Britishness
As a child hatched into this world a few short years after
the Second World War, I grew up with a strong sense of Britishness.
There was a palpable feeling of improvement and of moving towards better
times after wartime austerity. There was a coronation and a new Queen
and a supreme sense of pride in being British. There was still a
residual Empire and the Queen kept acclaiming the significance of the
Commonwealth, with Great Britain as its central focus. Mr Churchill
delivered statesmanlike speeches and Prime Minister Macmillan, in his
rigid authoritarian and unmistakably British style, reminded us that
“We’d never had it so good”.
To a child, Great Britain
seemed supreme, and I remember feeling hugely proud to be British.
Interestingly, then, the Conservative Party consistently won most votes
in Scotland.
As the child became adolescent, Great
Britain seemed to lose its magnitude and instead of the certainty of
authoritative leaders, we had The Beatles, a vibrant young pop culture,
Carnaby Street, mini cars and miniskirts and a general ceding of
privilege in favour of the generation I belonged to – a generation which
had never experienced war nor hardship.
Still the
sense of Britishness prevailed, manufacturing industry was strong and,
on the back of that, industrial workers felt strong allegiance to strong
trade unions which were British-wide institutions. Utilities and
railways were publicly owned throughout the whole of the UK and this,
also, fostered a strong sense of cohesion.
The Britain I
see now bears no resemblance to those earlier memories: There is
clearly no Empire and at best a residual Commonwealth. Trade unions are
weaker, British Rail has been privatised with ownership fragmented
amongst a range of providers. The unspoken glue which cemented Great
Britain together is no longer there and the Union flag seems associated
with either far right extremism or the “long live Britain as a fair and
pleasant land” folks. There seems to be no sense of cohesion, nor any
vision of where we’re trying to get to. National pride and a sense of
serving a greater whole have been replaced by acquisitive
two-dimensional consumerism and self-interest.
Scottishness
To
that child, being Scottish was incidental. We learnt at school that
Scotland was a nation with its distinctive legal system, and
institutions. But my parents, one from Liverpool, one from Perth, made
no great play of it and the educational system played it down. TV
portrayed Scotland as a quaint land of Brigadoon, The White Heather
Club’s formulaic dancing, and Jimmy Shand Music, and Scottish actors
were generally allocated quaint or eccentric cameo roles in the cinema.
But the fact that the Royal Family holidayed here seemed to my young
perception to lend the country some gravitas.
Contrast
that with now, when Scotland is confident of its place and there’s a
strong sense of identity and self-belief. Since devolution in
particular there’s a real sense of politics being relevant and of being
able to move things forward in a distinctively Scottish way. As
Britishness has waned, it seems that the opposite has been the case with
Scottishness.
Scotland’s Place in The Union
History
taught me that Scotland surged forward after political union with
England, in terms of prestige and national wealth. Scotland was key in
driving forward the UK's home and international interests. It was one
of the power houses of Empire: It built the railways, the locomotives
and the ships that facilitated transport and trade with the British
Empire. Very largely Scotland advanced the inventions, innovation and
scientific discoveries which drove Great Britain and the Empire forward.
(Which is not to belittle Stevenson and Brunel and their worthy
achievements). I'm reading a book at the moment about Thomas Telford,
the engineer who planned and constructed countless projects across the
UK, including of course the Caledonian Canal. I hadn't realised until
reading it that Telford also build many of Scotland's fishing harbours.
He was, as people will know, a Scotsman, but the reality is that that
ambitious project roll-out was financed by the UK for the benefit of the
whole UK.
On the back of that Glasgow became the
second city of the Empire and Edinburgh developed its splendid Georgian
new town.
So how did a confident and expansionist post-union Scotland sink from
that worthy role to the Scotland I knew as a child, an authoritarian country where folks are coy about exerting individualism, take comfort in a national mediocrity, and look for support from, rather than making demands of, the pubic agencies whose proper role is to implement our collective wishes.
Sunday, 1 November 2015
A Wee Walk in the Braes of Balquhidder.
So, I emerged into the hotel courtyard to be met by the collie - a wonderful dog. Totally unassuming, totally silent and with no desire to make bodily contact. He was content to keep a distance of some 5ft. between us and seemed to like being a couple of feet in front as well. He seemed to enjoy human company without the need to interact.
The curving drive was marked by ground-level marker lights and looked an ideal saunter in the darkness. 150 yards or so, it would lead to the single track public road, and 5 minutes each way along that would justify a dram in the bar before sharing a hot bath with Kathleen. Yes, the bath is designed for two. One of the gravest mistakes we made with our house was to omit that essential of the Hammam.
As the marker lights ended I could just make out in the reflected light the stone threshold pillars at the junction with the public road. A mid-way course between them should be just about right. But alarmingly and without warning my left foot dropped some 10 or 12 inches and my left shoe filled with cold water, sludge, leaves and a small collection of obscure invertebrates. I had forgotten there was a cattle grid, and the round section rails were designed to shed footwear downwards. Collie, having slipped through the paved pedestrian gate, turned and smiled.
A keek through the curtains as daylight dawned killed thoughts of a Munro day. Cloud down to 300 metres and wind-driven rain thrown on to the window. This continued through breakfast and gratifyingly took all the pressure off savouring smoked haddock and flavoursome poached eggs. By 10:00 am. however the rain slowly ceased, the wind subsided, the cloud thinned, brightness grew and an irresistible urge to be outdoors developed.
The West Highlands after heavy rain are amazing. Soft moist warm air, seemingly extra rich in oxygen and drawing out all the scents of the landscape. Who could bear to be indoors?
Pushing uphill through wet thigh-high bracken, trousers were quickly soaked. Soaked trousers led to soaked socks and soon each boot had a centimetre or so of fresh Highland water in it. Those of you familiar with Scottish hill-walking will recognise this. After reaching the top of the glen-side slope and scrambling up a craggy crest the glen floor disappeared from view and an, I suspect, seldom visited landscape hoved into view. Undulating moor, peat hags, views to familiar recognisable and previously visited hills - Beinn Tulaichean, Stob Binnean, Beinn More, Beinn Lawers, Beinn Vorlich, Stuc a Chroin, Ben Ledi, Ben Lomond, and all the while brightening sky with patches of blue and shafts of sunlight bringing colour and texture to the hills.
The great thing about a wander through the quieter hill corners of Scotland is the sense of both solitude and place: No waymarkers, no paths, no cairns, and yet there are local areas with a real sense of intimacy and 'presence'. Hollows and bluffs which are home to hefted Blackfaces shy of human contact.
I was drawn by a craggy top named on the map Stob Caol at 734 metres, and spent a good 15 minutes or so there savouring the wilderness views. What a super wee country we're privileged to live in.
A saunter downhill and then across a peat-hag ridden moor brought the glen into view again, and a steep descent to the public road. Some descents seem alarming in their steepness but the sting can always be taken out by careful use of shelves and grassy rakes.
A shared dram in a shared bath, a log fire and a few slices of Inverlochlaraig venison made a perfect end to an idyllic day.
Friday, 21 August 2015
August Day in Assynt
The temporary sign on the gatepost as I parked the car caught my eye, as temporary signs do, and before putting the hill boots on I wandered over to read it.
Ah, stalking! I'd forgotten all about stalking. The sign advised that stalking was taking place and that walkers should contact the estate office for information and be prepared to be flexible in their plans. Worse than that, the stalker was busy offloading the estate Argo-cat from his trailer a mere 20 metres away.
I'd planned a hill day with granddaughter Jasmine, and this threatened the whole arrangement. I'd driven over 90 miles via Dornoch to get to the starting point for Cul Mor, and knew that Jasmine would love that hill. To make matters worse, there it was basking in glorious autumn sunshine above us looking so inviting.
Solemnly, I put the boots on, and resolved to hold a dialogue with the stalker, who had with him another I took to be his client. " Any difficulty if we go on to Cul Mor?", I ventured. To my delight the response was "No, that'll be OK. We're just after an injured hind that was reported to us yesterday. We'll work round you." Great!
With a spring in the step we donned packs, locked the car and headed off, the hill still looking sunny and inviting. The forecast was for grey dull weather, followed by rain, to spread very slowly westwards from the east coast, and Dornoch had been grey as we left it. I'd noticed as we drove west that Beinn Mor Assynt had attracted a layer of thick white cloud with clear air above it, and shortly afterwards a thin layer of white cloud started to steam west off the top of Canisp. At Elphin, cloud was encircling Suilven but Cul Mor was still bright and clear in the sunshne.
As we walked, the drone of the Argo followed us and after a short while we stepped aside to let it pass. A nod of acknowledgement from the stalker. As we gained height and the views opened out, I started to find the incessant drone of its engine an irritation in the otherwise silent scene. Eventually it disappeared over a ridge and the noise fell away.
If you know the approach to Cul Mor, you'll be aware that a fine stalker's path takes walkers well up the hill and, as it fizzles out, a somewhat tedious section follows of marshy wet grass followed by rising featureless stony ground. I found myself pushing firmly on through that tedious section, ungallantly leaving a widening gap between granddaughter and me, partly to get the tedium over (I knew there was a fine view at the top of the section) and partly, I think, to satisfy my curiosity at how the stalker and his assistant (as it turned out to be) were faring in their search for the injured hind. The hill was alive with jumping froglets, and the splashes from the marshy ground cooled my shins. Eventually the tedium was over and one of those natural points for a break hoved into view. I'd wait here for Jasmine.
A short distance south and at the same height my eye caught the stalker and assistant crouched behind a cairn spying through telescope and binoculars. The scene was akin to one from a sporting print. I sidled up to them and enquired how things stood. "We think that's her over there" he nodded. My eye scanned a wide bouldery hollow but saw nothing but grass, boulders and scree. With a quite exceptional skill in guiding an onlooker's eye to a precise location by the use of accurately descriptive vocabulary, he guided me to where a lone deer was lying on the edge of an area of scree towards the right of the hollow. Digging my spy-glass out of the rucksack, I took a closer look. "She was moving a wee while ago, with some difficulty, and has a heavily dunged rear" he said "which probably means she has difficulty splaying out to evacuate the bowel cleanly. We're pretty sure that's her, but I'd prefer to get closer to be certain."
My favoured route to the higher hill from that point is a delightful arc round the edge of the hollow to the foot of the north ridge, up which the route ascends through increasingly steep ground, to culminate in a bouldery clamber to the cairn. I guessed what was coming. "Would you mind taking the route directly to the col? That will let us quietly work our way across the hollow to get a closer look." Of course we wouldn't mind, although disappointed at the route change. The downside is that the col route meant a loss of height initially, followed by something of a toil up a grassy slope beside a burn - not nearly as fine as the boulder ridge with its views to the west.
Off we set, they creeping their way northwards taking cover in hollows and behind bluffs, and we down to the foot of the grassy slope. That slope proved to be hot, sunny and airless, devoid of any inspiring views and something of a sweaty toil. I pondered the hind's injury. Broken leg? Broken hip? How could that come about? A fall down a small cliff perhaps to a bone-shattering stop? Perspiration flowed from forehead to sting the eyes as we pressed onwards and upwards, anticipating a breeze as the higher slope opened out. But that slope had delights which are absent from the favoured ridge: Lushness of summer grass, yellow, blue, white and pink flowers whose names I wish I knew, and the haunting lonely call of the Golden Plover. My thoughts of that mountain beauty were interrupted as a single gunshot echoed around the hill. That must have been the wounded hind then, and now she's in pain no more.
With wonderful timing, our arrival at the coll - a strangely beach-like place of short bright green grass and acres of sand - coincided with our being enveloped by a lump of drifting cloud. We selected a suitable lunch spot and soaked in the magical atmosphere: Slow drifts of white mist coming and going causing hazy sunshine to constantly brighten and fade, and alternately hiding and revealing the slopes around. Odd how small features look gigantic in mist. Even in the mist, wet enough to moisten the hair, we were comfortably warm sitting in light tops. Still the Golden Plover intimated its presence.
Watered and fed, an easy short climb up the west ridge took us to the summit cairn, where we came upon a group of half a dozen walkers sitting in what was now proper cloud. The usual exchanges about "Fine day", "Shame about the mist", "Enjoy your walk" and off we set down the north ridge. How much less enjoyable a steepish boulder field is going down than up. An uneventful descent culminating in a brisk march down the stalker's path to the car ended a fine and memorable day - all the better for a brief insight into the stalker's world and the pleasures discovered via the col ascent.
Drizzling at Rosehall and pouring in Dornoch then home to Inverness and a reflective dram in the bath.
(Picture courtesy of Walkhighlands)
Golden Plover call
Ah, stalking! I'd forgotten all about stalking. The sign advised that stalking was taking place and that walkers should contact the estate office for information and be prepared to be flexible in their plans. Worse than that, the stalker was busy offloading the estate Argo-cat from his trailer a mere 20 metres away.
I'd planned a hill day with granddaughter Jasmine, and this threatened the whole arrangement. I'd driven over 90 miles via Dornoch to get to the starting point for Cul Mor, and knew that Jasmine would love that hill. To make matters worse, there it was basking in glorious autumn sunshine above us looking so inviting.
Solemnly, I put the boots on, and resolved to hold a dialogue with the stalker, who had with him another I took to be his client. " Any difficulty if we go on to Cul Mor?", I ventured. To my delight the response was "No, that'll be OK. We're just after an injured hind that was reported to us yesterday. We'll work round you." Great!
With a spring in the step we donned packs, locked the car and headed off, the hill still looking sunny and inviting. The forecast was for grey dull weather, followed by rain, to spread very slowly westwards from the east coast, and Dornoch had been grey as we left it. I'd noticed as we drove west that Beinn Mor Assynt had attracted a layer of thick white cloud with clear air above it, and shortly afterwards a thin layer of white cloud started to steam west off the top of Canisp. At Elphin, cloud was encircling Suilven but Cul Mor was still bright and clear in the sunshne.
As we walked, the drone of the Argo followed us and after a short while we stepped aside to let it pass. A nod of acknowledgement from the stalker. As we gained height and the views opened out, I started to find the incessant drone of its engine an irritation in the otherwise silent scene. Eventually it disappeared over a ridge and the noise fell away.
If you know the approach to Cul Mor, you'll be aware that a fine stalker's path takes walkers well up the hill and, as it fizzles out, a somewhat tedious section follows of marshy wet grass followed by rising featureless stony ground. I found myself pushing firmly on through that tedious section, ungallantly leaving a widening gap between granddaughter and me, partly to get the tedium over (I knew there was a fine view at the top of the section) and partly, I think, to satisfy my curiosity at how the stalker and his assistant (as it turned out to be) were faring in their search for the injured hind. The hill was alive with jumping froglets, and the splashes from the marshy ground cooled my shins. Eventually the tedium was over and one of those natural points for a break hoved into view. I'd wait here for Jasmine.
A short distance south and at the same height my eye caught the stalker and assistant crouched behind a cairn spying through telescope and binoculars. The scene was akin to one from a sporting print. I sidled up to them and enquired how things stood. "We think that's her over there" he nodded. My eye scanned a wide bouldery hollow but saw nothing but grass, boulders and scree. With a quite exceptional skill in guiding an onlooker's eye to a precise location by the use of accurately descriptive vocabulary, he guided me to where a lone deer was lying on the edge of an area of scree towards the right of the hollow. Digging my spy-glass out of the rucksack, I took a closer look. "She was moving a wee while ago, with some difficulty, and has a heavily dunged rear" he said "which probably means she has difficulty splaying out to evacuate the bowel cleanly. We're pretty sure that's her, but I'd prefer to get closer to be certain."
My favoured route to the higher hill from that point is a delightful arc round the edge of the hollow to the foot of the north ridge, up which the route ascends through increasingly steep ground, to culminate in a bouldery clamber to the cairn. I guessed what was coming. "Would you mind taking the route directly to the col? That will let us quietly work our way across the hollow to get a closer look." Of course we wouldn't mind, although disappointed at the route change. The downside is that the col route meant a loss of height initially, followed by something of a toil up a grassy slope beside a burn - not nearly as fine as the boulder ridge with its views to the west.
Off we set, they creeping their way northwards taking cover in hollows and behind bluffs, and we down to the foot of the grassy slope. That slope proved to be hot, sunny and airless, devoid of any inspiring views and something of a sweaty toil. I pondered the hind's injury. Broken leg? Broken hip? How could that come about? A fall down a small cliff perhaps to a bone-shattering stop? Perspiration flowed from forehead to sting the eyes as we pressed onwards and upwards, anticipating a breeze as the higher slope opened out. But that slope had delights which are absent from the favoured ridge: Lushness of summer grass, yellow, blue, white and pink flowers whose names I wish I knew, and the haunting lonely call of the Golden Plover. My thoughts of that mountain beauty were interrupted as a single gunshot echoed around the hill. That must have been the wounded hind then, and now she's in pain no more.
With wonderful timing, our arrival at the coll - a strangely beach-like place of short bright green grass and acres of sand - coincided with our being enveloped by a lump of drifting cloud. We selected a suitable lunch spot and soaked in the magical atmosphere: Slow drifts of white mist coming and going causing hazy sunshine to constantly brighten and fade, and alternately hiding and revealing the slopes around. Odd how small features look gigantic in mist. Even in the mist, wet enough to moisten the hair, we were comfortably warm sitting in light tops. Still the Golden Plover intimated its presence.
Watered and fed, an easy short climb up the west ridge took us to the summit cairn, where we came upon a group of half a dozen walkers sitting in what was now proper cloud. The usual exchanges about "Fine day", "Shame about the mist", "Enjoy your walk" and off we set down the north ridge. How much less enjoyable a steepish boulder field is going down than up. An uneventful descent culminating in a brisk march down the stalker's path to the car ended a fine and memorable day - all the better for a brief insight into the stalker's world and the pleasures discovered via the col ascent.
Drizzling at Rosehall and pouring in Dornoch then home to Inverness and a reflective dram in the bath.
(Picture courtesy of Walkhighlands)
Golden Plover call
Friday, 24 April 2015
A word in your ear, if I may, Mr Farage.
May I have a quiet word Mr Farage, principally about the Barnett Formula?
To put matters in context let me start by making it clear that I am not in the least anti-English. I love England and relish the diversity of our United Kingdom, just as I relish the diversity of the world we're privileged to inhabit. I am moved by the traditions and culture of England, and hope that they will survive the path that the United Kingdom seems hefted to.
From my perspective here in the vibrant north of Scotland, I feel vulnerable to UK politics severing our nation's links with Europe. We in Scotland have a long tradition of mutually beneficial trade and cultural exchange with Europe and I would not want to see that severed by a small inward-looking part of the UK population.
Today you have seen fit to score a point over the Conservative Party by lamenting the fact that the Prime Minister, in a last ditch attempt to influence the outcome of the Scottish referendum last September, pledged the continuation of the Barnett formula. It is important, I suggest, for you to understand that a great many Scots, particularly those of us who are diligent and hard working, do not particularly feel that we want to be supported by the benevolence and taxes of our cousins in the rest of the United Kingdom.
Finally, if I may, a word on immigration - a subject very dear to your heart. In my home city of Inverness we have welcomed many folks from Eastern Europe. They contribute greatly to our local economy and they realise that a job is not a right but something to be earned by attitude, diligence and effort. They apply themselves to the task in hand with vigour and enthusiasm - attitudes unfortunately lacking in too many UK folks. Most of all I am struck by their determination to be self-supporting. We like to understand a little of their culture, traditions and aspirations.
I understand that you are held in some esteem by folks of similar outlook in the UK but, just as you value your sense of nationality, I value my natural inclusivity and yearning to relate to the world from a Scottish perspective.
To put matters in context let me start by making it clear that I am not in the least anti-English. I love England and relish the diversity of our United Kingdom, just as I relish the diversity of the world we're privileged to inhabit. I am moved by the traditions and culture of England, and hope that they will survive the path that the United Kingdom seems hefted to.
From my perspective here in the vibrant north of Scotland, I feel vulnerable to UK politics severing our nation's links with Europe. We in Scotland have a long tradition of mutually beneficial trade and cultural exchange with Europe and I would not want to see that severed by a small inward-looking part of the UK population.
Today you have seen fit to score a point over the Conservative Party by lamenting the fact that the Prime Minister, in a last ditch attempt to influence the outcome of the Scottish referendum last September, pledged the continuation of the Barnett formula. It is important, I suggest, for you to understand that a great many Scots, particularly those of us who are diligent and hard working, do not particularly feel that we want to be supported by the benevolence and taxes of our cousins in the rest of the United Kingdom.
Finally, if I may, a word on immigration - a subject very dear to your heart. In my home city of Inverness we have welcomed many folks from Eastern Europe. They contribute greatly to our local economy and they realise that a job is not a right but something to be earned by attitude, diligence and effort. They apply themselves to the task in hand with vigour and enthusiasm - attitudes unfortunately lacking in too many UK folks. Most of all I am struck by their determination to be self-supporting. We like to understand a little of their culture, traditions and aspirations.
I understand that you are held in some esteem by folks of similar outlook in the UK but, just as you value your sense of nationality, I value my natural inclusivity and yearning to relate to the world from a Scottish perspective.
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