat. Not too bad – though I do envy all the people with cabins.
I settle down and explore my complimentary sleep kit for the “Journey of a Night Time”. (I bet someone was ridiculously proud of THAT one!). There is a decent menu though, so I shall grab something before I settle down for the night and look forward to a decent breakfast in the morning.
My near neighbours are a very polite little boy and his Dad and by the time we leave the carriage is about half full. Weirdly, all the seats seem to be facing backwards – I later find out that they swap halfway down the carriage. But it’s comfortable enough and I’m sure I shall be able to get some sleep.
I decide to avail myself of the menu and ask for a toasted sandwich. The guy who speaks to me is unsure as to whether hot food is available. Which seems odd – this is a reasonable menu, most of which is hot. Are they just taunting us with it? Eventually my toasted sandwich and coffee arrives.
Sleep has proved elusive when we get to our first stop at Crewe at 11:45. I wouldn’t have thought anyone would be catching a train at this time of night, but by the time we pull away, the carriage is now full.
An hour later, we arrive at Preston. My infamous and much-vaunted ability to sleep has so far eluded me and I’ve done little more than doze. Ah well, still 8 hours to go. Even if I don’t get much sleep, I deliberately planned for a short journey by car today, so I should be able to cope.
During the night, one of the problems of trying to sleep in a carriage likes this comes to light. At some point, some muppet will knock over their rubbish and send cup, milk sachets and stirrers flying into the aisle and wake everybody up. Mumbling an apology, I sheepishly pick everything up and pretend to go back to sleep.
By the time 6am rolls around, I have had very little sleep. Most people are starting to wake up and I’m starting to think about breakfast. Almost immediately a little sign goes up saying that there is no hot food. Which I think is a bit crap. I decide to head down to the toilet, at which point I’m very glad that I’m sat at the other end of the carriage as some bright spark has decided that it’s a good idea for the toilet to announce everything that it is doing – and to do so very loudly:
“Toilet door is opening”
“Toilet door is closing”
“Toilet door is locked”
“Some prat is getting water everywhere while washing their hands”
“Oh dear, I see Madame isn’t wearing her car crash underwear.”
Etc
I head back to my seat and order a coffee and ask about the hot food. Apparently is is unavailable due to “high demand”. Seriously, they know how many people have booked seats, so surely they can correctly estimate the amount of food needed? Or, as seems more likely, do they have a limited time to make it and therefore give priority to the people with cabins? Bastards!
The scenery outside, by the way, is amazing. It’s been sunny since dawn and we’ve been travelling through mountains and hills. It’s all very bucolic with livestock everywhere and bodes well for the holiday.
This starts to go downhill at 07:45 when the first dickhead takes a loud work call. Why is it that these are always taken by people who have no volume control and feel the need to shout? He really shouldn’t have bothered, as he clearly isn’t awake yet and his conversation includes the scintillating line “No, yeah, well, yeah, no.”
We arrive at Inverness 20 minutes early, Bloody typical – I have 2 hours to wait to get my hire car, so this is one journey that I really didn’t want to be early for. Never mind – gives me time to get breakfast, a tick comb and a map (not necessarily in that order).
I head into the town centre, snapping a few shots on the way with the iPhone.
After a short journey, I find the Good Craic Cafe https://www.facebook.com/GoodCraicCafe/ where I astound the waiter with my ability to make a quick decision. Well, it wasn’t difficult, and I settle down to await my Full Scottish Breakfast. I take it as a good sign when one of my fellow passengers walks in. As he has travelled up here with his bicycle, I assume he has some local knowledge. The breakfast does not disappoint – damn, it’s good to be somewhere where black pudding comes as a standard!
The service is fast and the waiter is friendly – although he has as many problems with my accent as I have with his! The food is pretty good and by the time I leave, the place is packed. It’s noticeable that there are as many locals as there are tourists, which speaks well for anywhere. (I could claim that it’s my status as a trendsetter, but even I might be pushing that one!)
I head to some local shops to pick up a tick comb and a map. The map involves going downstairs in WH Smith to the room “where staff never go”. I got directed down here by a lugubrious assistant who seemed surprised that anyone would want to go down stairs to “where the books are”. I find a suitable map and while I am there am accosted by a little old lady who is looking for a book on Scottish birds. We both have a hunt around but can’t find one. As I’m heading upstairs I see a staff member disappearing around a corner in the same way that small ghost children skip out of sight in horror films. I track her down and direct her to her customer downstairs. She looks at me in the same way as her colleague and grudgingly heads down to stare at the unfamiliar presence. I pay for the map and get the hell out of there.
I decide to head for the car hire place and take Google’s advice on the way to walk. This takes me through an area that can best be described as “sketchy”. There are several tour drop off and meeting points along the road which I’m sure must attract the more unsavoury elements of the town. Luckily, they’re not around today. I arrive at Arnold Clark, with my back giving me some serious gyp and sit down to sort out the car. It appears that my booking of a manual Vauxhall Insignia has changed to an automatic Skoda Octavia. It is quickly swapped for a manual by the very helpful assistant. He then asks me for my National Insurance number for a DVLA check. Now some people may know theirs, I haven’t got a clue. However, he gets it sorted, is very helpful and soon am introduced to my mighty steed and the NC500 officially begins.
Now, I would usually include a ton of photos that I’ve taken, but for this particular entry I’m going to have to rely on pictures I’ve grabbed from the internet. The reason for this will come clear later on.
My first destination is Chanonry Point which is known to be a good place for dolphin and whale spotting (though mostly dolphins). It’s approached by a single-track road with passing places that goes across a golf course and it’s immediately very clear that some people just don’t understand how to drive on these roads. However, I successfully get to the small car park, snag one of the few remaining places and have a stroll around. I am now deploying the digital SLR, so I start learning how to use it.
There are quite a few people here – and seem to be a lot of Germans. There are, however, no dolphins. But it’s a good walk around the pebbled beach and I take some artistic shots of a beached boat. There’s not much to see here if the marine wildlife isn’t co-operating, so I’m fairly quickly back in the car and off to the Fairy Glen.
The Fairy Glen is a 1 1/2 mile glen leading to some small waterfalls. It’s also an RSPB area. I find it’s tiny car park, where manoeuvring is made far more difficult by the motorhome driver who has decided to park in the entrance. But I find a space and head up the path. Now, I should say that so far the day has been warm and sunny. So I’m wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Apart from the camera, that’s all I have with me.
I head down the path and under a road bridge alongside a stream. As I do, there is a group walking down the path on the other side who tell me that my path has been wiped out by a land slip, but that I can cross to this path over the road. Thanking them, I do so and negotiate a steep, muddy scramble to get back down to the path. The fairy glen is very pretty and, despite the number of people using it, very quiet. The trees keep all sound to a minimum and it’s a very attractive walk. Everything is going fine until I get to the first waterfall.
There are a couple of people here that I’ve caught up with and I can see the steep path heading on to the second waterfall. As I take some photos, I feel the first drips of rain. Damn – well from what I can see of the sky, it’s likely to clear up pretty quickly … isn’t it?
Sadly, I am wrong and the shower turns into a torrential downpour. I head back to the car, initially going from tree to tree and trying to shelter briefly each time – but the downpour is so intense that rain is still getting through. The path gets slippery very quickly – I’m glad I’m wearing boots. I start to get worried about the camera – it’s not mine and I don’t want it to get water-damaged. So I keep putting it under my T-shirt. By the time I’m halfway back, the effectiveness of this is somewhat dubious as my T-shirt is soaked. There are still a couple of people heading into the glen and I refrain from responding to the smug git whose comment is “Is it a bit wet then?“
By the time I get back to the bridge, I am cold, soaked and miserable. I look at what was a muddy scramble before and realise that there is no way I can get back up it. Well that stream isn’t THAT deep is it? I manage to successfully get 2/3rds of the way across it before it gets deep enough to get inside my boots. I squelch the way back to the car park. The rain persists which hasn’t stopped a huge family who are letting their children run around in front of moving vehicles. I ignore them and head around to the boot of the car where I can change my shirt and boots. The jeans will have to stay on 😦 The Age-Appropriate Hoodie gets pressed into service as a towel to dry me and the camera off. I get back into the car, turn the heating on and curse at myself. I have ignored the most basic advice about the Scottish weather – always expect the worst!
My plan was then to head for the Mermaid of the North, but as I drive through the monsoon, I decide to avoid another soaking and head straight for Dornoch in the hope that the rain will stop. On the way, I cross the truly impressive Cromarty Firth Bridge – if it wasn’t tipping with rain, I’d have stopped to get some photos.
As I approach Dornoch, the rain persists, so I head for my overnight stay at the Strathview Lodge https://strathview-dornoch.co.uk/. The entrance is right on a sharp bend, so I sail past and have to drive half a mile before I can find somewhere to turn around. I then navigate the steep and winding driveway to the Lodge. It’s a nice little place, with some spectacular views over Loch Fleet – or they would be if it wasn’t tipping down. My initial impression isn’t that good. An older gentleman (i.e. probably my age) opens the door and when I say I have a room booked, his reply is “Oh, do you?” However, he brings me inside and shows me to my room where his wife has just finished getting it ready. They are both incredibly friendly, make recommendations for somewhere to eat and then give me an unbelievably comprehensive checklist for breakfast tomorrow … which includes haggis 🙂
I settle down, put my boots under the radiator and sort myself out. I’ve got an SD reader to allow me to transfer my pictures from the camera to my iPhone (so that I can post them on Facebook), so I dig that out, insert the SD card and… the phone tells me that there are no pictures on the card. Oh. I then put the card back into the camera, and it tells me the SD card is blank. I’ve basically lost all the photos that I took today. (I’ve since learned that this is a “feature” of Apple products in that they insensitively assume that everything is in Apple format and aggressively re-format it for your convenience).
This really is the last straw. I can’t be bothered to go out and eat, so day one finishes with me sat in my room, drinking coffee.
Today I have a train to Dublin and then a flight to Edinburgh. Now, as you are aware, I have a tendency to get to places early. This is probably due to some unrecognised childhood trauma involving a clock and a teddy bear. I’ve left myself plenty of time and I should get to Dublin Airport about 6 hours before my flight. Even I have to admit that I may have over-compensated on this one.
Now, someone at this point may wish to ask why I didn’t fly from Cork to Dublin. Clearly there are a wide variety of answers to explain this, including my desire to remain grounded and really feel the country by travelling across it by train. The truth is that it didn’t occur to me.
My taxi to the train station is booked for 07:45, so naturally I’m stood outside with my luggage at 07:30. I’ve received a text from a friend pointing out to me the chaos that happened at Edinburgh yesterday as the e-gates went down. I’ve also finally received my e-boarding pass and, despite a previous long-winded phone call to Aer Lingus, I have no cabin bag. I was thinking of putting my bag in the hold anyway, but as I spent a considerable amount of time sorting this out, this has really irked me. (Though it has given me the opportunity to use “irked”, which rarely comes along).
My taxi driver is on time and remarkably perky for the time of day. He is ecstatically happy when he finds out that I do not like football. We have a largely incoherent conversation about the current state of Irish rugby. (Incoherent because he has a very thick Irish accent and I know nothing about Irish rugby.) He seems happy enough, especially after I tell him that I enjoyed my trip to Cork and want to come back. He’s also very happy with the tip.
The train isn’t due until 08:25, and although there are loads of people here, the coffee shop isn’t open yet. They won’t let us onto the train, despite the fact that it is quite happily sat there. I sit down and rather nervously look at the suitcase that someone has abandoned nearby. I’m just about to report it when a woman comes back and sits by it. She’s either an opportunistic thief or has a remarkably casual attitude to her belongings.
It’s going to be quite a long day. The train gets into Dublin at 11:00 and I reckon I’ll be at Dublin Airport by mid-day…. Plenty of time for a flight that leaves at 18:00. I do consider doing some more sightseeing in Dublin, but don’t fancy dragging my luggage around with me. I sense a lot of reading ahead. As well as the Mysteries of Udolpho (still not very mysterious), I have the Berlitz Guide to Edinburgh to browse through.
The relative quiet of the station is shattered when about 30 people turn up. Judging by the way that they’re all wearing the same kind of shirt, they seem to be some form of team. They could be fans, but seeing as they all seem to be around the same age and level of fitness, I’m going for “team”. Whatever they are, they’re bloody loud and I hope they’re on a different train – or at least in a different carriage. They are then joined by a far more varied group of people dressed in a similar way – these definitely look like fans rather than players.
They let us on board at 08:00. Judging by the names on the little electronic signs, the train is going to be packed. But it is nice to know who I’m going to be sat by! I’m on the aisle seat and as the person beside me shares a surname with those on the other side of the aisle, so I suspect I’m going to be sat in the middle of a family.
Just ahead of me there is a group sat at a table. The lady directly in front of me is moaning already and I suspect FAFT – although the names are French so they may be Canadian. If so, she is challenging the stereotype about Canadians being polite. The fans are on board with us as well – and this looks as though it may become an uncomfortable journey. Behind me are two tables of them, so I just hope they haven’t started drinking. They are loud and largely incomprehensible. I’ve overheard someone saying that the train will empty out at Limerick – so here’s hoping.
I decide to try and put the little tray table down and find that it is huge- so much so that it pokes into my stomach. It’s not help by the Moaning Lady who moves around so much that it makes it even worse. (In my defence, I’m not the only person having similar problems – it would seem they have bought tray tables for seats with much larger space between them.) It looks like I’ll have to just balance everything on my lap – assuming Luke (apparently my travelling companion) turns up. He hasn’t arrived by time the train pulls out, although someone is sat in the his families’ other seats. I decide not to sprawl …. yet! At that point the person across the aisle notices that the seats are reserved so moves off to search for another seat. I wait for 5 minutes and then SPRAWL. Both these seats are now mine … although I’ll move if Luke actually turns up.
Lots more people get on at the next stop and there is an announcement that if you haven’t booked a seat, it is standing room only. It’s ironic as there are several seats empty around me (including a whole empty table), but people are suitable cowed by the announcement and no-one even approaches to sit down. There is a huge argument at the other end of the carriage where someone is in someone else’s seat and is refusing to move. Two ticket collectors get involved and the resultant shouting keeps us entertained for quite some time. Eventually it is sorted out and we now have people stood at both ends of the carriage … despite the fact that there are several empty seats.
More fans come on at the next station and this time four of them bravely sit at the tables in front of me. Sensibly they say that they will move if they have to and listening to their conversation, I can finally confirm that they are on their way to a hurling match. Which does not have the connotations that it has elsewhere. Although it is more violent and probably just as messy.
As predicted, the hurling fans all get off at Limerick Junction and I doze happily, ably assisted by the Mysteries of Udolpho (which is still not mysterious).
The refreshments trolley arrives just before we get to Dublin, leaving me to struggle off the train with a scalding hot cup of coffee. As a result I do something that I would not normally do, and abandon it on the train. Outside I know where to go – when I was here last week I saw the 782 bus to Dublin Airport. In fact, I saw three of them and on each occasion they picked up a handful of people. Not so today – there are about 40 of us waiting. The long suffering driver squeezes us in – and then has to make three other stops. Or he is meant to – at two of them, he doesn’t allow anyone onto the bus but he does at the third. I can’t work out his rationale, but if I’d been waiting at one of those stops, I would be seething.
However, I’m safely on board so I get to Dublin Airport as predicted with a mere 6 hours to wait. I need to sort out my luggage though, so that should take up a few minutes. So, to clarify the situation: when I booked, I noticed that there was no option for cabin luggage on the flight. Which seemed strange, as there had been on my flight from Heathrow. When I spoke to the nice (but equally confused) lady at Aer Lingus about this (and to book extra legroom), she wasn’t sure but thought it meant that it was included. I accepted this – but remained deeply suspicious. More so since the boarding pass arrived and said nothing about a cabin bag.
I seek help from an Aer Lingus lady at the airport. I should point out that this is a seething hall of people, which is incredibly loud and there seems to be no organisation or idea where people should go. As I’m explaining my problem, we are interrupted by a second Aer Lingus lady who knows everything, gabbles at me and tells me to “go over there”. She points in the direction of a seething mass of humanity and then disappears. The signage is less than helpful, so rather than plunging into the mob I seek the help of a third Aer Lingus lady (and, no, they don’t seem to employ men!). She manages to explain what’s going on. It transpires than my flight is an Emerald Flight. This means that a cabin bag is included – but with a maximum of 7k. I already know mine is heavier than that, but we weigh it anyway and it comes in at an unsurprising 11k. I’m happy to pay the excess, but she will have none of it and puts me through as “an exception”. Bizarrely, it then goes off for scanning and disappears – because it turns out that on an Emerald Flight, “cabin bag” means “it goes into the hold”.
Security provides me with the usual round of entertainment. We get to watch an Asian lady resplendent in a pink Sari as she is firstly stopped, then taken to one side and then kept there as the Gardai are summoned to take her away. Then I have the normal excitement with trying to get my boots off to go through the scanners. As I’m putting everything away again, I enjoy watching an American family who have all fallen foul of the 100ml limit on fluids. Which does make me wonder how the heck they have got here without coming across this before? While they complain about this being the end of Democracy as we know it, I re-lace my boots and head on.
I settle down for a healthy meal (Diet Coke and an Irish Mac N Cheese). Healthy-ish.
The gate is announced with 2 ½ hours to go and I head down to grab a seat. I’m a little concerned as the previous flight to Edinburgh is delayed by an hour – which means it now leaves 5 minutes before my own flight. The chances of mine being delayed as well are therefore high. It also gives a high chance of a departure gate packed with pissed off people. The first have already arrived – a delightfully noisy American family who have decided that it’s a really good idea to travel with toddlers. FAFT. Because I suspect I might be late, I email the hotel to warn them – they respond almost immediately and tell me that it won’t be an issue.
This family continues to be annoying and I have decided to offer all the alcohol in Ireland to anyone who will get rid of this fucking family. And “get rid of” is to be interpreted liberally. Oh, and I still don’t know where my luggage is.
We are now joined by an Italian family. They are apparently all hard of hearing as they up the ante by screeching at each other as though they are trying to communicate across a busy street. I’m hoping that they all go down with laryngitis, but the outlook is not looking rosy. Next is a group of extremely drunk Scotsmen. Luckily, they are on the delayed flight, so I don’t have to put up with them for very long.
Eventually we board – and I lever myself onto the smallest fucking airplane in the world! The seats are exquisitely narrow, so the person beside me is in for a really awful flight and I still don’t know where my luggage is! The only way in and out of the plane is at the back – as I’m in Row 1, I’m going to be the last one off. I hate this flight already.
The only good things is that if the pilot needs anything, I will be able to lean forwards and hand it to him. Unless it’s my luggage, because fuck knows where that is!
Oh, I should point out that I am in seat 1F – which implies that there are 6 seats in each row. Not so – there are only four. The cabin attendant comes up to confirm that I’m happy to operate the emergency door in case of an emergency. There is a huge temptation to refuse, but I don’t. Mainly because he is so young that it looks as though this is something that his Dad has convinced him to do. Maybe Dad is the pilot? I resist the temptation to ask. He then gives me the worlds shortest briefing which includes the line “only open the door if conditions outside are safe, If not, don’t.” Well isn’t that just as clear as crystal?
Two American join us on Row 1 and immediately start complaining about the heat. After they have been told that everything needs to be stowed away, one asks “Can I just have this here at my feet then?” The attendant gives them a look which clearly says “Yes, because that’s the exact opposite of what I just told you” and patiently repeats what he said about 29 picoseconds ago. Luckily the seat beside me remains unoccupied, so I can spread out as much as the seatbelt allows.
The pilot starts the engines 25 minutes after we should have taken off and shortly after I have handed him his copy of “The Idiots Guide to Flight”. The Mouse Machine (which is apparently something called a Meteor 72) takes a considerable amount of time to lurch into motion. Are they actually going to try and take off – yes, but first we’ll drive around for 25 minutes before deciding to defy gravity and head for the Irish Sea.
Despite my misgivings (which seem to be shared by the attendant judging by the way he clings onto his chair), we arrive in Edinburgh and I finally find out where my luggage is. It is (as suspected) in the hold, so now I have to wait around for it to arrive – which is exactly what I wanted to avoid. But, as a bonus, we do get to watch the baggage handlers carefully and delicately bouncing someone’s case off the runway from a great height.
I can tell I’m back in the UK when I get on the bus to the town centre – £5.50!! I don’t want to buy the bloody bus! Despite a bravura performance from the sort of child that can only be described as a “right little madam”, the bus trip goes off without a hitch and I arrive – directly opposite the castle. Wow. Impressive – but I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere before. It bugs me, but I’ll work it out.
I eventually get to the Frederick House Hotel at 21:15. I’m bushed. The receptionist suggests I get some food delivered and I do – 30 minutes later a German Doner Kebab box arrives. It’s been a bit of day! Tomorrow: Edinburgh!
Day Two
The room is nice – not Belvedere nice – and faces a backyard. But there’s a constant noise which is quite difficult to describer. It’s a sort of mmmmmmm gggrrrrr mmmMRmmmmmRmmmmR. OK, it’s like an extractor fan and it’s on ALL the time. It seems to be coming from just below my window – which means I have to keep it closed. And it is unseasonably warm. The noise is the sort of thing you can ignore – unless you’re trying to sleep. As a result, I do not sleep well.
In the morning, I go and have a chat with the receptionist and find the same lady is on duty. She assures me that she has actually been home and that there is more than one employee. I explain the problem and she offers to move me. All I have to do is pack my stuff and it will all be sorted while I am out. Excellent.
I head out for a wander and some breakfast before my Real Mary Close tour at 09:30. I ask someone cleaning windows where I can get breakfast. “At this time of day” all he can think of is Greggs. Not a chance – I end up in a Costa instead.
After breakfast I have a good wander. There are a lot of statues here – all of eminent people looking very serious….
until I find this
…. and then this.
I spot my first kilt – an American being photographed on some steps with a woman in traditional Scottish attire. I reckon they are only one step away from having a Game Of Thrones wedding and move on.
The Age-Appropriate Hoody is deployed for the first time this holiday as I go into the Real Mary Close Tour. And then gets put away very quickly as it turns out that it’s quite warm inside.
Initially it seems that everyone else on the tour is FAFT. There are a couple with two kids – who are impressively well behaved. (The kids, I mean, not the parents. Though they are a credit to their children.) The obligatory dickhead tourists on the tour are two Chinese women who spend the entire tour standing in front of everything and trying to barge other people out of the way. This has limited success with me and I block them several times to give the kids a better view. Somewhere on the internet is their blog where they describe me as “the obligatory dickhead tourist”.
It’s a really good tour and very informative. Our guide is very good except she is American which ruins the illusion of her being an inhabitant of the Close. Apart from that, it is grisly enough to keep everyone happy and I exit very happy that I took my friends advice to do this.
Outside, just over an hour has made the street packed. There are vast tour groups wandering around, only looking where they are told to look and all taking the same pictures. I have a wander around the streets to the south of the castle where my research has uncovered a second hand bookshop called Armchair Books. On the way, I shudder at the vast numbers of purveyors of tat that exist solely to fleece the tourists. These include:
I heart Scotland (which no Scot has ever shopped in)
The Scottish experience (ditto)
The Real Scotland (ditto)
Tartan shops all featuring the Diana Memorial Tartan (ditto)
Kilt shops (ditto)
Even the amusingly named Thistle Do Nicely turns out to be a chain and somewhere that no Scot would ever shop in. It’s also obvious that everything is at a vastly inflated price.
Heading towards the less frequented streets, I find Armchair Books. This is a fantastic bookshop and I leave £60 lighter and 15 books heavier J I have a quick chat with the proprietor about the stupidity of the 1001 books challenge, though he’s impressed at how many I‘ve read.
I walk down through Cowgate, towards Holyrood and eventually cut back up towards the Royal Mile. I look at a couple of places to eat, but can’t find anywhere that has anything even vaguely Scottish on the menu. In the end, I give up and go into Brewdog where I settle down with a dram of Auchtenishan and a glass of Left Field (which I am assured is Scottish). The spicy chicken wings probably aren’t, so I’ll have to go in search of more Celtic Fare later.
The chicken wings are evil, delicious and ridiculously messy. The waiter convinced me to have another pint, so I move onto the Sunday best. There is a temptation to stay here all day. I force myself to leave and trudge back to the hotel so that I can offload the books.
On the way I find a Mowgli restaurant. This is owned by one of the judges on the Great British menu and I’m intrigued by the food. I earmark this for later.
When I get back, I have been moved to a room with a worse view, but no annoying background noise. Despite her assurances, the same woman is on duty and I’m even more convinced that no-one else works here.
I head out for another wander around in the heat and sunshine. I eventually end up at Mowgli. The waitress tries to explain how the concept is one of sharing – which is tricky as I’m on my own. While she tries to recover from her confusion, I go for the Gunpowder Chicken, the Bunny Chow and a non-alcoholic mango cocktail. The waitress recommended this after I asked for something long and refreshing and then look quite worried when I said that if I didn’t like it, it was her fault. I’m starting to think that too many people cannot work out when I’m joking. Maybe I need a flag. Or a sign.
The food is really good – although the Gunpowder Chicken wasn’t as spicy as I expected. To the relief of the waitress, the cocktail is lovely. The Bunny Chow defeats me, but I still have room for dessert and I order Galub Jamun and a cup of coffee. The dessert is delicious, but by the time I leave, I’m feeling decidedly overfull. I slowly wend my way back to the hotel for an evening of digestion.
Day Three
I have my Edinburgh Castle tour booked today. It’s not until 12:30, so I decide to have a leisurely start. Which means I’m still out of the hotel by 08:30 and I’m off to Costa again for a sausage bap and a cappuccino.
Yesterday I headed off to the south and east, so today I’m decided to explore the park at the foot of the Schloss Adler (yes, that’s what it reminded me of!) and see if I can work out what the elephant statue is all about. I’m then going to wander towards the new town and Dean Village.
It’s a great park to wander around with a great fountain and some superb views of the Schloss Adler – though I’m disappointed that I can’t seem to see a cable car with Richard Burton on top of it.
As I head off to the west, there is a steady stream of tourists walking in the opposite direction. Every time I stop to take a picture, at least one of them stops as well to see what I’m looking at. It seems that they don’t take a photo without someone else letting them know that they should take one. I resist the temptation to photograph some poo and head on. I should point out that the weather has remained sunny and hot.
Dean Village is a lovely little place and looks just like a rural village that has been slowly overtaken by the city. I think it will remain lovely until they finish the massive development next door which means that the entire village will be overlooked. Just on from there is Dean Bridge which gives great views in both directions.
As I cross Dean Bridge, I pass a group of what my generation refers to as “bloody millennials” walking in the other direction. I don’t overhear much, but what I do get is a nasal American whine as she says: “Your hotel is SO unfair and don’t make me welcome when I visit. I mean, I was only planning to stay overnight.” Presumably without paying the hotel. FAFT.
I make a quick trip back to the hotel for personal relief and sunscreen (unusually necessary for Scotland!) and then I head up to the meeting point. As it’s just outside a Café Nero, I head in for an early lunch of ciabatta and cappuccino.
On the way I finally see a Scotsman in a kilt – at least, I assume he was Scottish as he was playing the bagpipes. I was going to video him, but I looked up at the ranked swarm of tourists doing the same thing and I moved on. At least the kilt is not now solely the purviews of American tourists.
I settle down for my lunch with The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass. I haven’t finished the Mysteries of Udolpho (which was yet to become mysterious) but that’s on my iPad and I prefer reading actual books. (The Tin Drum, by the way, goes from interesting and unusual, to being boring. Takes me ages to wade through it.)
I’d decided to book a tour of the Schloss Adler and I‘m glad that I did as there are so many people booked today that it is closed to people who just want to walk in. The tour is booked with Little Fish tours and our tour guide is Euan. We have an eclectic group – I am one of 3 people from the UK, there are a couple from the Faroes, a family from India and a small swarmette from the US.
Euan is an excellent guide and takes us through the castle, going through the history and providing his own particular spin on the history. Particular highlights are:
England phoning James VI (I in England) when Elizabeth died;
Referring to Tony Blair as a war criminal;
The story about the tourist who got stuck in Mons Meg (the large cannon);
How the one o’clock cannon saved Edinburgh in WWII.
The tour is well timed, so that we are in the right place for the one o’clock cannon. Which goes bang. This apparently requires the presence of every single American tourist in Scotland. I don’t bother to take a picture as all I can see is a sea of people holding phones in the air.
The tour finishes outside the Honours of Scotland and Euan does confirm that Charles was crowned on the Stone of Destiny – in fact it was only shipped back to Scotland last week. We’re lucky to be able to see it as it’s due to be moved to Perth next month. (If you haven’t seen it, you haven’t missed much – it’s just a stone. It is the least impressive of the Honours.)
There is a queue to get in and see the Honours, so I have the joy of standing in front of a delightful American tourist. “What really gets me is the spelling. I mean I instead of y, and sometimes an extra e. I just don’t get it.” Poor thing. She also got very upset when she was not allowed to take a selfie in front of the Honours. FAFT!
The view from up here is superb – not surprising really. I have a wander around and slowly make my way down, pausing only to buy a bookmark and some obligatory shortbread for people back down south.
There is more I could see, but it’s very hot – allegedly only 19 degrees, but feels hotter – so I head back to the hotel. On the way I stop at a shop called the Whiski Bar and contemplate spending a ridiculous amount of money on a bottle of single malt. Good sense prevails. I also consider buying some haggis. But seeing as I have a 6 hour journey home tomorrow, it’s probably not a good plan.
I have a relax and sort through my photos, before heading off to the Miller & Carter Steakhouse for dinner. I must be in a good mood as when I order cider and the waiter says “that one has apples in it”, I manage to refrain from saying “Yes, I know, BECAUSE IT’S CIDER!!!!!”
It’s a good meal:
Starter: scallops with pea puree, samphire, chorizo and something brown that tasted a lot better than it looked;
Main: sirloin steak with onion loaf, chips, peppercorn sauce and lettuce with a garlic & cheese sauce (John Torode would not like the mixture of hot and cold and I have to agree: it would be much better if the lettuce had been torched);
Dessert: Vanilla Cheesecake.
Review: Yum!
It was a suitably expensive meal for my last night, and feeling very full, I stagger back to the hotel.
Last Day – homeward bound
Suitably, this the first overcast day since I’ve been here – it’s almost as though Scotland is sad I’m leaving. (Or it could just be weather – who can say?) My train is booked for 09:30 but a few days ago I was informed that the train was cancelled due to strike action. Luckily, there is another one at 10:30 and I was able to move my reservation across. The train now shows as being full – so this is likely to be an uncomfortable journey.
I manage to stay in bed until 08:30 – quite a feat for me, then quickly pack. This is trickier than previously as I now have a tote bag full of books as well as the shortbread. After some cunning re-shuffling, I get most of the shortbread in the tote bag. Suitably encumbered, I head for Waverley station.
It’s a sad little trip – going home always is – but it’s made worse when carrying the two bags starts to make my back hurt. So I decide to try and use the fiendish suitcase wheels again. This is mostly successful and I manage not to mow anyone down (thus proving that it’s not all the fault of the suitcases!). Waverley Station then decides to interrupt my progress by putting some very inconvenient stairs in place at several key points. I manage this, and then have to negotiate the ticket machine.
Unlike the straightforward Irish ticket machine, this one requires the card that I booked the ticket with, and:
Inputting the 16 digit code that was sent to me on a sponge three weeks ago;
Singing the first 10 bars of Flower of Scotland;
Performing the first 18 steps of a Highland Fling;
Promising to vote for independence should there be another referendum;
Promising not to mention the fraudulent behaviour of senior members of the SNP.
I keep my fingers crossed for the last one, my ticket is spat out and I settle down to my breakfast of a can of Diet Pepsi. There’s about an hour to go – so that’s fairly standard!
Fifteen minutes later, the platform is announced and I head around there to find that lots of people have had exactly the same idea. By the time the train arrives at 10:00, the platform is crowded. And, naturally, most people have significant amounts of luggage. Very quickly, they let us on. I’ve worked out that I’m right in the middle of the carriage, so I ignore the luggage racks and put all of my stuff on the overhead shelf where it looms over me in much the same way that the Schloss Adler looms over Edinburgh.
Apart from that, I’m at a table and facing the right way. The seat beside me is booked up to Durham, so I might be able to stretch out a bit after then. In order to help, an announcement is made. Except they try to include too much information, which most people then ignore. In essence, the train is fully reserved all the way to London and as a result people should stick to their reserved seats. Despite that, there is a clump of people at the end of the carriage behind me, looking confused. It also hasn’t prevented two women sitting down on the table across the aisle and then looking quite miffed when they are asked to move by the people who have actually reserved the seats. Given their age, they probably don’t listen to anything unless it’s been told them by some dickhead on TikTok.
A lady has sat opposite me and, like me, has a book. While she may be ready to poor scorn on The Tin Drum, I think it’s got to be better than her book: “Bodyfulness”. This is apparently about “somatic practices for presence, empowerment and waking up in this life.” It takes a lot, but that manages to make The Tin Drum feel as though it is not utter drivel. (Don’t get me wrong, I think The Tin Drum is largely drivel – but not completely drivel.)
Sat behind her are two Scottish girls who are trying to get to Manchester for a Coldplay concert. They are getting quite worried about whether they will manage to get there and the woman with the awful book proves to be remarkably nice as she tried to help them plan their journey.
There are still people stood as the train pulls away and no one has claimed the seat beside me. I decide to confuse the matter further by heading for the toilet. And then change my mind. Both ends of the carriage are absolutely rammed with people, and there is no way I’ll be able to get through. I decide to take my seat again and cope …. Hopefully.
The main issue here seems to be that some of us paid the obscene amount of £1 to reserve our seats – and those reservations have been transferred. All the people wandering aimlessly up and down are people who didn’t reserve a seat and are thinking “oh, I’ll just sit there – perhaps no-one will come along”. Silly, silly, silly. The really silly thing is, now that we’ve left, they should be taking the risk – but lots of them aren’t. Silly, silly, silly. I’m reaping the benefits of it though as there is still no-one sat by me.
Everything continues in this way until we get to Newcastle. Then even more people get on, and they are now standing all the way down the aisle – making my chances of getting to the toilet now close to zero. I’m hoping that willpower will prevail.
Across the aisle a young(ish) couple have taken seats – and the people who have booked them turn up. The two incumbents claim that they were told that “lots of people would be in the same situation and no seat reservations were being honoured”. Sounds like the sort of excuse I hear all the time at work. The people with the reservations are having none of it though, and one of them plays the disability card (“I’m disabled and I can’t stand for hours”). The interlopers refuse to move, so the disabled lady says she’ll wait for a guard. There is clearly no chance of a guard getting anywhere near here.
The situation is at a stalemate until the two Coldplay fans get involved. They have a right go at them, until they are guilted into moving. The lady with the awful book moves beside me so that they can sit together. This new status quo lasts until Durham when the people who should be sat opposite me turn up. This time they give way without a fight – the Coldplay fans have clearly got them worried. The lady beside me has gone (and thankfully takes her book with her), so one sits beside me while the other stands.
The lady who is now sat beside me has been quaffing from a plastic glass of something pink and presumably alcoholic since she got on the train. Her friend (partner? close personal acquaintance?) is equally well kitted out for the journey and has been swigging from a bottle of beer. When the lady puts her handbag down, it makes a very obvious clink. I nearly ask for an empty bottle to pee into.
They have now got over the embarrassment of being caught out. They have a spirited conversation which starts with how they are going to demand compensation. It moves on to how unfair it was that he had to have his hair cut short when he was in the army. It finishes with her saying that she wants a little girl so that she can “go out with her”. I can’t imagine anything worse. We also get a good ten minutes of “I really, really support the strikers, but..”. That old familiar refrain of “I support you as long as you don’t do inconvenience me or expect me to do anything.”
At York there is a huge exodus (including the two interlopers). Mercifully, few people get on and I manage to get to the loo. By the time I finish peeing, we’re somewhere near Leicester. I follow it up with a trip to the buffet car as I haven’t eaten yet today. I go for a ham and cheese ciabatta – which is the only soft ciabatta I have ever eaten. It fills a gap, and sustains me for the rest of my journey home.
And that is it for another year. The last two entries are extremely late because I had considered not writing them up. However, I just couldn’t disappoint my faithful readers. This years holiday approaches – I’m heading up to do the North Coast 500 so look forward to lots of stories about driving as I’ll be going around it by car.
I’m booked on the 10:00 train to Cork, so naturally my brain has been working out the best route to get there. I do my usual, and work out how long it will take – and add half an hour for safety. As a result, I’ll need to leave the hotel by about 08:30.
My planning is briefly disturbed by one of the staff stepping outside the kitchen and indulging in what Billee Connolly used to refer to as a “wee swearie”. Being only one floor above her, her voice carries clearly up to my room. I consider critiquing her rant and suggest that she uses a greater variety of expletives, but sense that she might not be in the mood.
I have my last Irish breakfast (in Dublin, anyway). I consider telling reception about the “wee swearie” but as it didn’t really bother me I decided against it and head out … about 15 minutes earlier than planned. *sigh* I just can’t help being early.
I head down towards the bus stop and for a few yards try to use the dreaded and much-maligned wheelie option on my suitcase. After it’s hit my shins twice and shown a predilection for lurching out into the road, I give up and just carry the damn thing.
I get the bus as far as Lower O’Connell Street where I head for the Red Line and my only tram ride of the holiday. I am very excited. And really shouldn’t be. It’s just like being on the London underground, except it isn’t “under”. Which means it has to stop for traffic lights. It does have the advantage of being significantly quieter than the Tube.
The tram efficiently takes me to Huston Station, where I have about an hour to wait for my train. I’ve pre-booked my ticket, so need to collect it from a machine, almost directly opposite the man who incoherently sold me my Leap card two days ago. I know how this works, so I am ready for the usual steps:
Input the 10,000,000 digit reference number
Perform the first 17 steps of the Macarena
Strike the machine sharply with the heel of the right hand
Intone the mystic word of Power: “FECK!”
To my surprise, I put the short number in and am given my ticket. I then wait for the usual extra slivers of card that vomit froth from these machines in England. I’m pleasantly surprised that nothing else issues for the and I can settle down to wait for the train.
I forgot to mention that the weather is still sunny and very warm. The forecast is that it will be in the low twenties in Cork today. This bodes well for the big trip tomorrow.
The train is announced and I join the queue to get on. The ticket has the carriage and seat number on it and when I get on, I take an inordinate amount of pleasure in the fact that my name is on a little electronic display. (Which I then spend an age trying to photograph – and failed, so here’s a shot from my return trip)
The scenery is fantastic once we get out of Dublin with beautifully green scenery and an incredibly blue sky. I spend much more time than usual just staring out of the window rather than paying attention to Notes from the Underground.
The train is quite busy but there are mercifully no kids running around. We do have the requisite businessman who has to transact his business over his phone at the top of his voice. It gets particularly interesting when he is discussing the career of one of his staff and he becomes remarkably indiscreet. I do hope they manage to keep their job.
A few rows down from me is a guy reading a copy of Deathtrap Dungeon – I remember buying the original in err.. ummm… about 1984. Well doesn’t that just make me feel awful.
There is also a bloke who walks past with a T-shirt that reads “Your dad is my cardio.” I try to parse that in several ways to work out what it means and have to give up. Explanations from the readership are very welcome.
At Limerick, the loud businessman leaves which is a relief as his ringtone is almost as obnoxious as he is.
I get to Cork and the sun is beating down. Which makes the decision to walk to the hotel a really easy one. It is, according to Google, only a 28 minute walk, so off I go. Did I mention the weather? I’m sure it must have come up at least once.
In the end it takes my about 35 minutes and I’m dripping like an untended tap. (With sweat, I hasten to add). It’s not a good look on anyone and the lady at the hotel looks appropriately perturbed.
The hotel is the Belvedere House Hotel which is a lovely place – nice building, friendly and tolerant staff, good residents garden and good sized rooms. Unfortunately, it is at the junction of two busy roads, so there is a constant background noise. Which is a shame as otherwise this would be a superb place.
If I’m hungry, I have an embarrassment of riches to choose from. 100 yards down the road are two competing garages. One offers hot food 24 hours a day as well as the marvellously named Tayto crisps. The other seduces its’ customers in with an outdoor launderette. Truly these are the Golden Times foretold in yore!
Opposite these pinnacles of civilisation, there is a bus stop and I avail myself of this facility to get myself into town. The tolerant lady at the hotel assures me my Leap card will work here. She also tells me that the busses run about every twenty minutes and one is due very shortly, so I head back out into the sun to wait. “Very shortly” is about 15 minutes, when a completely different bus rolls up, but goes to the same place. The Leap card doesn’t work but after three attempts the driver nods sagely and lets me through. Later on, I’ll find out that this is because it isn’t even vaguely valid here!
I head for the centre of Cork and have a wander. The main street has clearly been revitalised and there is a lot of shining chrome and glass, as well as some modern metal poles that look like 30ft long elephant tusks. There are a lot of high end stores and a large number of youths wandering around with Superdry and H&M bags. I’m a little disappointed as it seems quite sterile and after buying a new leap card I continue to explore and start to find some more interesting things.
The first of which comes after I hear music ahead of me and I encounter the “World Famous” Spoon Playing Leprechauns. (“World Famous”, by the way, seems to mean “are on Tiktok”). They are certainly keen – which is probably the best that can be said about them.
They turn out to be just the first musical interlude, as I head down beside the rather surprising gun shop to where a man is playing an accordion and looking as though he is waiting for Harry Lime. I then change direction to go an listen to a busker with a quiet extraordinary voice. I’m starting to enjoy Cork and almost forget the arrangements that I have to make for tomorrow as I’m not sure that the earliest bus will get me into the centre of town in time.
I pop into tourist information, grab a tourist map and have a long chat with the guy working there. He has a good moan about modern music and shudders when I tell him that I’ve seen the World Famous Spoon Playing Leprechauns. He does recommend a local Ska band; Pontius Pilate and the Naildrivers. Hmm. No chance of them offending anyone is there?
He does give me some good idea of where to go on Saturday although he does start off with lots of recommendations outside Cork. Once he’s got the idea that I want to explore Cork, he’s a bit more focused. He tried to convince me to go to the Crawford Art Gallery, but I’m not that desperate!
Outside the sun is beating down, so I take shelter in a Costa and have a panini as a late lunch.
I then head off to find the much vaunted English market. On first view, this is quite disappointing but as I get further in it’s a really good market with some fantastic things on display, including meats, cheese and chocolate. I manage to resist the temptation and continue to wander.
I’m saving my main tour around Cork for Saturday, so I make do with a few rounds of the City Centre before heading back to the hotel. Only now does it occur to me that I should have stocked up at the English Market. Instead I stock up at the garage, including getting some food for the coach trip tomorrow – especially as I’ll be leaving before breakfast. I’ve decided I can’t risk the bus, so I’m going to be leaving at 06:45 to walk into town.
I head back to my room, which comes equipped with a bath and Radox. So I finish the day off with a damn good soak.
Day Two
I’ve decided not to risk the bus and walk, so I’m up at 06:00. I shower, grab the snacks and water that I picked up yesterday and head out to make the walk into town. It’s sunny and the skies are clear and bright blue – and it’s 12 degrees already. I see that there is someone forlornly stood by the bus stop, so decide to ask when the bus is due. He tells me that a bus was due 5 minutes ago – but he may have missed it. Despite this clearly reliable testimony, I decide to walk anyway and as a result the bus sails majestically past me about 5 minutes later. Followed by a second after another 10 minutes. I nearly convince myself that the walk is worth it as the temperature is about right and it’s a lovely walk which gets ets my aching legs moving nicely.
I head to Paddywagon and have a chat with the lady there. (By the way, I’m the only person who seems to think that this is rather an odd name for a coach company). She directs me around the corner to where the coach is waiting. There are already a couple of people here and we’re soon joined by several more. Everyone is in heavy jackets and scarves except for me and the coach driver, who are both rocking the “shorts and t-shirt” look. I wonder if we’re heading further north than expected. When I ask the driver he chuckles and says “Well, this is Ireland, so it’s best to be safe.”
The driver is called John and is both English and delightfully blunt. When two people rush up to the coach having gone to the wrong place, he just cheerfully says “You were on the wrong street weren’t you?” As English is not their first language, they seem somewhat confused by his version of an apology.
We set off with only about 12 people on board – and mercifully no bloody children. But John tells us that we’re picking up around 40 people in Limerick, so there will be very few spare seats. I’m hoping that one of them will be beside me as there is very little leg room and I’ll be in agony if I have to sit straight on. (I‘m currently sat with my legs stretching out into the aisle). As predicted, the coach gets packed – mostly with very loud Americans. John gets his first complaint of the day as he directs us to toilets but fails to mention the 30c charge. That keeps two Americans moaning for at least an hour. The good thing is that I manage to retain sovereignty of a double seat – victory!
John is highly entertaining, although most of the bus objects when he describes rugby as “the man’s version of American Football”. Sensing a change in mood from my fellow travellers, he then reminds us that if we are not happy with the tour, his name is Eduardo.
It’s quite a scenic drive to our first major stop which is at the Cliffs of Moher. The cliffs are suitable large and cliffy and there are some spectacular views. There are lots to love here – and lots to hate. All of the bad things are the people visiting the cliffs, namely:
American tourists (or which there are significantly more than a plethora);
Narcissistic social media whores using a selfie-stick to get the perfect shot of their over-made up selves with an incidental backdrop of an area of outstanding natural beauty;
American tourists;
People insisting on taking a push chair along a narrow cliff path (there was no child in it, nor were they accompanied by a child);
American tourists;
People who stop in the middle of said narrow cliff path to take a picture of some sheep;
Fucking American tourists;
People moaning about carrying their heavy jackets with them (firstly, it’s 20 degrees; secondly, leave them in the fucking coach!);
Fucking American fucking tourists;
Morons who walk on the wall where a sign is clearly displayed saying “Please do not walk on the wall”;
Fucking American fucking tourists.
You may get the impression that I am unfairly biased against our cousins from the U S of A. This is far from the truth. I’ve met several who are perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, every single American tourist is currently at the Cliffs of Moher. In fact, I suspect that several of their smaller cities have been radically de-populated due to the number of FAFT here. I decide to try and get away from them by heading along a cliff path that runs between farmland and the edge of the extremely precipitous cliff. I do pretty well until I get stuck between two FAFT who are proceeding at a glacially slow pace. It’s a bit like getting stuck behind a learner driver at rush hour – except there are no turn-offs or places to overtake. Their dialogue is enraging:
Why don’t they use the American system over here, it’s so much easier? (because we’re in Ireland);
Why is this path so narrow? (because it’s between farmland and a cliff edge);
Why is there a wall here? (to stop morons like you falling off the cliff);
Why aren’t there any signs? (because there have been literally no junctions and so signs aren’t needed);
Why is my voice so annoying? (I would hazard that this is a combination of genetics and the fact that you never fucking shut up!)
I finally manage to get ahead of them and reach the point I was aiming for – which is suitably impressive. I’m also quite proud of the fact that on my way back I pass most of the people from the coach – so the FAFT didn’t slow me down that much!
(Sorry about the blurry ones – it would appear I got sunscreen on the lens. Or, I could just say I was experimenting with soft focus. In any case, pictures cannot do the cliffs justice. They’re quite amazing).
I head back to the visitor centre to get some lunch. There is a huge queue and as I consider whether or not to join it, I hear “Can I get a beef stew without meat?” FAFT!! I head outside, grab a bookmark at one of the significant number of souvenir shops (blessedly uninfected by FAFT) and settle down to my picnic lunch on a bench where the braying accents are somewhat muted.
It’s actually much better than sitting in the restaurant, because the day is absolutely glorious.
Now, when we left the coach, John was quite clear that everyone had to be back at the coach by 12:30. For those people for whom English was a second language, he wrote it down. So we should all know what to do. I, of course, am back in my seat by 12:20. About 10 minutes later, one of the American tourists comes up the stairs, looks around and says to someone outside: “I see zero people here.” I’m sat about four rows back and not, as has been stated before, easy to miss. “Actually there are three of us here,” I helpfully say. “Oh sorry, I’m not very tall” is the response. In that case, why were you the one checking? FAFT!
At 12:45, we leave – without seven people. Johns attitude is that they were told what time to be back at the coach and warned that he would leave without them – which they were. We then head off to a restaurant for lunch – which was definitely NOT mentioned on the itinerary! Several of us have already eaten, so John very specifically does not direct us to the local pub. I have a refreshing pint of beer and get back to the coach in time to overhear John having a spirited discussion with his office who want to know why he left seven people at the Cliffs of Moher. His answer is simple – and I completely agree with him. Apparently, they “misunderstood” and turned up at 13:00. I’m on his side and tell him that I’ll back him with his office if needed.
And so we’re off – or we would be if we weren’t another two people short. It’s starting to feel like an Agatha Christie novel. I know they were down at the pub, but they haven’t returned on time. They wander up 5 minutes late and sit down without offering any kind of apology. I’m in favour of making them walk the plank, but apparently the coach isn’t equipped with one.
It now transpires that we have to pass the Cliffs of Moher to go to our next location, so we will be able to pick up our seven strays. Or we would, if half a mile down the road someone realises that they left their purse at the lunch stop. So John turns the coach round (not an easy option on country roads) and we head back to pick it up. This really is the Coach of Morons. Guess where they come from? FAFT!
We arrive at the Cliffs Of Moher again to collect our strays and find out that two of them (who are not Americans – no, they’re French) have been amusing themselves by abusing the other coach drivers. The strays rather sheepishly get onto the coach – well, except the two obnoxious French ladies who find the whole thing hysterically funny. The other five do, at least, apologise. We then have to wait to pick up two other people who also missed their coach. FAFT!
We then head off to the Burren which is an area of raised sea bed that is both remarkably start and the home to a wide variety of plants. We have another round of nature good, tourists bad. The dickheads from the back of the bus insist on sitting as close to the edge as they can and they only reason that I don’t wish disaster upon them is that this would probably delay us even more. The French women appear to have lost their volume control and are cackling like geese, which drifts across the Burren and frankly, spoils the fuck out of it. And still people can’t get back to the coach in time. It’s not that bloody hard is it?
Our last visit is at Bunratty Castle where John admits that he has given up trying to get back to the schedule. We’re given a leisurely 25 minutes – reasonable as we cant actually get into the castle as this is essentially a food and souvenir stop. After 45 minutes, most of us are sat on the coach, still waiting for 5 people. These people are a frigging nightmare.
At 17:30, we dump the FAFT at Limerick and are heading back to Cork. Our original eta was 18:00, but the tour was always described as roughly 10 hours. This is therefore the point that one of my fellow travellers raises the issue that she has to catch an 18:15 train. Seriously? What kind of an idiot organises their day like that?
The rest of the journey has a backdrop provided by a combination whiny Irish folk music and the woman in front of me who is Facetiming her partner. Because she is holding her phone in a very odd way, I keep getting a clear picture of him, which is probably as disconcerting for him as it is for me. It does mean that I spend a lot of time trying not to look at him in case he might think I’m overly interested in what they’re saying. I’m not – though she does moan several times about not being able to hear him because the whiny Irish folk music is too loud.
We get in an hour late at 19:00. I consider going for a meal, but instead stagger to a bus stop and go back to the hotel. I pick up a sandwich from the local gastronomic garages and then have a bath to soothe my legs. All that sitting in a coach is knackering!
Day Three
I’m knackered this morning and have real trouble getting going. Luckily, the full Irish breakfast provided the hotel is excellent and I leave feeling both full and revitalised. Everyone in Cork that I spoke to advised me to leave and head elsewhere but I am stubbornly going to amble around.
I head for Elizabeth Fort and get there just before it opens at 10:00. Entrance is free and this is a superb example of a star fort. It was also used as a women’s prison and a Garda HQ and there are a couple of little displays that give a fascinating insight into the history. The views from the walls are excellent – significantly more inspiring than Dublin.
I’ve planned to head north of the river to look at some of the churches around there, but my legs are aching and it’s 19 degrees (which feels like about 30). So I take an easy stroll back into the city centre and find a place called Bunsen which sells nothing but burgers. (I admit it – I loved the name). Cheeseburger and chips it is. This is the first place for a long time that I’ve been asked how I want my burger cooked. And when it arrives, it is very good.
I still have several places to look at, but I am absolutely knackered today. I decide to slowly wander back to the hotel. On the way, I pass the MacCurtain Wine Cellar where they sell wines by the bottle or the glass. Todays special is a chilled red which is a Tuscan Field Blend. It would be rude to say no, and they provide me with a glass and a menu. Given they don’t start serving food for another two hours, I feel this is somewhat presumptuous! I finish off Notes from the Underground and move on to The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe.
I resist the temptation to sit here for the rest of the day and leave after one glass. Then I walk back to the train station, get my ticket for tomorrow and take the bus back to the hotel.
My dining experience is from the local drive thru, which is called Supermacs. They sell burgers (no, not McDonalds, honest), Supersubs (no, not Subway, honest) and Papa John’s pizza. I go for the only part that doesn’t seem to be ripping off a major chain and polish off the pizza in my hotel room.
I feel a bit guilty that I’ve wasted my last day in Cork – but I hope to come back some day.
Here we are again, with my 2023 holiday blog – which, as usual, will probably get written over the next 10 months. This year I decided (again) to visit places I’d never properly visited and thought that it was time to take in Ireland and Scotland. Clearly having a single location for a holiday is beyond my comprehension, so I decided to visit Dublin, Cork and Edinburgh. When I told my friend Chris this, he called it The Gaelic Triangle – so kudos to him for the title.
This year should have been a very different holiday. A couple of friends and I have been talking about doing a “Grand Tour” of the UK, which we were thinking about starting this year. That got shelved as I wasn’t sure what would be happening with my job (at the time, I thought I would be forced to retire in July 2023) and because they’re very busy going far afield on a variety of holidays. I then considered doing a driving holiday along the coast of Scotland. That didn’t get much past the planning stage. In September last year I booked myself onto a walking holiday with the intention of doing the Cotswold Way. Then my back went in November and took ages to recover, which meant I had to cancel that holiday and do this one instead.
Right, so back to the holiday. As usual, the base-ball cap and Age-Appropriate Hoodie are packed. Packing involved a lot of muttering and cursing. My flights this year are both with Aer Lingus who seem to have different rules depending which flight you’re on. I ended up speaking to a very helpful woman at Aer Lingus – who also did not understand what was going on. We managed to sort out the flight out, but the flight from Dublin to Edinburgh is, frankly, going to be a voyage of discovery. As with last year, my goal is to have no luggage in the hold of the plane, so that I can get out of the airport as fast as possible – whether that happens or not, only time will tell.
While packing, I have to bear in mind that both Ireland and Edinburgh have a reputation for being both cold and wet. Several people have told me to make sure I pack a waterproof jacket. Of course I don’t do anything as sensible as that!
I’m flying out of Heathrow Terminal 2. Unfortunately (and quite thoughtlessly), the friends who gave me a lift to Heathrow last year have moved out of the area. So, I am reliant on public transport. Luckily, the Elizabeth Line now goes as far as Reading. That’s good because I get free travel on Transport for London services, so I can coast to Heathrow without having to put my hand in my pocket. (Yes, I have to get my warrant card out, but you know what I mean. Don’t you?)
Slough station has now installed new barriers and an exciting one-way system …. which they probably should have put in place during Covid. They accompany this with tiny signs, and increasingly irritated staff who loudly direct people who haven’t got the hang of it. Luckily, I get away without being harangued and I head for the Elizabeth Line. I have to go to Hayes and Harlington and then change to get the train to Heathrow. As usual, I have left plenty of time – the flight is at 13:30, so I’m on the train by 10:50. I sit near the entrance and am joined by two ladies and a pram. Neither seem to know where the brake is, so when the train pulls away they both lurch for the pram as it tries to rocket away down the carriage. The child in the pram doesn’t seem to be affected by it and it is possessed of an excellent set of lungs as it demonstrates with a series of ear-splitting shrieks. The ladies try to calm it with a variety of songs – my favourite being “Trinkle, trinkle, little star”.
I try to ignore the musical score and the occasional shriek and settle down to reading my book. Today’s offering is The Nice and the Good by Iris Murdoch. An odd little book that combines a social pot-boiler with a murder mystery that seems to involve black magic. Took a little getting into as she introduced about 12 characters in one chapter, but once I’d managed to work out who everyone was this was very enjoyable.
I am somewhat distracted (not just by the baby). The train runs late and the announcements on the platform seem designed to confuse: “this train will now arrive at 11 minutes”. Despite this, the train arrives on time and I’m on the last leg to Heathrow. At the station, I decide to take the lift to cut down on the amount of time I’ll have to carry my bag – I’m still a bit worried about my back. Turns out I shouldn’t have bothered, as I then have to carry it for about three miles – including walking past another underground station!
Eventually I get to baggage and have the usual fun of trying to get my boarding pass up on my phone. The phone finally complies and I then have a spirited discussion about whether my case counts as carry on, or not. In the end, we have to refer to a supervisor who takes my side and I head for the line for security. This begins with the excitement of removing all small metallic objects and putting them in my bag, while keeping my boarding pass and passport out. I then note that we are only allowed one transparent bag for toiletries. I have two, because the toothpaste (while still being only 100ml) takes up half the bag – surely this will be OK. Apparently not, so I stuff it into one bag, whereupon the seal breaks. Juggling two bags, my phone and my passport I get through the first check and shuffle towards the security scanners. Shuffling is necessary because my belt is now in my bag and as I’ve lost a bit of weight, my jeans are sliding down. Then I realise I have to take my iPad out of my bag, so I arrive at the gate like some demented juggler. Oh, and as usual it’s really hot and I’m dripping with sweat.
The security gate doesn’t like my boots (no surprise there!), so off they come. A very nice lady tells me I can sit down to take them off, if that’s easier. I ask her if that’s because I’m so old and she blushes and says that she asks everyone because when she does it, she just falls over. I manage without doing that and head through — after having also had to remove my hankie!
Finally I’m through without my jeans actually falling down and I redistribute my belongings. I have 1 3/4 hours before take-off, so I go looking for the first beer of the holiday. Let’s see what we have here – Harrods, Timex, “Caviar House and Prunier”. What the hell? Eventually I find somewhere called The Big Smoke tucked away in a corner (presumably so it won’t upset the people at the Caviar House and Prunier) and order myself some spicy chicken wings, chips and a disappointing pint of lager. I also take the first obligatory food photo of the holiday.
I’ve noticed that I do two things when I’m on holiday that I would never normally do: (1) photograph my food; (2) cheerfully say hello to total strangers when I pass them in the street.
I head out after paying a small fortune for the disappointing meal and eagerly await my flight – which, naturally, is the only one on the board that is running late. By the time it is posted, we’ve reached the time that the gate should have closed – this journey is starting out in exactly the same way as many of the others. Finally, there is a boarding announcement – but for Premium passengers only. That doesn’t stop everyone else standing up, so I decide to join the merry throng. We then get an announcement about people with carry on luggage – but it doesn’t say what we should actually do. There is a decision to remain staunchly British (including the Australian guy in front of me) and we join the queue. As no-one shouts at us, this must have been the right choice.
As we pass through the gate, they finally decide to weigh my case (really, shouldn’t this have been done about 2 hours ago?) It’s overweight (like me), but they take pity on me and let me through. I then have an uncomfortable conversation with a women who hadn’t paid for her carry on and so has had her bag consigned to the hold. I wisely decide not to tell her how the rules have been bent for me.
I get on and stow both my luggage items in the overhead compartment because I’m sat by the Emergency Exit. I’m getting evils from the people around me. The reason for this becomes clear as the stewardess announces about 5 times that we’re only allowed to stow one item in the overhead lockers. There’s a pleasant American beside me who confirms that we’ve done the right thing. This doesn’t stop the glares from our fellow passengers – or maybe they’ve just worked out that he’s American. During the flight, he amuses himself with a seemingly endless succession of games on his iPad. I admit that he reacts better than I would when the computer uses the word UASU in his Scrabble game. (I checked, it’s an acronym used by various organisations, so the damned computer was cheating!)
Apart from the cheating computer it is an uneventful and relatively easy flight. It’s a little disconcerting when the stewardise decides to remind us about the emergency exits as we begin our descent into Dublin. Clearly she’s flown with this pilot before, as it’s one of those “three bounces and both feet stamped onto the brake” landings. However, he manages to park it in a manoeuvre last seen in the Blues Brothers and we all make it out safe.
Now all I have to do is get to the hotel. I’ve checked on Google maps and I need to get to Drumcondra. This turns out to be dead easy and I’m soon sat on a bus heading south. As we get into Drumcondra, it has all the hallmarks of a manky area – lots of boarded up shops covered with graffiti and a generally run down atmosphere. I get off with some trepidation and walk off towards my hotel. I’m quickly in a pleasant residential area and eventually get to the Maples House Hotel (http://www.mapleshousehotel.ie/). The staff are friendly – though I manage to quickly confuse them and I head up to my bizarrely shaped room. It would be easier if I had taken a photo, but I’ll try to describe it. The floorspace is approximately the width of the door and extends straight away from the door to the single window. There’s a door on the far right that leads into the bathroom and the bed is in an alcove immediately to the right of the door. It’s definitely odd, but at least it’s clean and doesn’t remind me of Barcelona.
As there is a bar and restaurant on site, I decide to stay here this evening. The bar is a trifle strange – it looks more like a working mans club than anything else. I set myself up with a pint of Rockshore lager and finally relax. I will do well here.
This feeling is improved further by a truly excellent cheeseburger and chips – it’s like the one from The Menu, but without all the pretension and death.
I then head off for an early night. Iris Murdoch gets finished and I settle down with Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Day Two
I’ll start with an apology for the delay. I really felt that this just wasn’t interesting enough until someone pointed out that this is as much for me as it is for you good people out there. On we go!
I have a good nights sleep and prepare myself with the usual fight with the shower. To my surprise, it’s simple and is both hot and strong. Dublin is starting well! Today I have a cycle tour of Dublin booked followed by a visit to the much-lauded Guinness storehouse.
I head downstairs for my first Full Irish Breakfast of the holiday. Which looks a lot like a Full English, but you get both black and white pudding!
I know you’re expecting a photo of the breakfast, but you’ll have to make do with the menu instead. But take it from me, it’s a good breakfast.
I then head off down the road to find a bus into town. My cycle tour is at 10:30, so clearly I head off with about 2 hours to go. I identify the correct bus and confidently step on with my card ready …. and the bus only takes cash. That’s not quite true – they also take something called a Leap card. Which I can’t buy on the bus. Luckily I have some coins left from my trip last year – because, of course, they don’t give change either!
On my way to South Dublin, I check up the Leap Card online. Turns out it’s dead easy to get one – if you order it in advance. As it is, there are four places in Dublin that you can buy them from. I plan to sort this out after I’ve been to Guinness.
The trip is faster than expected, so I get off the bus with an hour and a half to wait. This area is similar to Drumcondra – a bit run down and definitely not on the tourist route. As I head north towards Temple Bar, things begin to improve. There are some great shop names: the Bald Barista Cafe is my favourite. I’m somewhat disturbed by the antics of a woman walking just ahead of me. She has her mobile phone clamped to her ear and her listening is occasionally punctuated by her raising the phone to her mouth and making a noise like a shrike. Or what I would imagine a shrike sounds like. It’s sort of a high-pitched “YEEARRGHH!”. She then continues to listen. After a while she stops and starts dancing in front of a shop window. I catch the eye of a lady coming the other way who looks as surprised as I do and we both burst out laughing. I head on, leaving the shrike behind me.
I find a Tourist Information Centre – surely I can get a Leap card from them? No. But they do confirm the information that I already have. I head out and wander around Dublin Castle.
And then go down to The Liffey.
I then grab some water from a Spar that advertises itself as “the Gay Spar” (I don’t know why) and then head back to Whitefriars Place – where I’m still about 15 minutes early. The meeting place isn’t obvious and the road looks more like somewhere that druggies would hang out (the guide later confirms they have a lovely pair of addicts living next door). Despite this, I work out which shop I’m meant to go to and the rather surprised lady inside tells me I’m early. She tells me that the church at the end of the road contains the Heart of St Valentine, so I go and take a look. There’s a service going on, so I feel a bit uncomfortable about intruding, but I do spot this on the way out.
Yes, it’s a holy water urn. I slap down my roleplaying instincts which are demanding that I stock up “just in case” and head back to the shop. By now she has the bikes out and I introduced to my Mighty Steed.
I also meet my fellow tourists – a Dutch couple, a very young American and an Australian who is wearing a Gallipoli shirt. Excellent. Even more people who hate the English. Except the Dutch who are both quite mellow.
The tour is pretty good and goes to St Patricks Cathedral (see below), Marshes Library, St Stephens Park, Parliament Buildings, Docklands, the Famine Memorial and Dublin Castle.
I should also point out that the weather is insanely good! I also should point out that I didn’t take any other photos as it was a bit of a pain getting my phone out as I was cycling around. Because, and there is no surprise here, there was a problem with my bike. It was all set up nicely and as soon as we set off the seat slipped down so it felt like I was cycling around like the kid in The Shining. This wasn’t too much of a problem, until we got to a hill … luckily there was only one. Oh, and the brakes were…..vague at best.
Our tour guide was called Laura and was absolutely superb. She had to balance some quite difficult and emotive issues as she was giving us a history lesson as we cycled around. She kept apologising to me as England got blamed for an awful lot. But it didn’t bother me as I didn’t do any of it myself. We did bond over the fact that we both had MAs in English Literature and both thought Ulysses was massively over-rated. I got a fist-bump! I feel like a youth! As we cycled off towards Marshes Library I noticed she had a tattoo of a beholder on her calf so when we stopped I asked her about it. She laughed, said that she loves it when people notice it and that she is a D&D geek. I admitted the same and got another fist bump! Truly, I am one with the youth!
By the time I have returned my Mighty Steed, I have about an hour and a quarter to get to the Guinness Storehouse. I wander across planning to find somewhere near there to eat – of course, there is nothing, so I head in early.
The tour starts off pretty well with someone who obviously studied at an American Cheer-leading school and we all trail off for something that I would describe as A Bit of a Disappointment. The place is packed (the above photos required a degree of patience I rarely bother with) and I felt like part of a flock of sheep merrily queuing for the abattoir. It doesn’t help that my knee is hurting and I need to sit down – I don’t find a chair for three floors by which time I will cheerfully poor Guinness over the next person to speak to me.
After I head off, it all gets even more disappointing. The best thing is this:
There is a cinema showing Guinness adverts. Great, I think, maybe they’ll have some of those old Rutger-Hauer adverts. Sadly not – all they’re doing is showing the current advert on a loop. If I was here with someone else, it would probably be better and as I wander into the tasting room I’m getting more frustrated. Then I have the entertainment of watching a group mostly comprised of Americans having their first taste of Guinness. This would be highly amusing apart from the fact that I am now reminded how bloody awful Guinness can taste. The lady relentlessly talking to us politely points out that if we get an acrid taste, we are drinking it the wrong way. No, Madam, it’s just that your product tastes like the bottom of a parrot cage.
Some friend had got a STOUTie while they were here, which is where they put a picture of you on the head of a pint of Guinness. I consider doing it and look at the queue. Add that to the fact that I’d have to drink the pint and I head on up to the Gravuty Bar for the amazing views of Dublin and my free drink.
I’m not impressed. The Dublin skyline is dominated and one side by a construction site and the rest is flat. Really flat. The bar is packed and incredibly loud and it will take an age to get served. I decide not to claim my free drink and head out. I stop at the The Store on the way out and get a bookmark.
After that complete let-down, I head across to Houston Station where I’ve been told I can buy my Leap Visitor Card. I assume that as there are only four places to buy it that it will be a large shop. Not so, and so I speak to the man in what can politely be described as a large newspaper kiosk. I have a brief conversation with him during which I have absolutely NO idea what he is saying. His accent is broad and his delivery is like a machine-gun. He stops at one point, having obviously asked a question. I guess at it and reply “3 day card”. This is, of course, a bit of a waste as I’m only here for another day and a half – if only someone had told me that you could buy a 1 day card and then top it up….or maybe that’s what he said to me.
Anyway, my labours are complete, I now have my shiny Leap card and I grab a bus back into town to get some food and a beer.. or two. Suitably fed and watered, I head back to the hotel with aching knees and I sleep the sleep of the knackered.
Day Three
I sleep pretty well, but my knee is definitely complaining this morning. Over breakfast, I decide what to go and look at today. I decide to stick to north of the Liffey today. I have a Haunted Dublin tour booked for 20:00, so it’s going to be a long day.
Adding to my uncertainty is a message warning me that my train home from Edinburgh may be affected by the planned strike. That has now been confirmed. My worries have been dealt with though as there is a train an hour later that is still running, so I’ve transferred my ticket. I’m sure that won’t come back as a problem ….
One thing I forgot to do yesterday was to get some sun screen – and I definitely caught the sun a bit. I add that to the list of things to do.
I take the bus (using my fully active Leap card) down to Parnell Square and then walk down O’Connell Street.
There are a load of statues on the way (including Parnell and O’Connell), several stately buildings (including the General Post Office) and an insane amount of busses. They are very polite though – one actually stops to let me take a photo!
What nowhere seems to mention is this:
This is the Dublin Spire. This doesn’t really show you how tall it is – the next photo has it in the background.
What surprised me was that it’s just there. It’s not marked on the tourist map I have, it’s just there. Very odd.
I go down to meet the Liffey and then head along the north bank towards the Docklands. I head past up the Custom Houses.
I then go and re-visit the uplifting but massively depressing Famine Memorial and grab the photos that I didn’t take yesterday.
Yesterday, we got told that there is a companion sculpture in Toronto, which is by the same artist but contains less figures – to represent those that died in the crossing. Here’s a picture of it that I found on the internet.
It’s not exactly a light and fluffy place to visit, so I head back along the Liffey towards the one place that I really wanted to go to in Dublin: The National Leprechaun Museum. On the way, I see evidence that Stargate is all true and the Goa’uld have visited Dublin.
(You have to really want to see it to understand this).
I traipse back across Dublin to get to the Museum – which is closed. Damn. That’s part of my plans for the day ruined. I consider taking solace in drink and start heading towards the Jameson Distillery. But the Guinness Storehouse left a bad taste in my mouth (literally!), so I need into a coffee shop of a cappuccino, some carrot cake and a re-think.
After having been suitably revivified, I decide to head over to the South Bank and walk across to St Audoens Church, which has some very weird art in its garden, and a staircase that goes nowhere.
I head past Christ Church Cathedral and find some very odd paving stones in the pavement.
I get passed by Viking Splash Tours who drive around in a DUKW and make all the passengers wear Viking helmets (complete with historically inaccurate horns). Of course, it could just be that everyone was wearing them anyway and it’s a huge coincidence … I don’t care enough to find out.
I head towards Temple Bar and having been to several places of worship, go into another one: The Beer Temple. I sample their MacIvors Cider (this is a service I’m doing for two of my friends). I also order a small plate of spicy chicken wings, resisting the temptation to go for the insanely hot ones, and also not accepting the free offer to double the size. (It’s a thing they do on Wednesday’s for no reason that I can fathom).
The MacIvors is sweet and refreshing – definitely a summer cider, which is appropriate as I’m sat in the window in the sunshine. I look on with amusement as two American youths come in with smoothies and settle down at the bar, with a clear expectation that this is OK. They are most offended when the bar manager asked them to leave – seems perfectly reasonable to me, but not to them. FAFT! (That won’t mean anything until you read the next blog entry). The spicy chicken wings are very good. Initially I think they’re not spicy enough, but it builds and by the end of the plate, my mouth is burning. I’m VERY glad I didn’t go for the double up or the insanely hot ones.
I then head out and do what I should have done yesterday – get some sun screen. Now suitably protected, I head through Dublin Castle to Marsh’s Library. This was recommended by Laura and was apparently frequented by Bram Stoker who got some of his inspiration from the mummies in the crypt (which is unfortunately not open to the public). This is the oldest library in Ireland and only costs 5 euros … which some people complain about! The people behind me refuse to pay, but ask if they can take some pictures – they are politely but firmly asked to leave.
The library is small but is a real treat for anyone who likes books. One of the books on display (The Further Discovery of Bees) was referenced in The Nice and The Good, which I was reading at the start of the holiday. I especially like the cages at the end that were used to lock scholars in with the rarer books. I approve of this and temporarily consider re-decoration options.
I then head out and randomly explore. I’m going alongside a building that is very modern and has a load of pictures on the outside.
There are about twenty of them. What place is this? An art gallery? A museum? A university building?
Nope.
It’s a police station!
By now, I’m feeling hot, sweaty, knackered and my knee is definitely remining me that I’m nearly 60, that it is used to being rested more than used and that it needs something to keep going. I decided to take the Irish solution to the problem, and head to the pub.
As I sit there, my knees and calves are killing me. I’ve got this Haunted Dublin tour later, so I decide to head back to the hotel to rest up. While I’m there, my knee really seizes up badly and it’s clear that the walking tour is a very bad idea. I’ve managed to re-connect with an old friend who lives fairly close to my hotel, so I finish the day in another pub having a convivial pint (or two), before heading back to the hotel and settling down for a really bad nights sleep.
Artificial Constructs 