Off I go - NOT!

Fear soon replaces excitement as I skid off the A9 and almost hit the barrier on the way into Kingussie. EEK! The snow is falling in big clumps and my bed is a few more hills further on.

However...

One and a half feet of snow fall during the night and I am completely covered in. No chance of driving. My car looks like a big Ice Lolly.

Some Library Visits

Well, I'm a bit rusty but I'm still looking forward to some really great library visits with the help of Christine and the Scottish Book Trust. Arriving at at the library, I get organised and greet some 50 kids plus teachers and librarians. The Imagination session goes well with an array of fantastic questions at the end. Their drawings were tops and they behaved so well. You get the odd wee chestnut like - How much to do you make? What age are you? etc. These were fantastic children who seemed motivated and were very talented. I then speed on to the next spot where the children are equally enthused. I am particularly blown away by a boy called Lewis, who cannot see at all, but is totally part of the whole event, answering questions and showing his sense of fun and excitement during the reading section. I cover my usual Asthma Awareness section and am completely surprised to receive a gift from the Hecklegirth Primary School class. Lewis has written out the first few pages of The Magic Scales in Braille and the rest of the class have made an artistic collage of the front cover. I am totally lost for words. Sign posters etc and make my scary way north.

The Dumpling and the Frozen Loch

Okay, so it's now well and truly the weekend. I've not done the chores I've promised yet, and I need to spend some time outside. It's a crisp,sunny,fresh, afternoon and I've already finished 2 paper rounds and made everyone breakfast. I suggest a walk in the air, but soon realise we'll have to drive to get anywhere a bit exciting. A few seconds after setting off I notice that I only have 20 miles in the tank so this comfortably restricts our movements. 'The Dumpling!' I say.

"Ohh, daaaaad! Not agaaaiiin!"

"Yes, again," I confirm, and we are on our way.

The Dumpling, a 200ft lump of granite stranded a few yards from Gartocharn (pronounced - Garto-Harn), is the perfect viewpoint to see the partially frozen Loch Lomond. Now, the last time Loch Lomond was frozen over, my Mum did this Viking, survival of the fittest thing and pushed me, in my pram, like a lump of blue hone granite, towards the middle of the loch, and presumably the thin bits. I would either be consigned to the depths or... Well. I'm still here, so I presume the gods looked on me favourably. By the way, the view from the Dumpling is 'to die for'.

After trudging up with Betsy, our flat-coat retriever, nutter, dog; Joe, Emma, Justine, Ruthy and the Tiny, we all decide to go for a swim etc at Cameron House.

First changed, Ruthy and myself venture out to take some rare pics of the Frozen Loch. It's fairly solid, all the way from the Cameron House jetty to Balloch Park,

Go home, listless and ready for some rocket, sun dried tomatoes and Parmesan salad.

Look in the hall mirror - still fat - oh yes - the 9 ferrero rocher might have something to do with that, but I was so hungry after all that swimming and stuff.

Playing Journey and walking in the fresh air

A gig. A concert, 'a booking for musicians', as the dictionary puts it. I hadn't picked the guitar up in earnest for over two months and I think it showed. We arrived at the venue, small and more pub-like than club-like. Everyone was very friendly and we were offered chicken curry on arrival. I always find it's better to sing on an empty stomach, though. It avoids the odd burp invading the lyrics at a crucial point. The audience ranged from 20 to 78 and all seemed to enjoy our eclectic mix of everything from Journey's - Don't Stop Believin' to Tony Bennett's - 'San Francisco'. It was 1am when we finished and almost 2am before I locked the car and crawled into the spare room. It was good to catch up with Craig, the drummer, and go over the children one by one, discussing their teenage messiness, deciding whether or not we were Hypocrites and stuff like that... my son, Ryan, went for his interview with the Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. I hope he gets a place, he practices guitar 5 hours a day and deserves a break.

Saturday went by in a blur and now it's Sunday, mid-day. The sun has cut a neat hole in the powder-blue sky and it's time for a walk.

The Brits 2010

Flew down to London and got a taxi to the Tower Bridge Hotel. After a multimedia presentation, I sauntered over the bridge and explored. There was a champagne reception in the hotel before we set off on a river boat to the Brit Awards. More Champs and piano music, we sailed past Westminster and on to the venue. It was very strange to meeting people like Lindsay Lohan and various soap stars etc. George Best's son, Calum, was a delight. The event itself was well run and the food exceptionally good. Mingled until a the small hours and then returned to the hotel by taxi to sleep for a few hours before getting up at 6am to participate in 'The Apprentice'. Sold flowers in Portobello Rd and negotiated prices in Selfridges and Harrods etc. Returned to then get kitted out again and go out in stretch limo to a secret location for another dinner. Now typing this, having slipped away to bed and the much more normal prospect of spreadsheets, emails and doing a few edits. Back home to Glasgow tomorrow, thank God.

A Meal Out

Okay, so it's almost Valentines Day and I've been away all week. Time for some major sucking up. So, I plump for Martin Wishart's restaurant at the Cameron House Hotel, Loch Lomond. £25 each for lunch. The menu looks good and we settle down in our predesignated seat, well away from the reserved, but very empty seats beside the windows that look over the loch. A slight niggle forms in my belly. We then pick from the menu and are given the bread rolls, but without any explanation as to what they might be. Okay, it's nice to play a bit of a guessing game sometimes so that's not the end of the world. I pick the langoustine risotto and the cod in Pu lentil. The current Mrs. Wilding went for the comfit of duck. The meal is pretty nice, though my cod was a bit cool. We get served someone else's Sancerre and confess. The restaurant is well decorated but I feel I should be talking about the food not the wallpaper. I reckon Michael Caine's in Bath Street is still tops and that the real Martin Wisharts in Leith is still well ahead of this experience. It was all topped off at the end by a stand-up telling off by a customer, who complained about the discretionary service charge being described as compulsory. Quite right too. I have to say the the Matradee was pretty good all in all.

Just in case you are a bit hungry - here's a wee recipe for - Cholesterol Lowering Garlic and Spinach Soup



1. Peel 6 cloves of garlic - place them in some melted Benecol.

2. Add salt and the bunch of spinach

3. Simmer until wilted

4. Sprinkle a chicken stock cube over the top

5. Add water and milk, a cup each



Simmer



Blend


Reheat and serve with crusty bread.

Going Home

Hardly on the same level, but I now know how Palin feels when a ferry doesn't turn up or a plane is missed. My plans are foiled and I will have to travel home via Uig and Eilean Donan castle. After the full Monty at the Polochar Inn, I say my goodbyes and head north to Lochmaddy. I pass Whooper Swans upturned in still, frozen lochens. Some of them look as if they've been frozen in the act of tipping; their bums jutting from the surface like fluffy icebergs. It's like a summer's day at Lochmaddy. The sea is like glass and I wander round the ferry terminal making sure that I have at least some of my descriptions right in the book I'm working on. I decide to keep my imaginary bus stop in place rather than plump for reality.

On the ferry, I sunbathe on deck as we pull out of the harbour. It's so nice that I wonder about sun tan lotion etc. A foriegn couple have a good laugh at my expense as I try, in vain, to balance my thin camera on my bag and push the timer at the same time. They eventually show some mercy, stepping in to take my pic. I write a few chapters on the smooth crossing and wiz off the boat at Uig. Between Uig and Portree I catch a glimpse of some really massive wind turbines on the horizon. This is why I'm writing the new book. It's a stark reminder of the duality, the conflict, the good and the bad. They cut an ugly swathe on the mountain-top but, on the other hand, there's something imposing and majestic in the way they move.

Moving down the west coast via Fort William and Glen Coe, I eventually chat to my old-time bass player Jim as I journey down the side of Loch Lomond. Home is only a few miles away now. I've missed the family, Betsy and all.

A Sign of the Times

Uist is an idyllic place but I found out that it is, sadly, no different from the rest of the world in many respects. It has wonderful beaches, a thriving community but, alas, some problems with the odd drug user and there has certainly been the occasional barney between neighbours and even kin. Houses lie empty, 'in dispute'. No one knows for certain who owns them. Surely this is all normal. Where there is human activity there is sure to be human failings. I guess that's where religion and telly come into play. Moral doctrine and escapism seem to go hand in hand here. Anyway... The Western Isles are still a million times more peaceful and beautiful than most places I've been to in my life. It's so nice that I even consider becoming an 'incomer' and look more closely at a few of the empty houses. Everyone I've met: at the libraries, schools and hotels have, without exception, been interesting and extremely friendly.

On a walk along the beach I see a man spreading heaps of seaweed over the grass behind the dunes. I ask him what he is doing. He explains that the seaweed, shoveled out in 20ft x 80ft patches, melts into the soil. After 2 months, or so, they rotovate the area and plant potatoes. A very old practice, I'm told. I am also given the 'ins and outs' of cutting peat. Nowadays, they tend to cut it on a slope, up a hill etc to avoid flooding. They store it, stacked in a breezy spot, so that it can dry into black, brittle blocks; the best for burning.

After my 5th walk along the beach and back, I settle down to an excellent anti-pasta salad, followed by a plate of humongous scallops and Stornoway back pudding. I give in to the cook, Ian's, pudding list and submit to his homemade cheese cake and lemon ice-cream. Gosh, I really need to get back to more edits and more writing. On Uist, it's too easy to relax. Bad news, however, spoils my coffee. There's no space on the Uist to Oban ferry. An M.P. has passed away and the funeral takes precedence. Fair enough. There are more important things... This means that I will have to go back home the long way, via Skye. Oh, well, never mind. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

The Uist Wolf

After a day of more calls and more typing I stride out across the busy Uist road and stumble onto the beach. It stretches, unbroken, for 22 miles. But I plump for 2 of those miles, deciding that I don't want to overdo it. I am now free on a deserted beach with my binoculars swinging beneath my chins. Scanning for otters, I see instead a vast array of seabirds:- Redshanks, Turnstones, Knots, Oyster catchers, the yellow-billed Whooper Swan, the scatty Ringed Plover. They dart this way and that, scattering before me only to alight a few yards further on. A highpoint is spotting a snipe, which zigzags away across a boggy field, it's flight pattern designed to evade any troublesome bullet with ease. I disturb the same heron at least four times and get a very disgruntled 'Squaack!" Wigeon and Tufted Duck patter across a frozen lochen and Rock Pipits flutter up into the air for a second only to disappear again, instantly resuming invisibility a few feet from my position. Then I hear it... A far-off bark. The sound makes my blood freeze and I hesitate. Should I carry on or divert back to the beach? The barking intensifies and I catch a glimpse of the beast. Is it truly of this Earth? It thunders towards me and then stops dead, its jaws dripping long strands of drool. It begins to circle me as I back away and head for the beach. I can always dive into the waves as a last resort, swim, madly, for Barra. It follows me, a deep growl emanating from its bulky frame. I fumble for some trinket, some scrap of chocolate or steak in my pockets. All I find is a chewit wrapper, but this is better than nothing. Carefully, I lay it at my feet and back away. The great wolf of a beast runs at me but then stops... It sniffs my offering giving me the chance I need to bolt. I hear its thundering paws hammering into the headland behind me... The Uist Wolf is upon me! MUMMY!

Stornoway to Benbecula

Caught up on the laptop until about 9.30am. Why is it that a single nudge or bump can fire whatever you’ve been working on, for half the morning, into oblivion? I struggle downstairs with my gubbins and get off to work. On my lunch break, I meet a lovely lady called Kathleen at the Stornoway Library. She makes me coffee and we chat about the book I’m working on just now (wind farms, Harris and adventures etc) and then the Denthan series. We’re both keen to work with the schools in and around Lewis and Harris in the spring. Kathleen even suggests a book launch here in Stornoway Library for the new book that I'm researching on this trip. The Library has been newly renovated and is looking great. I move over the road to the bookshop and have a quick chat before trudging on. With ferry times front of mind, I drive down towards Tarbert sadly missing out the ring of stones at Callanish. Nine of these stones feature on the cover of the Magic Scales and have been a big part of my life for the last 2 years. I pass Ardvourlie Castle, where I spent many a happy day in the nineties. The place was bought for a pittance back in the late eighties by a Maths teacher from London and renovated with great care and love to its present state. Mr Martin, the owner when I knew the place, was a tremendous cook. The guy was a genius. He used to make old-fashioned dishes like rose petal crème brûlée and duck basted in orange and brandy. He even got up a 4 am to make the bread for breakfast. The linen was so well starched on the beds that, while attempting to pull the covers up round my neck one night, I lost my grip and whacked myself full force in the eye. With hazy memories of eagles, black eyes and otters, I push on for Tarbet. There's a bit of time before the ferry so I do some work and then pop into Library and meet Fiona. Again she is very welcoming and we hatch a few ideas. I leave a couple of Asthma UK posters and race down south to Leverburgh. On the way, in between unspoiled beaches and rugged headlands, I do and interview with a reporter,by phone, about book 3 of the Denthan series. I also chat with Gordon Brown; no, not that one, the one that’s in charge of PR for the Scottish branch of Asthma UK. We talk about possible festival appearances and a national newspaper interview. I reach Leverburgh and, quite famished, wander across to the Butty Bus that's parked up on the harbour. What a clean, well run outfit. I eat a marvellous beef burger and look out over the Sound of Harris. I talk to the owner, who is originally from Nottingham, about abandoned whaling stations and current house prices. Find out that the property prices are higher in Harris than they are in Lewis. The wee ferry arrives and I climb up into the crow’s nest to view the scene. Excitedly, I rush out into the elements to view a school of whales, which actually turn out to be a couple of rocks with a few fin-like cormorants in place. They seem to be playing a big practical joke on naive twitchers like me. I reach Berneray and then race south again to visit the local vets for more background on local farming practices. In the dark I attempt to find my hotel and have to phone a friend. The hotel sits, I presume, on a lovely beach. It’s pitch black. I can’t see. The food and the welcome at the Polochar Inn are second to none. Spend some time answering emails etc and eventually nod off… I said nod off…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Loch Lomond to Stornoway

500 miles, it said. The Tom Tom that is. And the Tom Tom never lies, much. Every time I use the thing I flip back to Paris 2004 and remember the point where it took me onto an eight-laned roundabout of death. I switched it off and had to admit that Mum Mum had been right.
Anyway, after my attempt at exercise, 47 zig-zag lengths of a granny infested pool, I get into the car and set off. A snow-capped Ben Lomond shines like beacon against the dishcloth sky, reminding me of Kilimanjaro. I know ‘the Ben, as we locals call it, is only 3000 feet or so, not 19,000, but it looks so volcanic and threatening. After passing six dead Roe Deer it's eventually a relief to see three does grazing in the birches a few miles later. I have grizzly thoughts of a programme like ‘Bear Grills’ or whatever it’s called, and wonder if I could actually cook up a decent bit of venison from the unwanted carcasses that lay at the side of the road. Mmm… Maybe not. Onward I drive until I re-diesel (I like new words) at the Green Welly, where I discovered the Best Loo of 2010. It had a wee certificate and everything. I thought there was probably quite a bit of 2010 to go but was impressed none-the-less. Off again, until I reach the towering mountains of Glen Coe, my wife’s favourite spot. She always tells us that she wants her ashes scattered on the peeks. We nod, of course, but wonder how we might do this legally and without getting killed in the process. On through Fort William and past the red and white fish restaurant that serves succulent Skate wings in garlic butter, then over the Great Glen towards Loch Ness. It’s not funny, but I can only imagine that glancing every three seconds at the grey ripples on the loch for a give-away hump or two has been the cause of many an accident on this stretch. Through ‘Inversnecky’ as the locals call it and over the Beauly Firth via the Kessock bridge. Over the bridge, I dangerously scan the skies for Red Kites, always a good spot to see them. I reach the Glascarnoch Dam where the waters are frozen over and wonder if this is where they filmed 'The Dam Busters'. I give a full volume rendition of the theme tune - 'Da da ra da da...' etc and speed on to Ullapool. In the ten minutes I have before the ferry, I visit the Ullapool Bookshop, a beautiful shop with an excellent Children’s dept. I speak with the owner who and gives me some details on the Ullapool book festival, contacts etc. Then I see it… The Clansman. The CalMac ferry is on its last run before a re-fit in Liverpool. Halfway over I eat some lentil soup to calm the tummy and manage a conference call. First off the boat at Stornoway, I immediately get lost and end up in a housing estate. After a few adjustments, I reach the hotel only to realise that I played here in a rock band called Neetah Cheetah 20 years earlier. Those were good days…
In my compact room I decide that you could only swing a cat if it were a very small one, say a kitten or one of those bald ones from Egypt. Ah well, some edits on book 3 of the Denthan series are done around 1am and I settle down for the night.

Ps – Do not swing cats, it is very, very naughty!