New Years...uhm 'not' Resolutions'

So as I've said here before, I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I work on the theory that if there's a part of you that needs improvement, you should just get on with it rather than waiting on some arbitrary date. Instead, I set "goals" and while I'm no better at keeping them at least the failure is spread out over the calendar year.

However, last year I went out on a limb by not only setting myself a series of goals, I posted them publicly where my (inevitable) failure to keep them would be displayed for all to see. So as 2008 grinds to a close, let's see how I did.

1. I will update The Gunsmoke Files frequently.
Yeah, that worked out well, didn't it? OK, this year I'll update it frequently, will that work?

2. I will go to the gym regularly.
Acksherly, I did go to the gym fairly regularly. Unfortunately, while "once or twice very few weeks" does qualify as "regularly", the Greek God on the inside me is still trapped by the skinny bugger on the outside. Although to be fair, I did bang myself up pretty badly towards the end of summer and that curtailed my iron-pumping for quite some time.

3. I will take more photographs.
I did carry my camera around a lot more this year than in the past, but I still need to take more photographs.

4. I will work on my drumming.
OK, this one I handled quite cleverly, by retiring from the pipe band. Ergo, no need to feel guilty about not practicing my drumming. Smart, huh?

5. I will climb a 14'er.
You know there was one day where I set off to climb a 14'er. But, I got away far too late in the morning, it took me longer to get there than I anticipated and by the time I got to the bit where the road was washed out 3 miles from the trail head, I realized there wasn't enough daylight left for me to get up and back down again in safety. I did manage a lot of fun hikes, but the highest I managed was around 13,000 feet. This goal too, is carried forward to 2009.

6. I will memorize some knots.
Hey, I actually did learn quite a few. But as I didn't have occasion to use them. I've forgotten them again. Sigh.

7. I will push on along the Colorado Trail.
Wayull, I ended up going to Britain this year and that turned out to be my 'big' vacation. Yes, I could have gone another time but something always seemed to come up. Such as the time I was all set to knock off a 33 mile segment over the course of a long weekend, and an early winter storm blew in the night before. Another one for 2009.

8. I will continue my policy of never watching a movie starring anybody who used to be on Saturday Night Live.
Woo hoo! I got one!

OK, well that was a pretty depressing exercise. You would think I could at least have managed a couple of them, but the only one for which I can claim any real success was number 8 and that involved not doing something. How crap is that?

Ah well, 2009 is a whole blank page.

Have a safe, prosperous and happy new year everybody!

A Walk in Winter

The Gunsmoke File is shamelessly repeated from January 11, 2005.

Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. My breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I have to face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.

Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave Dear Wife’s by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Older dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighborhood later in the day.

The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.

The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and cammo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.

A quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because Dear Wife isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jeweled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in exactly the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.

I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the hitch until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquility too.

I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, amplified tones sounding like the inner workings of a whale. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art work.

In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.

“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”

Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.

The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.

Every season in Colorado is my favorite, but winter is perhaps my most favorite.



This article appeared in Issue # 120 of Mountain Gazette in January, 2006.

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Recycling posts again here folks. This one is a blast from the past from December 2004 but it's sort of appropriate because I was at the Georgetown Christmas Fair yesterday, although having retired from the pipe band earlier this year, this was my first time as a tourist.

As you’ve probably heard, Christmas is coming up shortly. This was always a challenging time when we lived in Phoenix because the temperatures were generally hovering around the 80 degree mark and although the locals tended to walk round in sweaters and ski jackets while bleating about the cold, it’s difficult to get in the Christmas spirit when the air-conditioning is grinding away. Christmas is supposed to be cold and ideally, snowy. Everybody knows that. Which is yet another reason why we’re happy to be living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. There’s a very good chance it will be both.

Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.

In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.

Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.

So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?

The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.

I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.

As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.

Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”

Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.

Moving Out

They say the average length of time people last in the Rocky Mountain Foothills is 3 years. Or more precisely, 3 winters. After that the cold, and the harsh driving conditions, and the distance from the city (and basic amenities) grinds most people down and they scurry off back to the comfort of Denver. We’ve lasted 6 winters so far so yay us. That said, if I didn’t have the luxury of working from home, I think the novelty of that commute would long since have worn off and more than likely, I’d at least be day-dreaming about living nearer to the office.

However, our feat of endurance pales in comparison with that of our friends Paul & Megan. Not only have they been in the mountains for 9 years, they’ve spent those in St. Mary’s Glacier, at around 11,000 feet (3,350 meters), which for those of you keeping track, is more than 2 miles above sea-level. And it’s an area infamous for its harsh winters. Summer comes late and leaves early in St. Mary’s Glacier and Paul, who does commute to Denver every day has long been used to rising at 5am and spending an hour or more clearing snow each morning, just to get out of his driveway. Life isn’t easy up there.

I had a chance to reflect on this on Saturday morning as I turned off I-70 near Idaho Springs and began the grinding climb up into the sky. The moment I left the freeway, the sunshine I’d enjoyed since leaving home disappeared behind the clouds. Soon after, rain began to fall and before long, this turned to snow. The good news was; I was making this trip for (probably) the last time. Because Paul and Megan finally decided to call it quits and head down the hill to the relatively tropical climate of Dumont, just off I-70.

When we moved into our house, our well ran out of water while we were still unpacking. With Paul and Megan, it was the other way round. Their water went out 2 days before the move. And their phone was disconnected. Oh, and their power was cut off 3 days early as well. Did I mention how cold it is up there right now? So by the time their assorted friends and relatives rolled up to assist with the move, nerves were more than a bit frayed and things were not running to schedule. Boxes were stacked everywhere, and the U-Haul was parked in the drive, but it was clear there was a ton of work to be done.

So we opened the cooler, sank a breakfast beer and caught up on the gossip. I would have been quite happy doing this all day, but that doesn’t get the baby’s bonnet bought now does it? We all had our assigned tasks and (eventually) fell to them with a will. Beep turned out to be an expert with the moving dolly and was soon trundling back and forth with ever larger pieces of furniture. Sean had a gift for packing the truck in the most efficient manner possible. 13-year old Alhana who had somehow managed to persuade a school friend to show up and help, was given the job of emptying the fridge (rather her than me; there was some seriously scary stuff in there). 5-year old Clara wandered around looking cute and getting in the way and very pregnant Lauren kept the couch warm until we had to move it. Paul, Patrick and I traipsed back and forth with boxes and assorted bits of furniture, grunting, swearing and despite the snow, sweating all the while.

Megan? She hyper-ventilated a lot and worried about the breakable stuff.

It’s amazing how much crap you can collect over the course of 9 years. I know; we left more stuff at our Phoenix house than Megan and Paul were taking with them, and yet, the truck began to fill at an alarming rate. Cars were pressed into service for the more fragile pieces but still it came. Reluctantly (yeah, right) we agreed the piano would have to wait for another day, along with a few other bits and pieces, so finally, the truck door was rolled down.

Of course, if you’ve ever moved house you’ll know that loading the truck is but just one step. All this stuff has to come back off at the other end. The good news was, the snow stopped and the temperature rose by 10 degrees F as we drove down the hill. Bad news was, the afternoon was wearing on and it gets dark early at this time of year. Oh, and we were all just about banjoed already.

But the new house is bright and roomy and for the moment, clean, without the maze of steps, and corners, sloping floors and low ceilings that had plagued us on the way out. That’s not entirely true, there were steps and lots of them but for the most part, they were wider than the ones we’d left behind giving a bit more room for maneuver. Unfortunately, this didn’t make the furniture any lighter. And curiously, all the really heavy stuff had to go to the top floor. I haven’t sworn this much since the last time I watched Scotland play football.

Darkness fell long before we were done and the last couple of thousand trips were done by instinct and muscle memory. My poor, weedy biceps were screaming for the last hour or so and on a couple of occasions I had to put down the load, take a breath then start over. But at long last the back of the truck appeared and with it, a bottle of wine stashed there earlier. We couldn’t find the corkscrew of course, which led to a discussion of the best way to break the neck of a wine bottle without leaving shards of glass in the vino, but finally we were all parked on the couch like so many boneless chickens and toasting our friends in their new home.

I’m going to have to go back again of course. In the dark I missed a large pottery vase sitting on the passenger side floor of my car. But I don’t mind really. Paul and Megan are good friends and I always enjoy their company.

Plus, I no longer have to traipse up that bloody hill. It’s all good.

Foggy Day

These were taken 3 weeks ago, but they fit my mood today.

Full Yellow Jacket

It looks as though the hummingbirds are gone for the year. I have half a dozen feeders scattered around the property and they each draw a fair amount of attention each summer. The most active appears to be the one hanging outside my office window and I get a lot of pleasure from watching their antics while I’m supposed to be working. But, I haven’t seen any visitors for the last couple of weeks and it would appear they’re all on their way down to Mexico to hang out on the beach for the winter. When I get done here, I’ll take down the feeders, give them a good wash; and then store them away till next year.

So I wonder then, if I can take down the yellow-jacket trap. Other than a herd of wasps, which we found living in our ceiling not long after we moved in, we haven’t been too bothered by these pests. Until this year, that is. As far as I’m aware nothing changed in the sugar/water mix I make up for the hummingbird feeders, so I have no idea why the yellow-jackets appeared all of a sudden. Nor have I an explanation of why they seemed to be fixated on the feeder by my office window, but couldn’t care less about the others. If there’s a nest close by, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.

But they’re here all right, swarming by the dozens. Some days there were so many of them buzzing around that the poor hummingbirds couldn’t even get close. Now as I’ve said before, I’m an animal lover, a regular St. Francis of Assisi, that’s me. However, once a critter chooses to inflict pain on me, then all bets are off. If a shark or a mountain lion happens to be noshing on my leg, then I won’t hesitate to poke it with my Swiss Army Knife™ while yelling "I say there, do stop that!" or something similar until it’s no longer an issue. Likewise, when mosquitoes try to bleed me white, as oft they have done, then I suffer no pangs of guilt when I squish the little buggers. In fact, I’ve squished many of them in my time, but nowhere near as many as have bitten me and I’ll happily devote my life to redressing that imbalance.

I have a beautiful back yard and at this time of year, there are few pleasures to equal sitting outside with a beer, or a coffee and a book, enjoying the sound of the breeze in the pines. Everybody knows food tastes better outdoors but nobody enjoys swatting at wasps with one hand while holding a fork in the other. And nobody enjoys being stung by the little buggers either; at least I don’t. The wasps we have over here in the Yooessuvay aren’t quite as vicious as their European cousins, but I’ve long been allergic to pain and have no desire to experience it unless absolutely necessary.

So, a yellow-jacket trap was required. Sure, you can go to the hardware store and purchase a pre-made plastic cage contraption, with a cotton swab to be soaked in wasp bait and a special removable base for hygienic disposal of the carcasses. But not only are they ridiculously expensive for what they are, they don’t work. I know, I’ve tried them. So, Backwoodsman Frontier Guy that I am; I made my own.

Yeah, yeah I know…you’ve read the Gunsmoke Files before and know that Mr. Fixit here can’t make anything more complicated than a sandwich without hurting himself but wasp traps are so simple, even I can do it. Here’s the procedure, write this down.

1. Take a clean empty jar, such as might have been used for pickles or jam or something.
2. Whack a hole in the lid with a nail, and be sure to leave the inside lip rough and raggedy. Use pliers to exaggerate this if necessary.
3. Half fill the jar with a mixture of water and dissolved sugar.
4. Put the jar where the wasps will find it.

People tell me you shouldn’t set it near a picnic table or where kids might play or any place to which you don’t wish to attract wasps, but in my experience, that’s where the wasps will be whether you wish it or not so you might as well put the trap there. Apparently, the trick is to set the trap early in the year, capture the queen and then it’s checkmate in no-time. I didn’t do that because they didn’t show up until mid-August, but I’ll be ready for next year.

The first day saw an impressive haul of 23 yellow-jackets. The day after, another 18. If I keep this up, I thought, I’ll clear out the whole neighborhood pretty soon. 3 weeks on, and I think I’ve played a major part in driving the species to extinction. 178 so far, with another 8 or 9 floating in the jar as I speak. Who knows how many I would have caught if I’d placed multiple traps around the yard, but this all from one 12oz pickle jar hanging outside my window. Certainly, the novelty of cleaning it out has long since worn off, but still they come.

Maybe once I take down the hummingbird feeders, the wasps will sod off too. Or maybe the won’t. Either way, I can sleep soundly knowing I’ve done my bit to stop them harassing the hummingbirds. My wasp corpse collection is testament to that.

Now, does anyone know a taxidermist that specializes in small animals?

Spare Ribs

Six weeks should be enough, right? I mean, my ribs aren’t broken or anything. They aren’t even bruised. So surely by now, six weeks after I rode my bike through that bush, I should be able to pick up something heavier than a beer bottle without grimacing in pain.

Apparently not.

It didn’t even seem that bad a wipe-out when it happened. I was at the back of the pack (as usual) while we hurtled along a narrow, fast and windy, but not particularly steep downhill stretch. The adrenaline was pumping, the trees were whizzing by and I was experiencing the exhilaration that comes with riding at the very limit of ones abilities. A couple of quick pedal strokes to keep up the momentum and my left foot caught on something by the trail side. A rock, a root, maybe just the slope of the ground, who knows. Either way, it was enough to bounce me a foot to the right, off the trail and straight for that damn bush.

On hindsight, this was probably the best place on the whole ride to stage a crash. Pretty much, anywhere else and I would have gone straight into a tree, or a rock, or over the edge of steep drop to who knows where. So on balance, I was happy it was a bush although it didn’t seem all that positive at the time. I went through it, over it and down the far side of it with a wallop that knocked the wind right out of me.

It didn’t take long to establish I hadn’t done any major harm to myself and in moments I was addressing the real concern – my bike. I’ll heal eventually, but bike parts are expensive. Not to worry though, my bike too appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed and apart from a rather dramatic scar along her chain stay, was ready to ride before I was.

I was still sucking air when the others came back up the trail to see what was keeping me. No worries though, and while the ache in my ribs foretold discomfort ahead, for a dramatic prang like this one, I’d got away fairly light. Take it easy for a few days, maybe pop a painkiller or two in the morning, and I’ll see you next week lads.

Except as I said, that was six weeks ago and other than a few tentative cruises along dirt roads, I haven’t been out on my bike since. I’m no longer vacuuming down the ibuprofen like I was in the beginning and some days I don’t need to take anything at all. But if I didn’t sleep well, or if I’ve done anything even remotely physical with my upper body, I’m reaching for the little magic bottle like any regular street junkie.

But what really ticks me off is that I worked bloody hard this year to get into a state of passable fitness. Sure I was blowing hard on the uphills, and on the bigger ones I still had to stop to catch my breath before continuing. But at least this summer I was making it to the top eventually. Now as a result of this layoff, my leg muscles have reverted to their pre-summer, Wonderbread-like consistency and as there are only so many more weeks of snow free riding left before next winter kicks in, I’m not sure how much more saddle-time I’ll be able to get in.

The 2012 London Olympics are only 4 years away, right around my 50th birthday so if I’m going to give fellow Scot, Chris Hoy, a race worth remembering, I’ll need to get some training in.

So if anybody knows a way to make bruised ribs heal more quickly, please let me know.

Carry on Camping - Part 1

One of the things which struck me most about marriage was how long it took to pack for a camping trip. Back in my single days I could throw everything I needed into a backpack and be on my way in 10-15 minutes. Drop a wife into the mix and it now takes me that long to carry the things to the front door. I pack only the things I can't possibly do without. Dear Wife packs everything we might conceivably find a use for.

Pete has not only a (charming) wife, Mary, but two kids as well and as I was tagging along on this trip, making everything fit into his truck was something of a Chinese Puzzle. Bikes, a canoe, food and bag after bag after bag - it took a fair bit of head scratching and ingenuity, but somehow we managed it and by late morning we were on our way.

I haven't been to Coniston in many years, although once upon a time I spent every summer weekend here, windsurfing. By that I mean, sitting on the beach, drinking beer and gossiping, and every now and then claiming I would go out "once the wind picked up a bit." It's still as breathtakingly pretty as ever though and the homesickness emotions were on overdrive.

I generally make a point to avoid public campsites, particularly on holiday weekends, and it was with a little apprehension that I noticed just how crowded this one was. There was very little room between the tents and as every group seemed to have a dozen or more kids, I was wondering how I was going to cope with 3 days of this. But you know what? It was great. Everyone was incredibly friendly and as we were meeting up with a group whom Pete & Mary have camped with before; there was a wonderfully social atmosphere.


Putting up the family's trailer tent was an exercise in ingenuity, but I'm sleeping in Pete's (very) old hike tent, which was up in moments. Windbreaks were hammered into the ground, bikes, canoes and other assorted toys were unloaded from the truck and the whole thing brought back long lost memories of caravan trips back in my own childhood. And surprisingly positive memories too. The plastic plates, the wind blowing everything off the table, the hike to the spigot at the far end of the campsite to fetch water…ah, happy days.

Pete had only just bought his canoe and it had yet to take its maiden voyage so I was press-ganged into service as front paddler. Despite the sunshine, the wind was truly ferocious and even with two little boys and a dog in the bottom for ballast, it was hard going. Every few minutes the bow (for all you landlubbers, that's the front) would start to swing, then the wind would catch it and push it further around while Pete and I dug frantically into the water in attempt to pull her back on course. I don't know about the captain, but the first mate was knackered.

Finally, we hove to at the snack bar and treated ourselves to an ice cream to stave off scurvy. Should be OK on the way back we thought, the wind will be behind us. Wrong again, it was just as hard paddling this way because now it was the stern (back end) that wanted to pull round sideways. We learned later that we'd been doing it all wrong of course, but hey, where's the fun of being intrepid explorers if you aren't figuring this stuff out for yourself.

Open fires weren't allowed on the campsite, but Pete the engineer had crafted an enclosed brazier type thing out of the drum from an old washing machine. With its tripod legs, it had room for plenty of wood and gave off a surprising amount of heat. It seemed like the entire campsite was congregated around it, but as everyone was sharing food, and beer, it was one heckuva party.

The last time I slept in a tent on a public campground, I was kept awake by deafening country music and the sounds of rednecks partying. Given how crowded this campsite was, I wasn't sure how loud it would be tonight. But refreshingly, by 10 pm or so, the place was blissfully peaceful and soon, I was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Although being half-sozzled by the time I crawled into my sleeping bag no doubt helped.

Striding Edge

Hellvellyn isn’t a lofty peak. At 3,117 feet (950 meters) above sea level, it isn’t even the highest in the English Lakes. When I walk up my stairs at home, I’m climbing to a height almost three times as high and Mt. Evans, visible from my back yard and topping out at 14,240 feet (4,340 meters) positively dwarfs it.

So you get the point, it’s not exactly Everest we’re talking about here. Then what brings hikers to Hellvellyn by the thousand, every single year? That would be the view from the top. Located as it is, on the eastern side of the breathtakingly pretty corner of England that is the Lake District, the summit vista looks out across the smaller hills, over the lake known as Ullswater (itself no slouch in the prettiness stakes), and out to the plains of Yorkshire. On the "Wow!" factor, it’s way up there.

Every few years the British summer weather cooperates enough to provide a clear night sky on Midsummer’s Eve and scores of people trek to the top in order to enjoy the (very) early morning sunrise. I did it three times in my life; once as a kid with my parents, the second two fueled by a gallon or so of Guinness from the pub prior to setting out. The sunrise turns the mountains from black to purple, while Ullswater glints like a pool of mercury in the foreground. Each time it was magical and if the person, who has the photographs I took the last time, and subsequently lost, is reading this, I’d very much like them back.

Back when I lived in the Lakes, I covered many, although not all of the peaks. In addition to the night-time jaunts, I tackled Hellvellyn several times during daylight hours and enjoyed each one but one thing I never attempted, was the route known as “Striding Edge”. So when Steve suggested it during my visit, I jumped at the chance. Graeme decided to tag along too and as the three of us spent a good chunk of our formative years in each others’ company; it was just like old times.

Striding Edge didn’t get its name because one can "stride" along it. One would be very ill advised to do so, even if one were physically capable, which one is almost certainly not. No, the term "Striding" in this sense, means "To Stand Astride". In other words, you can put one foot on each side of the knife-edge ridge. What makes Striding Edge different from other ridgeline paths is not only is it a very rocky scramble, but that if you were to stand upon it, and take a good look around, you would see nothing but fresh air.

The ground sweeps away dramatically on both sides and as the path itself is something of a hand over hand scramble, this is not a good hike for a windy day, or for someone afraid of heights, or open spaces, or anyone with balance issues. Nonetheless, each year several nutmegs give it a go and the mountain rescue teams are used to scraping people off the rocks below.

It wasn’t at all windy when we set off from the town of Glenridding, around mid-morning. The day was warm and a shade muggy, which made me feel ever so glad I’d accidentally left my shorts up in Scotland ad was tackling the hike in jeans. I was also a shade concerned at how hard I was blowing during the early stages. What’s all this about living at altitude and reaping the benefits when descending to lower elevation? I consoled myself with the thought that I had got pretty hammered while watching the European Championship (real football) in the pub the night before and that once I sweated the stale beer out of my pores, all would be well.

And indeed it was. By the time we’d stopped for the first bite of our packed lunches and had admired the view for the umpteenth time, I was raring to go. Striding Edge doesn’t arrive until you’re tantalizingly close to the top and when you see it for the first time, it’s with a "Crap, is that where we’re going?" feeling.

"Scary is good" said Steve as a rejoinder to Graeme’s and my whining, uhm astute observations. And that’s true enough – in the right circumstances. On a roller coaster perhaps, or during a horror movie. I just didn’t happen to think that balanced on a rock with nothing but hundreds of feet down on either side was not the right circumstances and each time my sweaty jeans clung to my leg and prevented me from gaining the inch or so I needed to complete the step onto the next rock, I had reason to reflect on this.

Steve on the other hand, was more concerned about his wee dog, scampering along excitedly on the end of its lead. "My wife doesn’t care about me" he explained, "But if I lose the dog, I might as well not go home." Graeme was something of a concern too, being considerably older than Steve and I. (Almost a year older than me and several weeks ahead of Steve) but the decrepit old codger seemed to be doing OK.

It didn’t help that we got stuck in a traffic jam of sorts, behind two ladies who really had no business being up there in the first place. While it was sensible tactics to consider foot placement in advance of each step, this pair were deliberating to a level that would make a Bedouin camel trader weep. I’m not known for my patience at the best of times and I’d already considered a hundred ways to "accidentally" push them down one side or the other but, aware that the two guys watching from up ahead were not only with them, but both bigger than me, I chose not to. See me? See karma points?

Finally, we were able to wiggle past them and in a surprisingly short time were standing atop the summit. A couple of dozen other people were up here already but as most of them had come up the easy way from the west side (hah!), they were of no concern to us. It was cool up here, causing sweatshirts and woolly pullys to be removed from the daypacks and we had to find some shelter from the wind before finishing lunch. And the haze in the valleys meant the view wasn’t quite as crisp as we’d hoped. But it was still pretty darn good for all that.

By the time Midsummer's Eve rolled around this year, I was firmly ensconced back in the States. Views to the east of here look out over the city, and rather than the plains of Yorkshire in the distance, we have the prairie stretching all the way to the Great Lakes, a thousand miles away. I didn't climb a hilltop this year but I did spend some time reflecting on my previous night hikes up Hellvellyn. I wonder if I'll ever do that again.

One thing's for sure though - if I do climb it in the dark, it won't be up Striding Edge.

You can't go home again - Part 2

So the last couple of Gunsmoke Files dealt with my visits to Bannockburn and Stirling Castle, which both happen to be just down the road from my birthplace of Larbert. What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? Why, it’s famous for uhm...well remember in the Laurel and Hardy films...remember the angry guy with the black moustache that was always on the wrong end of their mischief? Well, he was from there.

Although Larbert isn’t my home town in any real sense of the word. The people who claim to be my parents spirited me away at the tender age of two and transported me over the border to England where I grew up (in the loosest sense of the word) in a little town called Kendal, population 26,000 or so.

I haven’t been back in 8 years and even then it was just a quick visit, so I was looking forward to wandering about and seeing just how much the old place had changed. I was kipping with my friend Steve and his family, but he wouldn’t be home from work for some time so after dropping off my bag, I set out on a wander. Steve’s house sits at the base of Castle Hill, which has some of the best views of the town. Yeah I know, another castle, but don’t worry - this one won’t take long.

It’s a ruin, you see, and has been for some time. The family of Queen Katherine Parr once owned this place and as I’m sure you know, she was the 6th wife of King Henry the 8th and the only one to out live the syphilitic old git. I doubt they’d recognize the place now; it being little more than some tumbledown walls but it’s been cleaned up a lot since I last visited and these days it has plaques and signs all over the place telling you exactly what used to be there. From this I learned that our childhood guesses were apparently way off the mark. What we decided were the stables were in fact the kitchen, the dungeon was merely a storeroom and so on.

The view duly admired from all angles, I took myself down the far side of the hill and into the town proper. And yes, the place had changed. But not quite as much as I was expecting it to have. Yes, the one-way traffic flow had been re-routed so now cars were hurtling at me from the left where I was expecting them to come at me from the right. And there were buildings where empty spaces used to be. But mostly it looked much the same, albeit much sunnier than it ever was when I lived there.

I had a lot of fun trying to remember what used to be in a specific location but was oddly surprised to see certain shops still looking exactly the same. Interestingly it seemed to be the crappy places, charity stores and amusement arcades that had survived, most of the upscale shops had changed. My favorite bookstore for example, had returned to the location it had occupied when I was a child, having moved back from the one it had occupied when I was an adult. Who says you can’t go home again?

In a town of 26,000 people, you get to know a lot of folk, especially if like me, you work with the public. And also when you invest most of your time, money and energy into cultivating an active social life, (OK, by “active social life”, I mean I went out drinking every night, but then you knew that) you tend to become something of a familiar face. So it was entertaining in a mildly frustrating way to walk past someone and find myself wondering “OK, who the heck was that; where do I know them from?” Sometimes I would steal a look over my shoulder to see if I could better identify them and would catch them doing the same thing; obviously trying to recall who the heck I was.

I wasn’t always sure if I actually knew the person, or if I was just used to seeing them around. Occasionally I would be confident enough to exchange the traditional north of England greeting ("Hiya, y’areet?") but even then, I rarely managed to put a name to the face although sometimes I would figure it out a little later along the street. On one notable occasion I realized that the woman at whom I had stared quizzically a little earlier was in fact Mary, wife of Pete, the friends with whom I was going camping in a couple of days. Never the stranger to social awkwardness, me.

Even the jewelry store where I used to work had changed, having expanded into the space next door. I’d been told about this, but it still seemed a little odd to see it. Some of my co-workers were still there though, even though it’s now 17 years since I sold my last bauble. So, I stayed for a while, distracting them from their labors while they brought me up to speed on the local gossip.

I’d called in with the intent of dragging my friend Graeme out to the pub, but somewhat predictably, he wasn’t around. He’s the boss and in true management fashion was off taking care of personal errands while the staff did all the work.

It’s good to know some things never change.

Stirling Castle

The visit to Bannockburn concluded; it was on then to Stirling Castle, one of the largest and historically most important castles in Britain. Its strategic location, guarding the crossing of the River Forth, and therefore, to all intents and purposes, the highlands of Scotland, made it an important fortification from the earliest times. Surrounded on three sides by steep volcanic cliffs, it commands a strong defensive position.

Even today, getting in proved harder than one might expect, although that was mainly due to my Mum and I being unable to grasp the concept of a ticket counter and trying very hard to purchase our admission in the gift shop. To be fair, the ticket counter was clearly and obviously marked with a large sign saying "Ticket Counter" but that hardly makes it our fault that we walked right past it (twice).

Somewhat exhausted with the effort of getting in, we retired to the café for a quick Irn Bru and a natter, before agreeing to explore at our own speed and meet up a little later to swap notes.


You can't help but feel the history in a place like Stirling Castle. Overrun with camera wielding tourists it may be, (I don't include myself in that category of course, I'm a seasoned travel writer, merely documenting evidence for my loyal readers), every building, every wall, every walkway, simply exudes the whispers of its past. Most of the principal buildings of the Castle date from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, although a few structures of the fourteenth century remain. The outer defenses, the ones fronting the town date from the early eighteenth century.

In addition to that of Edward Longshanks (Braveheart reference again, dang I hated that movie) in the 13th century, there have been several sieges of Stirling Castle, the last being in 1746, when Charles Edward Stuart, "Bonnie Prince Charlie", and his Jacobite force tried unsuccessfully to take the castle. However, from 1800 until 1964 the Castle was owned by the British Army and run as a barracks.


The army made many alterations to the castle, including the Great Hall, which became an accommodation block; the Chapel Royal, which became a lecture theatre and dining hall; the King's Old Building, which became an infirmary; and the Royal Palace, which became the Officer's Mess. Efforts to restore all these buildings to their original state are still ongoing, and evidence of this work was all around.

A group called Historic Scotland run the place today and they had provided a series of helpful signs, recordings and videos to explain exactly what you're observing at any given time. Although I have to say, fascinating though the buildings were, it was the views from the walls that fascinated me.

High atop its volcanic crag, the castle commands an imposing view over the vale of Stirling, the last really flat portion of Scotland before the highlands begin and by strolling around the walls, one is able to observe a huge area of central Scotland. There was a time when Stirling Bridge was the only passage across the river forth and therefore, whoever controlled Stirling Castle, controlled Scotland - hence the numerous sieges. In fact, one of the most famous battles of the Scottish Wars of Independence took place here in 1297.

Wallace was the high heid yin this time, with help from Andrew de Moray and their combined forces were deployed in a commanding position dominating the soft, flat ground to the north of the river. The small bridge at Stirling was only broad enough to allow two horsemen to cross abreast so the Scots waited as the English knights and infantry made their slow progress across the bridge on the morning of 11 September. Wallace and Moray had held back earlier in the day when many of the English and Welsh archers had crossed, (only to be recalled because their leader, the Earl of Surrey had overslept) and now waited, until the vanguard, comprising around 5,400 English and Welsh infantry and several hundred cavalry had crossed the Bridge. Only then did they order the attack.

The Scots spearmen came down from the high ground in rapid advance towards Stirling Bridge, quickly seizing control of the English bridgehead. Surrey's vanguard was now cut off from the rest of the army. The heavy cavalry to the north of the river was trapped and cut to pieces, their comrades to the south powerless to help. With no escape route available, losses among the English forces were enormous, with many plunging into the river where the weight of their armor meant an inevitable death by drowning.

Surrey, who still had a formidable contingent of archers, had remained to the south of the river and was still in a strong position. The bulk of his army still remained intact and he could have held the line of the Forth, denying the triumphant Scots a passage to the south. But his confidence was gone. Surrey ordered the bridge's destruction and retreated, leaving the garrison at Stirling Castle isolated and abandoning the Lowlands to the rebels.

Of course, it hasn't been all doom, gloom and bloodshed at Stirling Castle. It's been the site for the coronations of multiple Scottish Kings and Queens, including Mary, Queen of Scots. And it's been home to many of them. The Great Hall was the largest secular building in Europe at the time it was built and it contains some of the finest architecture of its period.


And here, on a warm, sunny, 21st century day, it's hard to look at these neatly tended fields and truly imagine the carnage that took place all those years ago. It's also hard to imagine how cold, drafty and grindingly touch life in a castle must have been, especially for the serving classes. I suspect there were no helpful sign posts back in the day, or be-tartaned staff cheerfully directing visitors around the castle. I don't imagine there were neatly tended lawns, or central heating, or comfortably furnished rooms back then either.

But still, to stand on these battlement walls and look down over this huge area of central Scotland, and know that you controlled the whole lot and then some, then it must have been pretty good to call Stirling Castle home.

Doon by Stirling Brig,
The Wallace lay a-hiding,
As the English host,
Frae the sooth cam riding,
Lood the River Forth,
Atween them baith was roaring,
Nerra were the sides,
O' the Brig o' Stirling.

Watching frae the the wid,
Wallace and the Moray,
As the English cam,
Wi' the Earl o' Surrey,
Ane by ane they crossed,
As the bridge was birlin,
Still they onward cam,
Ower the Brig o' Stirling.

Wallace gied a shout,
Oot his men cam rinning,
Stopped the English host,
On the Brig o' Stirling,
Cressingham turned roon,
The Brig was sma' for turning,
Moray cut him doon,
On the Brig o' Stirling.

A' the English men,
Ran intil each other,
Nane could turn aboot,
Nane could gae much further,
Some fell ower the side,
An' in the Forth were drowning,
Some were left to die,
On the Brig o' Stirling

Surrey he was wild,
Couldnae ford the river,
Wished wi' a' his micht,
That the Brig was bigger,
Then he rade awa',
Lood the man was cursing,
Wallace and his men,
And the Brig 0' Stirling.

Bannockburn

Two castles in two days - are we a cultured bunch or what? Today, we're off to Stirling Castle and while yesterday's trip to Culzean makes one think of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen disembarking from carriages rolling up the driveway, Stirling conjures up images of medieval warriors knocking lumps out of one another with swords and maces.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first stop of the day was Bannockburn, site of the battle of. This, as I'm sure you know, was a pivotal battle in the wars between England and Scotland and took place in 1314, when Edward came north with some 2,000 horse and 16,000 foot soldiers. The stated intent was to relieve Stirling Castle, just down the road and currently under siege but in reality, he wanted to knock the rhubarb out of the Scottish army in the field, and thus, end the war. Of course, it didn't turn out like that.

Despite his wimpy portrayal in Braveheart (which for the record, is not a documentary), Robert de Brus was one hard bastard and a brilliant military tactician. His army numbered only around 9,000 but they were in place long before the English arrived. Brus peppered both sides of the approach road with small pits, three feet deep and covered with brush, which forced the enemy to take the route he wanted, away from solid ground and onto a wet, boggy area called the Carse.

Legend has it that one of the English commanders, one Henry de Bohun, saw Brus mounted on a small horse, without armor and armed only with a battle-axe. Bohun lowered his lance and charged his war-horse into history. For Brus, totally unfazed, merely stood on his stirrups, and beaned him with the axe, splitting not only Bohun's helmet, but his head in two. Cheered by the heroism of their leader, Brus' troops rushed forward to engage the main enemy force.

The battle raged for two days, but Brus' tactics, plus his command of the strong ground made the Englishmen's task almost impossible. Time and again the mobile Scottish spearmen were able to withstand the attacks of the more cumbersome English horsemen. The very size and strength of the English army was working against them. It took time to move the forces into position and the Scots were picking them off almost at will.

By the time Brus committed his entire army to an inexorable, bloody push, the English host was a disorganized mass and by mid-morning on the second day, Edward's army had been thoroughly routed. Out of the 16,000 infantrymen, only around 5,000 are believed to have survived, while the Scots losses were almost negligible. Full English recognition of Scots independence didn't happen for another ten years, but Robert de Brus' position as king were cemented by the events at Bannockburn.

The National Trust's visitor center was pleasant enough, with dioramas and wall mounted accounts of the battle. But the experience was marred by the inevitable hord of ill-behaved school children yelling and screaming while their teachers beamed indulgently. That said, I did get a kick out of hearing one of them explaining to the oblivious weans how William Wallace had led the Scots into battle here, "Remember...you saw it in Braveheart?". This would have a feat worthy of Hollywood indeed, considering Wallace was executed some 9 years before the battle took place. Even Mel Gibson didn't distort history quite as much as this alleged teacher.



I escaped into the sunshine, hoping that by standing beside the ugly, modern abstract monument, a few hundred yards away, I might feel a connection to the ghosts of the past, to my ancestors who fought for liberty all those centuries ago. But I can't say that I did. It's certainly a beautiful location for a battle, with rolling green hills sweeping down to the new houses in the distance. But there was no mystical, intangible presence to the place, no sense of the history that took place here. It was just a pretty field.

It wasn't until I was home again, and checking the accuracy of my notes that I learned why that might be. Apparently, there is some dispute amongst historians as to where the actual battle took place. Nobody really knows, but one thing about which they're in almost unanimous agreement is, it wasn't here. Maybe a couple of miles over a bit.

Ah well, Mel Gibson didn't get it right either.

Culzean Castle

Culzean Castle (pronounced cull-ANE) sits atop a cliff on the west coast of Scotland and was built in stages between 1777 and 1792, mostly by the architect Robert Adams. In 1945, the castle's owners gave the castle and its grounds to the National Trust for Scotland (thus avoiding inheritance tax), but in doing so, stipulated that the apartment at the top of the castle be given to General Dwight Eisenhower in recognition of his role as Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe during the Second World War.

He stayed there several times and I could see why. Not only is it down the road from a number of the world's most famous golf courses, it's also an impressive structure with breathtaking views up and down the coast. I'm no golfer of course, but I do like a good view and could happily have stared out of any of the windows for several hours.



However, impressive though the house was, it was the grounds that had me captivated. In times gone by, country people believed that woods contained spirits, and magical forests have been a staple of folk tales since time began. Walking through the woods surrounding Culzean Castle, it was easy to see why.

Not that it was claustrophobic, or threatening in any way; despite being lush and overgrown, the trees had a soft, friendly quality to them. For me, it was just the amount of character the trees had. Each seemed to have their own personality, and features completely different from all the rest. I love pine trees but after a while, one does start to look a bit like another. Here on the other hand, was a veritable smorgasbord of variety, with shades of green too numerous to count. Bluebells were everywhere and the aroma of wild garlic hung in the air.



My sister, the bossy one, is the leader of a Guide (Girl Scout) troop and my 12-year old niece Jenny is one of her pack members. They'd only just got back from a weekend's camp here, and have been here many times before that, but love the place so much they were happy to show us round. Jenny knows the castle better than some of the docents and even has an "in" with the resident ghost; a young boy who occasionally visits his old bedroom. She can't see him, but says she can tell when he's there. Each of the rooms is carefully climate controlled to protect the antiques and apparently his room is always 1 degree cooler than the rest of the house. Apparently he was there when we visited so we each gave him a polite "hello" and continued on our way.

One of the docents actually suggested Jenny get a job at the castle. Not as a guide, although she'd be good at it, but as a serving maid. She explained how this was a comparatively cushy number in that she would have a bed to herself and lots of good food. That all sounded appealing enough but once she learned she would need to get up early each morning, Jenny decided to pursue other opportunities. Smart choice; go with your strengths, that's what I say.



We tried to get my nephew Christopher hired on as a trainee-footman. At eleven, he's the right age. Unfortunately, we couldn't get him to make a decision as to whether or not he was going to grow tall - apparently tall is good when it comes to footmen and if you happen to have an identical twin, you can rake in the big bucks. (Butlers like symmetry.) But, Chris didn't grow by any visible amount while we were there so it looks like he'll have to stay in school for the time being too.

Tour finished, we headed back out into the sunshine and another stroll through those fascinating woods. Jenny plans to get married here one day (she has a shortlist of locations, but no potential husbands as yet) and I can't say I blame her. The place has a magical quality to which the photos don't do justice. What a fabulous place.



I came home from Britain with a £5 note in my wallet, issued by the Royal Bank of Scotland. It wasn't until I'd been back from my vacation for a week or two, that I pulled it out to show someone. And there on the back, to my surprise, was an engraved picture of Culzean Castle. I guess somebody else must like the place too.




If you're interested, more photos can be found by clicking
here:

You Can't Go Home Again - Part 1

In his posthumously published novel, Thomas Wolfe tells us "You can't go home again." Poppycock, if you ask me. All you need is the fare to get there and a phone call to let them know you're on your way and to can they make sure they have some beer in.


Of course, what he really meant was that once you've been away for any length of time, not only will you find the people you left behind have changed; you'll realize that so have you. The place itself will evolve physically too - perhaps not in a manner that's noticeable to those watching it happen, but anyone who hasn't visited for a while, will see a dramatic difference. Shops that will have changed hands, traffic flows that will have altered, buildings where there were none before, home will no longer be "home".

The first few times I returned to Britain after immigrating to the USA, it really was with a sense of "coming home". Back to the comfortable, the familiar, the known. Which was why it was something of a shock on my last trip, four years ago, to discover for the first time that the place felt...foreign. The driving on the wrong side of the road, the accents, the stuff in the shops, and the buildings, all looked strange. The money was unfamiliar, the telephone system was incomprehensible and as for the expressions the people used...they were just weird.

Interestingly, I didn't experience that emotion at all this time round, even though I was visiting places I haven't seen in some cases, for over a decade. I was on the other hand, struck by how much closer everything was. After fifteen years of the wide open spaces in the American west, and six living in the Rocky Mountains with my twenty-mile drive to the nearest supermarket, ten to the nearest pub, and five to the nearest takeaway food, I'd forgotten just how easy it is to walk to almost anywhere you want to go.


I'd set out for an explore, thinking it would take me the afternoon, and realize to my surprise that I was at my destination within a few minutes. One day I had to carry a heavy bag from the railway station to my friend Steve's house. It was a warm day and the bag seemed to weigh a ton, but I was still debating whether to go back and wait for the bus, when I realized I was 3/4 of the way there.

Every American journalist visiting Scotland for the British Open (they rarely report anything else that goes on there unless it involves football hooligans) reaches into his Bumper Book of Clichés and talks about the weather, the funny money, the ingredients of haggis and the tiny cars.


But the thing is; the cars are tiny! Much smaller than when I lived there. Gas prices that would make an American driver weep have encouraged the British to purchase smaller and smaller cars to the point where many of them now drive vehicles that would fit in the trunk of the average American behemoth. Within moments of leaving the airport we came upon a roundabout (traffic circle) and I had to try not to flinch as all these miniature cars came flying towards us from all angles. And the roads are narrow too. Far narrower than I'm used to.

One time my sister was driving me along a road that was about the same width as the one that takes me from the highway to my house. Mine has a 35 mph speed limit, which the polis enforce rigidly. I'm not sure how they ever manage to write anyone a ticket however, because most of the time, we all creep along at 20-25 mph behind some lamebrain who no doubt wonders why everyone else is in such a hurry. Except here was my sister hurtling along at 55-60 mph, while I tried not to scream in terror.


My parents live in a small town called Largs, on the west coast of Scotland, south of Glasgow. They didn't move there until after they'd kicked me out of the nest so in a sense, I wasn't really returning home at all. But my experience last time round not withstanding, it certainly felt like it. Even though I've only stayed in that house as a visitor, it has a very welcoming, homely feel to it. From the mince and tatties at tea time, to the endless cups of milky tea, to my Dad complaining about the money the local council was spending, and my Mum nagging me to take a nap even though I'd told her I would recover from my jet-lag much quicker if I just stayed awake until bed time (about a hundred times), now that was familiar.



Everyone had a good laugh at my hybrid Anglo-American accent (several good laughs, actually), and my tie-dyed shirt, and my lack of vacation time, and got a lot of mileage out of the slang I use ("goofing off" was a particular favorite) but you know what? I loved every minute of it. I miss my family, I miss my friends and I miss the social network they still have.

Yes, I love Colorado, and am perfectly happy with my decision to become a US Citizen a couple of years ago. But it's fairly clear that no matter how long I live here, visiting Britain will always mean going home.

So Thomas Wolfe? You don't know what you're talking about.

Magic Time

I am not, and never will be, a morning person. There is a special place in hell for those freaks that get up in the middle of the night and have a million things accomplished before normal people have cracked an eyelid. An ever more special place for those sickos who are cheerful while they’re doing it.*

The words "bright" and "early" make no sense when paired together and if it wasn’t for the gift that is coffee, I doubt I would make it upright until at least lunchtime and pay check be damned. As I used to argue with my early-bird boss many years ago, "I’ll bet I had a lot more fun in the hours between 12 and 2 last night than you did in the hours between 5 and 7 this morning."

You get the picture? I don’t like mornings.

However…as some of you may know, I recently made a pilgrimage back to my homeland to see the folks, catch up with some old friends and pig out on fish and chips and Irn Bru. I had a fabulous time, thanks for asking (details will follow shortly, for anyone interested) and am feeling more than a little homesick now that I’m back in Colorado. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but my house in the mountains lacks certain simple comforts. A decent pub or twelve within walking distance for example.

Now I don’t normally suffer from jet lag. If I can simply force myself to stay awake until bed time, no matter how long that is since I got up, then I usually sleep like a log and am back on track by the next day. But this time around my aged body is taking a little longer to adjust than I’m used to, and I’ve been waking at around 4:30 each morning.

I’m still young enough to remember when that was a time for going to bed, not getting up but nonetheless, getting back to sleep before the alarm goes off has proven to be impossible so instead, I’ve found myself up and about and I have to say, enjoying the early mornings.

There’s a stillness to the air that can’t be found later in the day. Hardly any cars, no neighbors out working on their weekend projects, with loud music playing and power tools a-buzzing. Not only do I have the house to myself, I’ve pretty much got the whole darn neighborhood.

The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™ is up for a walk pretty much any time, day or night so it’s taken little persuasion to get her to join me for a brisk few miles round the neighborhood. Despite us being well into June, the mountains are still capped with snow, which makes them even more spectacular when the sun turns them blazing red. There are a few cars on the road, but far less than when we usually walk after work.

And coffee, my lifeblood, nectar of the Dogs, tastes even more wonderful when sipped out of doors, with a good book and the company of the birds, and deer and rabbits. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but even once my body has adjusted to Mountain Standard Time, I might even start setting the alarm a couple of hours earlier than usual, just so I can get up early and spend a couple of hours quality time with myself before reading my first e-mail of the day.

Mind you, if and when I do, it turns out to be a cold, wet morning. Well, then I reserve the right to pull the covers over my head, roll over with a big, fat smile on my face, and go back to sleep.

Just like any normal person.


* Or if there isn’t there bloody well ought to be.

The Gambler

I received an invitation to a Kentucky Derby Party this morning. It's an annual event and being something of a social butterfly, I'm used to being in demand. What was a little odd though, was that my company's e-mail blocker refused to let me view it.

I'm not sure which of the forbidden subjects a Kentucky Derby Party would fall under, but as pornography, violence and weapons haven't been a feature of the previous shindigs, I suspect it must have been 'gambling'. Which is a little comical because you see, I hold the official title of the world's worst gambler.

It matters not one whit whether it's a game of chance or skill, the roll of the dice or a study of form, I'm hopeless at it. Uncannily hopeless in fact. Hopeless to the point where other gamblers pay attention to what I do, so they can do the exact opposite and rake in the bucks.

It's not as if I win a little, but lose overall. No, I lose every...single...time. Most other people can happily play the slot machines for hours, sometimes coming away a few dollars up, sometimes a few dollars down, but usually happy with the pleasure they've obtained in exchange for the money they've spent. But me? I might as well just hand over my wallet to the casino owner the moment I walk in and be done with it.

Years ago, my mates and I used to make a bi-annual pilgrimage to the race course at Cartmel. Despite the meetings being held on public holidays, the weather was invariably sunny and warm, while the northern England country setting was impossibly idyllic. Best of all though, the pubs were open all day, which given the archaic licensing laws at the time, was a rare treat. A good day out was invariably guaranteed, but when it came to betting on the races, forget it. The pedigree of the horse was irrelevant. The skill and fame of the jockey mattered not. If I placed a bet, they came last and that was that.

In later years the jockeys used to sit around in the weighing room waiting to see which one of them was to receive my favor. If they learned I'd bet on them, they didn't bother to get changed, they just went home.

My first time in Vegas, that Mecca for the gambling fraternity, I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a wee flutter. I was a backpacker at the time though, and every penny counted, so I was pleased to pick up a leaflet that entitled me to $50 worth of free gambling. Free! The word which brings light into any backpacker's heart. This was my kind of gambling.

The deal was you got one pull of a slot machine, one spin on the wheel of fortune, one throw at the craps table and so on, about 10 different chances to win. The catch was, this had to be spread out over 5 hours or so and I suppose the expectation was that you would play with (and lose) your own money while awaiting your next chance to play for free. Not me though; I'm way too smart (and cheap) for that. No, I played my one roll of the dice; then headed back to the hostel to read my book until it was time for the next shot at the prize. Do you know how much money I won from my $50 worth of free gambling? None. Nada. Zip. Not one single penny and I left Vegas the same way I arrived; on the Greyhound bus.

Whether it was my sister crushing me at Snakes and Ladders ("Chutes" and Ladders, for you Murkans) or taking part in the office sweepstakes on Grand National Day, I've always come a solid last when it comes to games of chance and skill. The fact that my sister cheated like a bandit is little consolation - she would have won anyway.

But my most crushing loss came outside the old Wembley Stadium in London, where yer stereotypical Cockney wide boy had attracted a crowd with a game of "Find the Lady", that well-known method of fleecing the unwary whereby 3 cards, one of them a queen are laid on a table and shuffled from side to side at lightning speed. If you can keep track of which is the queen and identify it at the end, you win. £5 a bet, double your money if you're right. Of course it's not that simple. Distraction, deception and slight of hand are all part of the game but you know what? I had this guy figured out.

I stood there for at least an hour, studying his every move. I saw him switching cards while the punters were reaching for their wallets, I observed him slipping cards up his sleeve and different ones out again, I figured out who in the crowd were his plants, I'm telling you, I had his number.

And I had £5 burning a hole in my pocket. £5 that I could easily turn into £10. Never mind that this included my tube fare back to the hotel. I'm telling you, this was easy.

Oh, that nagging voice kept reminding me that I suck at this; that I'd lost countless times before, that I never, ever won when I gambled. But look! There I was right again. If I'd bet that time I would have won. Again and again, I picked the correct card - if only I'd had the courage to put my money down. Finally, I could stand it no longer and after watching the play like a hawk, I pulled out my £5.

"It's that one!" I declared, planting my index finger firmly on the card and keeping it there. No switching cards this time laddie, I'm too sharp for you. Without batting an eyelid, the wide-boy flipped over the card next to it, and to nobody's surprise but mine, revealed that this was in fact, the Queen.

Devastated, I began the long walk back to central London. I swear I must have watched his routine a hundred times and was right on each one of them. Except for the one hundred and first time, when I put the money down. What did he do differently? I don't know. I do know however, that I was beaten by a master.

As evidenced when he swept passed me in a chauffer driven Mercedes. He and his mates in the back seat, each counting a huge wad of notes.

And they didn't even offer me a ride.