Returning to favourite places in Scotland, this one is possibly a little unlikely… but, I give you – Dundee.
Dundee has some of the best street sculpture. The city is home to DC Thomson, and The Beano is still published there. Wandering the city centre, you come across beloved Beano characters, as well as other curiosities.
Desperate Dan, Gnasher, and Minnie the MinxI just love that someone gave Minnie a bungee for her catapult And Wullie. Outside the McManus Gallery Just up from the Travelodge 😁My favourite ❤️How many folk, I wonder, ever notice the splendid Town Clock?
And yes, it has the honeypots that are the V&A and the Discovery, but it is also home to some very fine and lesser-known gems. The wonderful McManus Gallery is far more ‘relatable’, in my opinion, and the Verdant Works will take you on an amazing journey of discovery about jute, and its strong links to the city.
The waterfront walks along the Tay are cool, and it is great fun to walk across the Tay Bridge on the central walkway.
The underside of the Tay Bridge at Dundee
And there’s The Howff. A little graveyard in the centre of the city offering an oasis of calm and curiosity.
The Witches’ Stane, in The Howff.
So much to offer.
Addendum: we passed through Dundee yesterday on our way to stay in Broughty Ferry. As we did so, I spotted another sculpture group that I hadn’t seen before. At the pillar boxes across the square from the Caird Hall.
After my post about ‘Amazing’, my pal Jenny suggested ‘Favourites’. Let’s start with Scotland, she said.
Scotland, huh? Okaaay.
This was a surprisingly challenging brain exercise, but here goes.
First up – Oban.
A town that’s certainly on the tourist map, but what I love is that it is very much a working town. The tourists are catered for, of course, but the town goes about its business without fuss; trains, buses, and ferries arrive from and depart to points all over Scotland. I love that bus and railway stations are next door to each other and adjacent to the ferry terminal. That the trains connect with the ferries. Imagine! Such a sensible, functional place. It’s also attractive, with an enviable outlook.
I’m beguiled by the possibilities of Oban; so many places you can go by simply hopping on a bus, or train, or ferry.
The glass facade of the CalMac terminal building offers some fun perspectives.I guess the mask dates this one – December 2021. On our way home from a house-sit in Tobermory.The fact that it rains – quite a lot – doesn’t detract from the charm of the place.At the Gallanach slip; there’s now some shelter while you wait for the Kerrera ferry
We’re pinned down in a cosy camping pod on Oban Holiday Park right now. The wind is visible as it hurls clouds of water across the landscape. We have the trusty tent with us, but we are more than happy to be within a solid structure right now. Putting the kettle on again. Tomorrow is another day.
We’re back in Oban after three days riding our bikes on the island of Mull.
Mull is a beautiful island, but its road network is limited; aside from the 15km stretch of the A848 from the ferry slip at Craignure to Salen, and 5km of the same road into Tobermory, all of it, every single kilometre, is single track with passing places.
How romantic! Tiny roads wandering through impossibly beautiful landscapes to stunningly scenic villages and beaches, past alluring coffee shops – and a distillery! Tiny wee roads, perfect for cycling.
Well – maybe. Once upon a time. Once upon a time, when a 1970s Mini was a family car. Once upon a time, before motorhomes were invented. Once upon a time, before SUVs became ubiquitous. Once upon a time, before mass tourism descended upon Mull.
Consider for a moment. The permanent population of the island is approximately 3,000 souls. The main ferry serving the island, MV Isle of Mull, has a capacity of 962 passengers and 64 cars. The second ferry, MV Loch Frisa, has a capacity of 195 passengers and 34-40 cars/4 trucks. During the summer, each ferry arrives at Craignure 5 times a day. In the winter, it’s 3 or 4 times a day. That’s one hell of a lot of visitors. All of whom use those romantic, single track roads in one way or another.
So – here begins my cautionary tale for any cyclist currently bewitched by the idea of those single track roads.
The theory is simple; when you see a vehicle approaching, you pull into a passing place to allow the two of you to pass each other. If a vehicle from behind has caught you up because it’s driving faster then you, you pull into a passing place and let it by.
However. As a cyclist, the reality is that you pull over for everyone coming from behind, and most from in front. You have to stop several times while going uphill to allow vehicles to pass. And going downhill. And on the flat. And on blind bends. After every stop, you have to muscle your loaded touring bike back into motion. Many of those vehicles arriving on the ferry drive off and start for their destination without pausing – resulting in convoys, nose to tail, that are longer than the passing places. And you get jammed in that passing place with them. There are drivers that picked up their rental motorhome in Glasgow and are suddenly confronted with single track for the first time – perhaps coming face to face with West Coast Motors 95 from Tobermory. There are drivers that think that cyclists don’t take up any space at all, drive past the passing place and expect to squeeze past. There are other drivers that slow down behind you as you slow down to let them by, not passing until you’ve had to stop. Or, you slow down in a passing place to let an oncoming vehicle by – who then slows down too, meaning you run out of passing place and have to stop.
Yes, this is the 95 that runs on the single track roads of Mull. Photo from tobermory.co.uk
The 8km of the A838 single track to Salen this morning took us an hour. Mostly downhill. Yesterday we rode our unloaded bikes out to Calgary Beach on the B8073, a round trip of 40km and 800m of climbing… say, one stop per km. minimum. We were bushed.
Today we decided that we didn’t want to ride the 60km of single track out to Iona.
And no, we’re not blind to the fact that we are also traffic on those roads, and part of the mass tourism of Mull. A dilemma.
I shall leave you with a quote from my online friend Bob Gulliver*, who was talking about something else completely, but I thought was a brilliant observation:
“Everybody appeared furious about a situation that everyone was collectively creating.”
Until next time!
*Bob and Deborah are currently travelling in China. Bob writes entertaining stories of their adventures on Facebook – with lots of photos!
Last Wednesday, 23 September, marked 40 weeks since the accident in France, and 15 weeks since my shoulder replacement surgery. I finally got back on to my beloved Violetta, my touring bike, the previous weekend. And it was good. One week later, we loaded up the bikes with camping gear and took off for Oban, by train.
Interim station – Helensburgh Upper MV Loch Frisa leaving Oban this morning on her way to MullIt’s a sauna! On the way to Tobermory Much photographed wrecks on the way to Tobermory
This evening, we’re just outside Tobermory, Mull, ensconced in a little shepherd’s hut. The wind is howling and the weather gods are preparing to unleash a small monsoon overnight. Hence the hut, and not the tent. The tent would cope; not so sure about the occupants.
On Tobermory campsite
The ride today from the ferry at Craignure to the campsite at Tobermory was about 40km, including exploratory deviations. A few hills to remind legs and lungs what was required of them. And wind. Wind that cancelled ferries to the outer isles, and put the others on warning possible cancellation. Fortunately, a tailwind for us, but loud and distracting, making communication impossible and making me quite delighted to get out of it.
But – I did it, and I’m inordinately pleased with myself. Yes, my shoulder will appreciate a rest tomorrow, but it’s doing brilliantly.
In an earlier post, I shared my target of getting back to France at week 43 to continue the interrupted journey. France isn’t going to happen quite yet. There are still appointments with surgeon and physiotherapist, and it seems sensible to let the system do its thing. I expect that to wind down in the next month or so. Meanwhile, there are plenty of places to explore, friends and family to visit, and housesits to enjoy. We shall venture further afield ere long.
Chatting about our travels with friends recently, we were asked
“Where is the most amazing place you’ve been?”.
Now there’s a question. Amazing in what way? We started thinking about it. How many ways could there be?
Scenically. Culturally. Environmentally. To name but three. Which sent me off into our photo archive of the last 25 years, and countless memories.
What follows is a photo essay of some of those amazing places.
Whakaari, or White Island, in New Zealand’s Bay of Plenty. We got to visit this active volcano; I’m not sure we would do this now. More recently, a number of visitors were killed when the island erupted when they were there.
Calmer volcanic landscapes on Lanzarote.
Lanzarote
Grapevines protected by walls of scoria on Lanzarote.
Argentina, Ruta Cuarenta.
Fabulous basalt columns in Argentina. I think this collection look like a ‘Green Man’.
An amazing mix of volcanic features, also Argentina. These ones are known as ‘The Monks’.
Desert landscapes of the Andes.
Atacama Desert, Peru. Plenty of stories. Here’s one.
El Paso Cristo Redentor, descending from Argentina to Chile.
Not a Salar, but the expanses of calcium carbonate at White Sands, New Mexico, USA.
White Sands.
And then, some wonderful cultural snippets:
Attending Choppfest, a Bavarian beer festival in Paraguay. Complete with lederhosen and thigh-slapping.
The wonderful can-do culture in Uruguay. The bike mechanic was so apologetic that they wouldn’t get the wheel repaired until after siesta. Even though they didn’t have quite the right parts, they fabricated a repair that lasted 10,000km.
We’ve spent a lot of time in Uruguay, and there are many stories. A taster.
The fantastic parades in Bolivia and Peru. Usually we had no idea what was going on, but it was always a joyful experience.
There are a few posts about festivals on the website. Here’s one.
Uruguay again. A throwback to simpler times, and the feeling of a calmer way of life. Though I am aware that this is my view from the outside.
Pedalling the remote challenge of the Dempster Highway to arrive in Inuvik in time for the midsummer celebrations. Yes, this photo was taken on midsummer’s day.
And then, the surreal desert ecosystems.
The Boojum trees of northern Baja, Mexico. “The boojum tree is one of the strangest plants imaginable. For most of the year it is leafless and looks like a giant upturned turnip. Its common name was coined by the plant explorer Godfrey Sykes, who found it in 1922 and said “It must be a boojum!”. In saying this, he was referring of the strange and mythical creature that the author Lewis Carroll called a boojum in his children’s book, The Hunting of the Snark. The Spanish common name for this tree is Cirio, referring to its candle-like appearance.”
The whole experience of taking the 4-day ferry from Puerto Natales to Puerto Montt in Chile. The nonstop vistas of the voyage through the Chilean Inside Passage, the wildlife and the weather. The temporary, improbable community of younger backpackers, older, more upmarket travellers, and truck drivers thrown together for the four days of the voyage.
Windshirts 1, 2, and 3. #1 has donated its sleeves to lining another jacket, and its zip and trim to #3. #2 has its own story to tell.
Last week I finally got around to making a new windshirt (#3) from fabric I bought about 3 years ago. I dug out the toile and pattern I made for the last one, and off we went. We? Me and Flora, my 1951 Singer. The first challenge (there are always challenges) was that I had only bought a metre of fabric, which meant that I had to be creative with the layout of the pattern pieces. Front and back were fine, but the sleeves had to be pieced – although there was enough fabric, it wasn’t in the right shape to cut them in one piece each. So a good bit of footering was had. Then I remembered the piece of pretty trim I’d attached to the very first windshirt I’d made, back in 2013, and I dived into the stash. Out it came, and with it so many memories.
Bolivia, November 2013. Purple Pertex from Pennine Outdoor; the first outing for #1.
Peru, Atacama Desert, November 2013. With the fabulous hat made for me by the lovely Marie.
Peru, Atacama Desert, crossing into Chile, 23 November 2013. Just over a week later I had a disagreement with a surveyor’s post in roadworks, ending up in hospital to have my broken elbow pinned. I do my own stunts.
Bolivia, High Andes, January 2015. There’s that pretty trim; it came in a bag of offcuts from Pennine Outdoor back in the mists of time. Dry potatoes and dry, chewy bits of meat. It was that, or starve.
Peru, November 2015. I can’t remember what the discussion was about.
USA, Alabama, January 2017
USA, Buescher State Park, Texas, February 2017
USA, Sanderson, Texas, February 2017
USA, Arizona, November 2017
Mexico, Durango, December 2017
Mexico, Guanajuato, January 2018. Definitely fading.
Scotland, Gourock, October 2018
Chile, Puerto Octay, March 2019
Argentina, General Roca, March 2019
Scotland, Cromarty, July 2019
England, Bridgnorth, January 2020. Trauma starting to show in the repaired rip at the hip…
England, Bridgnorth, January 2020
Spain, Huelva, March 2020. Windshirt #2 makes its first appearance. Check the date. We didn’t know then the chaos that was to come.
Portugal, Cabo de Roca, 14 March 2020. 3 days before we had to run for home ahead of the border closures.
Scotland, Fa’side, February 2021. Still in lockdown.
English Border, Berwick upon Tweed, May 2021
Scotland, New Aberlour, April 2022
Portugal, Praia de Mira, March 2023. A return to Portugal to continue our interrupted journey.
Portugal, Redondela, April 2023
Ireland, Mullingar, May 2024
France, Calais, May 2024
Germany, Wischhafen, June 2024
Germany, Kiel Canal, June 2024
Denmark to Norway ferry, July 2024
France, Tours, November 2025. It’s always at the top.
France, Massieux, 19 November 2025. Ahhh. The fateful day. A few hours after this picture was taken, windshirt #2 had to be cut off in the hospital at Givors, France. I do my own stunts.
But I couldn’t leave it like that. Once I’d recovered enough to wield scissors and drive Flora, I mended it. Battle scars, like mine!
Battle scars and stories aside, it was perhaps time to make something a little smarter. Enter Windshirt #3. Zip and trim salvaged from Windshirt #1.
On Wednesday 1st July, it’ll be 28 weeks since the accident, 19 weeks since we made the decision to go ahead with the shoulder replacement, and 3 weeks since the surgery. In another week, physio will begin, starting the journey back to full mobility – or as close to that as I can get. My goal is to return to Lyon at 43 weeks to continue the interrupted journey. The coming three months promise some hard work.
Back in November, at my visit to Minor Injuries the day after we got home from France, it became clear that the damage was extensive and that the prognosis for pinning and plating was not good. Shoulder replacement was discussed at that time as the surgeon on duty realised that I was fit and active and that I would be unlikely to be happy with the reduced range of motion after healing. He paved the way by organising a CT scan while I was there, ‘to save me having to come back’. A few days later I met the head ‘Shoulder Consultant’. We made the decision to allow the shoulder time to heal by itself for a while, and see what happened. That would also allow the nerves time to repair. But the option of replacement was kept open.
So – it healed. The body did its best, but the bits healed awkwardly, with restricted movement and ongoing pain. The nerves are still mending, and are at about 90% now, which is brilliant.
There was so much to think about before making the decision. Maybe I could have adapted to the reduced range, maybe the pain would get better. But – it was likely I would get arthritis in the damaged joint, and there was the possibility that it might just break down completely. Do it now, or wait until something happens 5 or 10 years hence, when I’m 5 or 10 years older? Do it now.
I set about pre-hab, trying to make the shoulder muscles as strong as possible before surgery for a faster re-hab.
My first operation date in May was cancelled with a couple of days notice because of overload at the hospital. My second date, three weeks later, went ahead. No complications, and I got home the following day.
The pain after the operation was manageable, unlike that after the accident. I didn’t take any opioids after I got home, and was able to stop the paracetamol after 10 days. To be honest, a small glass of red before dinner does far more for body and soul. For me, anyway.
The wound has healed well, and quickly. The bruises were spectacular, but are fading now. I’ve been doing the prescribed gentle exercises without any problems. The follow-up appointment last Friday showed no issues, and I’m due to go back again in 4 weeks for another check. The general anaesthetic has caused some lingering fatigue (how dare it?), and I’ve discovered gradients on my daily walks that never registered before. I’m working on it. The shoulder is feeling good, and I’m more than ready to start the rehab; in fact, going a little stir-crazy following instructions and allowing everything to heal. A little bit (OK, quite a lot) scared of pushing too hard and causing damage. Physio next week. Can’t wait.
The skill and compassion of all the professionals that have cared for and supported me through this has been phenomenal. Angels without wings, all. This is our National Health Service.
The Navigator here, reporting in. It’s Wednesday 1st April, 19 weeks since the wee incident in France that caused such a stramash. I was thinking it’s probably time for an update; if for no other reason than to debrief myself. It’s very easy to forget.
Yes, the accident happened on 19 November
The initial, overwhelming relief of being home. Then the long hours at the Minor Injuries Unit, where after x-rays and a CT Scan, the extent of the damage started to become clear. Plating and pinning was not an option. When the duty registrar came to chat to me about my thoughts on a possible shoulder replacement… yikes.
Invoices trickled in from France. This one at least told us what it was for. The ones from the first hospital simply stated the total to be paid. Saga dealt with them all.
During those first few weeks, what I remember is the pain – not from the shoulder, but from the damaged nerves. The Chronicler being an utterly wonderful carer as he helped me with dressing and basic tasks, and took on all of the shopping, cooking and cleaning. In addition to making sure I got out every day to walk in the grey and damp of winter.
December pain relief.
Initially, I couldn’t ride my bike, and I couldn’t sew; two things that are who I am. After going a bit stir-crazy for 6 weeks, I was finally able to use my sewing machine. A project! I still couldn’t use scissors or a rotary cutter, so I rummaged the stash and dug out all the leftover bits of fabric cut for previous projects. My Recovery (and Therapy) quilt was begun. I sorted the bits and pieces roughly into colours, and off we went, me ‘n’ Flora (my Singer), stitching so happily.
First steps in the recovery/therapy project
Three weeks later, we’d assembled 36 ‘blocks’; by that time I could use the rotary cutter to trim them. Many happy hours were spent arranging the blocks into a pleasing pattern. Stitched together, they became a small, 1.2m square quilt top. At 10 weeks I could just about manipulate the safety pins to assemble the top, the wadding, and the backing. Another couple of weeks, and I could grip a needle, and I could begin short spells of hand-quilting. The project was fully assembled by week 13, and I spent the next couple of weeks adding more hand quilting and embroidering a label.
Assembled on paper from a handy seed catalogueTrying out layoutsJoining the pieces in the final layout Binding the edgesIt’s done.
At 10 weeks I also managed to get back on my bike – baby rides initially, progress frequently halted by winter in its many forms. Now up to 40-50km. Confidence will take a bit longer. The map of coffee shops in a 10-20km radius of home is ever-developing.
There was sun, and no ice. But there was mud.Coffee Shops. Mostly south of the A1, where the roads are quieter.
So much joy, in so many ways.
And the shoulder? Not responding to Force of Will just as fast as I would like. The bones have healed, and the nerves are almost there. I’m working on rebuilding strength. What isn’t improving, though, is the range of movement – so, a bionic joint is in the offing.
It’s been toilsome at times, for sure. But spring is here, and sunshine helps immeasurably. My support team is steadfastly wonderful, and my troubles are small when compared to many. I’m doing just fine.
The Navigator here. Jumping in on the Stravaiging to share some thoughts.
Which started with this little story from our good friend Karen:
“So, Michael and I went to a great robot/AI demonstration. Lots of young things. All very modern. As the tour was about to start, a cute young thing directed the group to a sweeping modern staircase. She asked me if I would like to take the elevator. I chose to take it as a consideration and a courtesy instead of taking umbrage. I’m embracing my dotterage. What would you have done?”
“Good on you, Karen!” was my first reaction.
But what would I have done? Whatever it was, I’d need to have been very quick, as the DB would have immediately voiced a reflex refusal on our behalf. But somewhere along the line, sooner or later, we’re all going to have to have that conversation with ourselves.
We are no longer 30 – or even 50. Though our brains are ignoring the fact, our bodies are far more honest. They will make it perfectly clear that they aren’t so happy with epic days hard on the heels of arduous ones. They protest. And, if you don’t listen, they dig in their heels.
Our bike journey last winter was curtailed by just such an event. The body, in this case, Chris’s, dug in its heels and refused. So, we backed down, as graciously as we could, sent the bikes home, and continued on our journey using Plan B. Until the body called a halt to that, too.
Fast-forward 9 months. A previously undiagnosed heart condition, genetic in origin, is being successfully managed with clever drugs. Everything feels good, and the brain is quite ready to return to our usual cycling schedule, one that hasn’t changed much in the last 20-odd years.
However. Basic things like getting travel insurance suddenly look different. And when you have to buy said travel insurance from Saga, you’re officially old, right? But the brain is still in denial.
It’s taking considerable effort to give ourselves permission to slow down a bit. To accept daily distances of less than 80km – and in flat terrain. To have proper rest days, where we rest – and don’t go charging around places visiting things or doing chores. To enjoy not camping in winter. To use cycling as a means of transport between longer stays in interesting towns. Not to ride in the rain if we don’t have to. To hop on trains and buses from time to time – after all, that’s why we bought our cool folding bikes.
It’s taking practice to manage this new reality. Not to feel guilty about not ‘doing it right’. To embrace our ‘dotterage’., to quote Karen. To be gracious in accepting courtesies.
The conversations are ongoing, and we would love to hear your thoughts.
Life at home this week has been strange. Unfocused. Confused. Challenging. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Chilly. Different.
Why? What is the cause of all these difficult, negative feelings?
Agatha. The Aga. Our gas-fired, cast-iron range cooker.
Agatha is poorly, shut down, awaiting the transplant of a vital part; namely, the boiler within. During a routine service last week, the Aga Doctor noticed some dampness where dampness should not be. This little issue is compounded by the fact that the insulation (after 30 years) has settled, leaving said boiler at risk of further damage from overheating. So, shut down she is, pending the return of the Doctor next week.
In these modern times, I would venture that very few Agas continue to be used in the way they were intended when the were first invented by Dr. Gustav Dalén in 1922 – for cooking everything, for heating the kitchen and beyond, and providing hot water. They’re very much seen as an expensive, aspirational, luxury item, to provide country house ambience in the kitchen. For folk with more money than sense. It’s easy to judge.
I’ve been thinking a lot about these things in general, and about Agatha in particular, and how she fits in with our aspiration to live a low-impact life.
Agatha runs on gas. If you compare her consumption to that of a standard gas oven and hob, Agatha uses an alarming amount more.
However.
In our home, Agatha is considerably more than an oven and hob. This is what she does for us:
Provides ALL the hot water, including that for the washing machine
Does ALL the cooking
She keeps the kitchen very cosy, and the rest of our 100 square metre flat comfortably warm.
Keeps our traditionally built, 1750s home at an even temperature and humidity.
She dries all the laundry on the overhead pulley.
As a result, there’s a lot of things we don’t have; you may notice the lack of things with plugs in the photo. The list includes (sample list – not everyone has everything!):
Central heating boiler Tumble dryer Oven and hob (separate from Agatha) Electric kettle Microwave/combi oven Slow cooker Air fryer Coffee machine Toastie maker Toaster Soup maker Thermomix Deep fat fryer George Foreman grill
Etcetera.
Agatha was built in around 1972, bought second hand by us in around 1992. She cost us £300. Engineering and installation cost a bit more than that in 1994. Since then, she has fulfilled all the functions above.
If we were to accept conventional ‘wisdom’, we could ‘modernise’ with new and up-to-date energy-efficient systems. What would that mean for us?
Removal and disposal of a working appliance and associated infrastructure
Purchase and installation of (say) ground source heating, pipework and radiators with the associated works involving damage and disruption to historic internal structures. Getting Planning, Listed Building, and Building Control consents. Restoration and redecoration.
Refitting of the kitchen to accommodate new appliances
Purchase of: Oven and hob, Electric kettle, Toaster, Tumble dryer
I’m not just talking about the monetary cost of these items, but the energy and resources used in manufacturing and shipping them. Especially when they would be replacing an entirely functional system.
Since we installed Agatha in 1994 (that’s 31 years ago), how many times has your central heating boiler been replaced? Your oven and hob? Your tumble dryer? Not to mention all the other small appliances? And that’s not taking into account all the work she did in the 20 years before she came to us.
And the bills? Our energy bills are completely within the current normal range for a 2-bedroom property. And ours is a big 2-bedroom property, far from modern, built in 1750. We don’t even have double glazing*, though we do have draught-proofing and shutters.
So, if we made all these modernisations, our bills would likely be much the same. But we would also have the costs and carbon footprint of disposing of the old and the purchase and installation the new systems and appliances. I guarantee that none of them will still be functioning 30 years from now, nor will parts be available to effect repairs.
So – logic? Or hypocrisy?
And what price a warm heart to the home?
*Listed building, Conservation Area. We got a quote, 2 years ago, for double glazing that may (or may not) satisfy the Planners. £24,000 for our 6 x 12-pane sash windows.
