On a coincidence of my personal and professional worlds

I got a Christmas card and a tin of cookies from my three supervisors. In the card, one of them had written, and I quote with her permission: "You are the crankset of the bicycle that is the youth dept. and I thank you for it."

Thank you, Katie.

Please note that the view expressed here is Katie's and does not necessarily reflect the views of our employer.

On lost cellphones, curries and an early winter

This entry is partly the result of prods from the Maternal Unit.

Riding home from work on Monday of last week, I stopped in the middle of NDG to give directions to a woman in a cowboy hat. This involved pulling out my iPhone to consult a transit app. As I prepared to set off home, I remember a moment of uncertainty when I couldn't find my black gloves which I had removed to use the iPhone. I found them in my crate and set off for home. Around 9 PM, I suddenly realised I didn't know where my iPhone was. I tried phoning it, but I couldn't hear it and I had an uneasy recollection of having set it to silent mode recently. After a search of my messy condo didn't turn it up, I went out and retrace by bike the roughly 4.5 kilometres to where I had last had it. This did not turn up the phone. The trip back was made all the more stressful as my headlamp began to lose its charge. (Recharging it had been on my to-do list for the evening.)

When I got home, I called my mobile service provider to suspend service. I spent an uneasy night, tossing and turning as I mentally debated how soon I should go out and buy a new iPhone between mentally kicking myself for not having activated the "Find my iPhone" function, for having lost the thing in first place and for being so upset at having lost an electronic device. Yes, I am neurotic or something.

I went to work the next morning. However, the lack of sleep and stress led me to leave by mid-afternoon with my sympathetic managers' blessings. When I got home, I found a message on my answering machine with a British woman's accent saying that she had found my cellphone nearby and left a number to call. (While my cellphone is locked by fingerprint, I long ago took a photo my business card and have that displayed as the initial image on my cellphone. Thus if you were to pick up my phone and try to turn it on, you would see my name, addresses (both snail and email) and phone numbers. The logic was to accommodate just such an eventuality.) I phoned the number. She was at home in Westmount (thankfully below Sherbrooke Street). I grabbed the best bottle of wine I had in my wine cellar and rode up to retrieve my iPhone. I did my best to express my gratitude. I am not sure I fully conveyed the full extent of my considerable relief. (I suspect she had been walking her dog when she found it.)

As mentioned previously in this blog, I have returned a number of cellphones over the years, usually found when biking. The Maternal Unit in her prods expressed the opinion that I had easily earned enough karma to allow rapid return.

I then had to go to my mobile service provider in order to restore service. This took a while and by then night had fallen. So I headed off to Hurley's Irish Pub on Crescent Street. This establishment is well known for the best poured pints of Guinness in Montreal. It also does decent pub grub. There was beef curry among the specials, so I opted for that. One of the waitresses said it was good when I placed the order.

It was.

It was, hands down, the best curry I have had that wasn't either in an Indian restaurant or homemade.

That might sound a bit like faint praise, but I have eaten in some very good Indian restaurants (Mother India in Glasgow springs to mind) and I eaten some extremely good homemade curries, some made by my own hand. Also, I have eaten worse curries in Indian restaurants and made far worse curries.  (As well, please note that by "Indian", I mean the Indian sub-continent including Pakistan and Bangladesh. "South Asian" is the PC term.)

I let the staff at Hurley's know my high opinion of the beef curry. This included the manager and/or owner who happened by and who I encouraged to have the curry added to the regular menu. He seemed receptive to my enthusiasm.

The next two days of the week (Wednesday and Thursday) involved biking in some very cold temperatures (-10 C and beyond). The forecast for Friday called for snow, so I brought die Fleddermoose inside on Thursday night. Sure enough, there was easily enough snow to signal an end to biking for the time being. In my particular definition of the seasons, this means winter has come. This is relatively early, given that one year I biked until the Christmas holidays. It also might be temporary the forecast is calling for rain and above zero temperatures on the weekend and following. Still, it feels like winter.

On bikes, lights, further thoughts

For reasons that I am not going to discuss here, I went through a phase of uncertainty which lead me to want to be damn sure I was within the law regarding bike lights in Quebec. I would be bloody embarrassed and bloody angry if, after writing a slight smug post about bike lights, I was to be on the business end of a $127 ticket for riding without a proper light. So yesterday, I went to a police station to check that I had the right information. Unfortunately, I failed to convey that my bike (Floria die Fleddermoose) was fully (and possibly overly) equipped with reflectors and thus having a Light & Motion Vis 360 on my helmet* was not adequate according the officer at the desk.

When I returned home, I looked up the regulations on the SPVM** website. From it I could tell that die Fleddermoose was easily within the requirements vis-à-vis reflectors. However the requirement "[a]t night, every bicycle must also carry, a white headlight or light and one red tail-light, both of which may be flashing" was sufficiently vaguely worded that I was wondering if I had needed to dip into my bag of semi-discarded bike lights to find a couple of MEC turtle lights to make die Fleddermoose legal.  The whole insecurity thing lead me to go back today to the police station and verify with the SPVM that when riding a bicycle compliant with reflector requirements, that if I am wearing a helmet equipped with proper lights, I don't need to put lights on the bicycle itself. Thankfully, this proved to be the case. As well, the officer at the desk wasn't the same one as yesterday so I was spared looking like a crazy person.***

As it was, I had already visited SPVM stations three times in as many days owing having found an iPhone on my way to work on Friday. By my count, it was at least the 8th lost cellphone I have come across since the day I graduated from Library School in 2000, and 4th I came across while biking to work. This is easily worth my time as I would want anyone who found my cellphone to try to return it to me. Also, one time, the cellphone belonged to a real estate agent who was so grateful he gave me a card with $100 in it.

I would like to state that I very firmly support the SPVM's attempt to get cyclists to have proper lights at night. Nothing in my comments should be construed as negativity towards the Montreal Police, only a desire for great clarity. Of course, if I get a ticket for not having the right lights coming home tomorrow, I reserve the right to very, very angry with the SPVM! ;-)

* This incorporates a fairly powerful forward headlamp with rear facing red LEDs in a USB rechargeable battery pack.

**SPVM = Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal

*** Then again, I probably am.

On why it is important to have bike lights at night

Biking home from work yesterday (October 29) at around 6:30 PM, the police were stopping westbound cyclists opposite the Vendôme Metro station. (I was going East.) From the body language, I believe they were doing a safety blitz telling people to have proper lights and reflectors as nights are coming earlier. And I could be wrong.* It is definitely the time for it and there is a lot of need for it.

So it was with some amusement that I saw this CBC news article about two wanted men being nabbed because they were spotted riding their bikes at night with no lights. There is something ironic in this as they drew attention to themselves by not drawing attention to themselves! ;-)

*Addendum:
My route home yesterday (November 1st) took me to the corner of de Maisonneuve and Atwater. There was this sign right next to bike path.

So I think I was right.

Because it didn't fit the flow of the post, I left out that the cyclist behind me in front of Vendome had asked me what I thought the police were up to. When I told him, he concurred and said that he often yelled "Lights!" at unlit cyclists. 

On twin railway stations

Not for the first time, my bike travels in the UK have taken me to the St Pancras YHA which is kitty corner to St Pancras Railway Station. In turn the latter is across a side street from King's Cross Railway Station.  The rationale for having two major railway stations one beside the other goes back to the late 19th century.

In the second half of the 20th century, St-Pancras was considered redundant by British Rail. It was allowed to run down, in favour of King's Cross. In his book, The Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul, Douglas Adams describes it as deary, but beautiful place for lost souls, including minor Norse deities. It was also an entry point to Valhalla. Even into the 21st Century it was decaying. However, it was revived by being selected to be the endpoint of Eurostar and thus was re-baptised St-Pancras International. The choice of St Pancras eludes me, as I would have thought one of the Southern railway stations. Victoria or Waterloo would seem more logical. However, the upshot is that St Pancras was given not only a new lease on life, but also a significant amount of sprucing up, to the point that it now seems to be the posh railway station in London. It feels posher than the other ones I have visited in the last year (Paddington, Euston, King's Cross, Marylebone and Victoria.) This may be partly connected to the attached St Pancras Hotel which among the cars parked outside was a McLaren sportscar.

King's Cross Railway Station did not escape notoriety in late 20th literature either. If anything, it was more subject to it to the point that there is a shop dedicated to the mythical platform 9 3/4 as mentioned in the Harry Potter books. There is a luggage trolley embedded in the wall for tourist to be photographed with. Long lineups form for such devotees. I was not among them. I did buy a postcard for Alisa, as she is a devotee of Harry Potter.

On wheels, canals, tunnels and Kelpies

On the train to Edinburgh, I dug out my cycling map of the area as I had the plan of leaving the bulk of my clobber at the train station before catching a train to Falkirk as it was a weekday and I could not expect Donald or Dominique would take time off to greet me. (I would be staying with them.) Looking at the map and listening to routine announcements, I realized that the train I was on would stop in Falkirk. I checked with a member of the train staff about the logistics of getting off the train in Falkirk. The hitch was that the platform in Falkirk was too short, so would have get the bike out of the bike space and put it in the forward vestibule of coach F for Foxtrot while the train was stopped in Stirling. This I did but it was stressful to run back and forth on the platform.

From the station in Falkirk, I found the Forth and Clyde Canal and followed it west to the Falkirk Wheel. It raises boats from the level of the Forth and Clyde Canal to that of the Union Canal. It is a brilliantly simple exercise in engineering, modern art and tourism. All three elements are at play at multiple levels.

It is also located at part of the Antonine Wall. Constructed on the orders of Roman Emperor Antoninus Pius, it was an earthen version of the more famous Hadrian’s Wall. However, for various reasons, it was abandoned in a favour of the more southerly location. Unfortunately, it was poorly signed so I wound up following the new Interchange Canal between the Forth and Clyde and the Union canals through Scotland’s second canal tunnel. At the other end, I turned East on the Union Canal’s towpath, in search of the Antonine Wall site which my maps said was close but which Google Maps couldn’t locate. I went through the first Scottish canal tunnel which a panel cheerfully described as having been worked on by Burke and Hare before they started killing people for the anatomists. The towpath was narrow enough and slippery enough that I walked the bike through.

Coming out the other side, I deduced I had missed the Antonine Wall, so I headed towards the town centre for lunch. Afterwards, I headed back towards the Wheel by road and managed to find the site. The wall and ditch isn’t hugely impressive except for the fact that it is there after nearly two thousand years. Even today, in its present, eroded form, it would slow down a horde of ravening Picts, giving the Roman Legion a better chance. Also, the fact the Romans could build it probably suggested to the wiser Picts that the Romans had a superior power of organisation.

I took the F&C canal East to the Kelpies. These massive horses’ heads are of a piece with the Falkirk wheel in their being Millennium projects and being clad in stainless steel. The Kelpies differ from the Wheel in that they don’t have an inherent practical function. I caught a train into Edinburgh. It was still too early to get to Donald and Dominique’s, so I paid a visit to Cadenhead's Whiskey Shop. There were a number of people there. While trying to make up my mind about what to buy, I overheard a clerk explaining to an American couple that Campbeltown was a well regarded whisky region with three distilleries. I couldn’t resist voicing the observation: “Yes, and two of them are owned by the same company that owns this place! But they make very good whisky!”

After some shopping both there and elsewhere, it was time to head over to the New Town to Donald and Dominique’s house. As luck would have it, Donald and their youngest daughter were just getting out of a cab as I arrived. I was made at home in their gorgeous Georgian home. I think the room they put me in has half the floor space of my condo and, with its high ceilings, the same volume! It is a grand residence.

Today, I slept in, had breakfast and lazed until a little after noon, when I bid my farewells and cranked up and over to Waverley Station to catch a fast train to London. As luck would have it, my seat was in coach F for Foxtrot in the parlance of LNER. As well, I had window looking East, so had the chance to replay in reverse my trip prior to Edinburgh.

I had supper tonight in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub, as rebuilt in 1667. It has frequently by Charles Dickens, Dr. Johnson and Charles II if memory serves. And of course countless others. I ended up in a Gothic vaulted undercroft adjacent to its Wine Cellar Bar room. It was packed, as might be expected on a nice evening on a Saturday night on the first of September.

On travels by ferry and train

After supper in the Ferry Inn in Stromness, a chance remark about the difference between a ketch and a yawl resulted in me chatting with a Brit living in Wales with the improbable name Vasco (he was half Portuguese) and an American woman named Sofia (a cycle-tourist). She was involved in education in San Francisco. This is relevant as the conversation drifted on to the topic of second or dual language education in schools. The three of us each had differing experiences on the subject. In some way, I had the broadest knowledge having experienced the school system in Quebec and California. She was amused by my account of how the vice-principal at La Cumbré Junior High warned me that as a non-Latino, I would in the minority. This provoked giggles from my mother and I, as an anglophone, I had been a minority student for the previous six years.

The next morning, I caught the ferry to Thurso. I realized that the jaunt to the Orkneys had been poorly planned as it was far too short. Next time, I should plan on at least a week! The last vehicle off the ferry was a Porsche Convertible that was on a mission to visit all the RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) stations in as short a time as possible. The day was like the one before with bright sunshine, wind and light rain that came in short bouts.

There was a distinct swell on the sea which allowed me to wonder at how the seabirds glided just inches above the rising and falling water. I caught sight of a pod of dolphins which I called out to the other people in the quiet lounge. (I was technically breaking the rules but as the response from the patrons was a genuine “thank you for letting us know”, I think that I was justified.) I say dolphin in the sense that they were members of the dolphin family, but I am not sure which species, as we didn’t get that long a look at them. I saw one leap out of the water and my memory was that it was largely black with a blunt head. That would make it a pilot whale. However, it was silhouetted against a bright, sun reflecting sea so I may be mistaken. Someone else said they were common dolphins.

In theory, I had 33 minutes to get from the ferry terminal to the train station. Google Maps said it would take 15 minutes. However, both are not guaranteed owing to the vagaries of wind, weather and tide, the ferry being particularly subject to all three. I was therefore anxious to make a rapid departure from the ferry. Luckily, the bike parking spot was nearest to the exit doors and the drill was bikes get off first. The only downside of this was that I didn’t have time to gawk at what I think were a pair of Alfa Romeo Montreals, a type of car designed in response to Expo 67. Once off the ferry, I cranked hard to the train station which despite a wrong turn, I got to in...fifteen minutes! I could have stopped in the town centre of Thurso to buy a sandwich for lunch.

As it was, I lunched on Orkney cheddar and oatcakes as North East Scotland went by. The grey seals were again on their beach, which contrary to a previous entry was not on Cromarty Firth but somewhat further North. (I will correct the error at a later date.)

I caught the train to Edinburgh this morning. I was disconcerted to see a party of young men in Hawaiian shirts sitting a table with a case of Corona and an excessive number bottles of spirits of a flashy nature. This included a round tray box full of miniature bottles of assorted vodka shooters. They also had a bottle of Crystal Skull vodka. Despite the train having left at 7:55 AM, they started in on the drinking. I guessed they were a stag party. They were already sufficiently noisy to the point that not only that I didn’t ask if they knew that Crystal Skull is a joint venture involving both Dan Ackryod and the Newfoundland Liquor Commission but I decided to find a seat in another coach, most notably the quiet coach which also has the benefit of being closer to the bike. I inquired with a crew member about the rules about bringing your own booze on board. Unlike Via Rail, there is no restrictions beyond responsible behaviour.

Crossing through the mountains was gorgeous with just the right combination of sun and mist. As well, there were familiar sights from when I biked along this route on an earlier trip. (The railway, the motorway and NCN route 7 all follow the same path.) One sight was the Ruthven Barracks. If I remember correctly, my best friend James is connected with the Ruthven family.

On eagles ancient and new

I caught the early passenger ferry from John O’Groats to Burwick. The crossing was witnessed by some grey seals. It involved not getting run down by the Amundsen Spirit, 66 thousand ton crude oil tanker.

From Burwick, it was a quick ride to the Tomb of the Eagles. This was a chambered tomb from the Skara Brae culture and thus roughly 5000 years old. Its’ name comes from the number of eagle bones found in it. The culture appears to have practiced what is sometimes termed sky burial at first (or leaving the bodies out for birds to eat) followed by actual burial once the bones were picked clean. It had been discovered by a local farmer and amateur archeologist. The place was privately run, so we were allowed and encouraged to handle some of the artifacts! One of these was a toe bone from a white-tailed eagle (or haliaeetus albicilla or sea-eagle). There was also the Burnt Mound which consisted of the remains of a Bronze Age building of uncertain function, but was probably something akin to a sauna or sweat lodge in my opinion. (The description of why is too long and boring.) Next to it was a large midden that consisted heavily of peat ash. Next it was a shed which had started life as a German WWII ambulance before being converted into a mobile home and used on a trip around the Sahara! It eventually wound up being used as a shed by the person discovered the place!

The Tomb of the Eagles was located on a cliff top overlooking the coast. Walking back along the cliff top path, I passed a cove cut into the cliffs. I saw at least four grey seals floating in the water.

From there, I had a short ride to the Tomb of the Otters. This was identified as interesting in 2010. Some of the stones had been seen when the mound they were part of had been removed to make a car park for a restaurant. The owner had asked archeologists if the stones were significant and had been told no. Several years later, he investigated by himself by inserting a camera. There was a skull in evidence which resulted in a “I told you so.” The Tomb has only been partially excavated but is already proving unusual as the entrance way faces North, rather than South as is more common for such tombs. Also, it is partially excavated from the bedrock. Rather than being “buried in the sky”, the bodies were left underground to be eaten by otters as evidenced by old otter scat, hence the name. The young and somewhat uncertain man presenting the background and some artifacts, told the party (three young Americans and myself that DNA found in the teeth was being analyzed by specialists in ancient human DNA in Copenhagen. They are due to present their results next year. As we were being educated, an older man was bringing in supplies for the bistro. He overheard my comment that the experts likely had the data by now and were likely figuring out what it meant. He took exception to this and said they were world renowned experts so they did not need “to figure things out.” It turned out that he was Hamish, the man who made the discovery! I must confess, I found him somewhat limited in the processes of academia. While the experts can say that the people were of X genetic stock and are fairly closely related to Y group of modern Europeans, those results are not the be-all and end-all of the the process. Were I involved, I would want to think about what the data implies. For example, if the genetic analysis suggested a relationship with ancient Egyptians, there would be one hell of a need to first double check the results and second, come up with a theory or two. On the other hand, if it turns out they were Basque, a phone call to warn the Home Office about potential ETA claims to North Sea oil revenues might be in order. ;-)

Anyway, the partially excavated tomb was only large enough for three at a time, and not that comfortably at that. Particularly when thinking about what might lie undiscovered. I was intrigued by the fact that clay had been used as mortar, unlike Skara Bray and Maes Howe. However, my claustrophobia and I were glad to get out. Still, it was a fascinating tour. The bistro was a handy place for lunch.

I made a wind-assisted zoom to the Kirkwall SYHA. I stopped at the 58 8’ fruit winery and rum distillery to sample fruit liqueurs and J. Gow spiced rum. (Captain Gow was an particularly unsuccessful Scottish pirate.) Unfortunately, there wasn’t a bottle worth its duty allowance for sale. Especially the Tattie liqueur. I double checked my Scots with the saleswoman that it was indeed a potato derived drink. I smelt the contents and decided against tasting it.

Possibly on the strength of the spirits consumed, after changing at the youth hostel, I set off on quest to procure an Orkaidian flag. (Picture a Scandinavian flag where the background is red and the cross is blue with a yellow surround.) I was very nearly overly successful. I came upon a bike store (and Warhammer game outlet) that I visited the last time I was here. In the window was a biking jersey patterned after the Orkney flag. It met my high-viz requirements. Had there been any in stock in my size, I would have bought one. Unfortunately, all they had was XXXL. I am not that fat. I did find a flag.

Down on the waterfront, I moseyed around before entering the premises of Kirkjuvag, a local gin distillery (gin is having a renaissance in the UK. Also, Kirkjuvag is the Norse for Kirkwall.) I tried their gin with tonic as it was cocktail hour. While I sipped, a pair of New Zealanders came in with a lot of clobber. Closer examination revealed part of it to be diving gear. We chatted and it emerged they had been wreck diving in Scapa Flow. They were killing time before their ferry to the Shetlands. Eventually, the staff said that they would be closing in a few minutes. (It was a store, not a pub after all.) We finished our drinks and left.

I wandered about cross-checking various restaurant menus with my guidebook and tastes. I settled on the Bothy Bar which is part of the Albert Hotel on the grounds they served lamb which is strangely hard to find outside an Indian restaurant. As luck would have it, the Kiwis came in as well! After supper, I retired to the Hostel and finished reading the Orkneyinga Saga about the earls of Orkney. This proved relevant.

This morning, I set off for Houton in order to catch a ferry to the island of Hoy. I missed one ferry by about ten minutes, so I had time to go to a museum about the Saga in Ophir. It was built there as it was the site of one episode of the saga when during a feast one Svein got upset that another Svein’s drinking horn was larger than his and therefore it gave him an unfair advantage in the competitive drinking that was a feature of Norse feasts. This resulted in hurt feelings and later a death. Bear in mind that these are Christian Norsemen! Behind the museum there was the ruins of a round church and the drinking hall. Or at least what is thought to be the hall. However, the ruins of the hall seemed far too small to have been the scene of the events. There was also the remains of a small round church.

The weather was bright and windy. Alas, it was blowing in the wrong direction. It rained from time to time but only briefly and lightly. As I could see a long way, I knew not only that the rain was coming but also it would only be a short shower. When the ferry got back, I was the first to get on. The next was a dump truck with a load of gravel. That was it! The ferry had space for many more but evidently, this wasn’t a popular sailing.

Hoy is the Norse word for "High". So the Island of Hoy is named after its high hills, the highest in the Orkneys. It is distinctly hilly coming close to mountainous. Certainly quite steep, with cliffs in evidence. It was also home of the museum dealing with the history of Scapa Flow as a naval base. Unfortunately, the museum was closed for renovations and the temporary exhibition in a nearby hotel wasn’t as deep as I would have hoped.

After lunch at Emily’s Tearoom, populated by fit retirees in trekking gear, I headed towards the North End of the Island, alternately helped and hindered by the wind. There was a feeling that I often get in rural Scotland of being caught being between the old and the new. A landscape that feels primitive yet has been lived in for millenia. Maybe that was Diana Gabaldon was tapping into when she started Outlander, being in both the past present. The feeling was reinforced by the sight of an old telegraph pole which someone had topped with an orange traffic cone.

At a col, there was a lonely grave and plaque explaining its meaning. In the 1770s, a young woman had committed suicide. As this was a sin at the time, she was buried in an unmarked grave, in un-sanctified ground at the border of two parishes. Her coffin and well preserved body was found by accident by peat cutters in the 1930s. After a time, she was given a proper burial and a tombstone.

A little before the ferry dock, I turned up a valley to reach the Dwarfie Stane parking lot where the RSPB has set up an eagle watch station. White-tailed eagles have this year hatched and fledged their first chicks on the Orkney's in over 140 years. The RSPB is very happy about this, but want to make damn sure some wanker doesn’t muck things up. So, they have someone keeping an eye on the eagles. I am not sure if she was a volunteer or was paid but there was a young woman with two spotting scopes on tripods there. In addition to keeping track of the eagles activities, she was there to educate the public, not to mention point out where the eagles actually were. The nesting site was at the top of a cliff quite a distance away, on the other side of the valley. When the juveniles were in flight, they could easily be mistaken for crows. When perched, they tended to blend in with the vegetation, even when using the spotting scopes. The wing tags the RSPB had fitted on them helped make them more obvious. Really fun to see. I feel very lucky, nay, privileged.

On a scenic train ride and proper French

The train North from Inverness went faster than the actual time it took. There was plenty of scenery to gaze at as well as wildlife. Somewhere along the coast the track came close enough to a beach to disturb a considerable number of grey seals who were sunbathing. They stampeded into the sea. I am half-convinced I heard their cries of alarm over the sound of the train. Farther North, I saw a red deer and her calf on the moors of Caithness. The train to Wick stops at a junction station, then reverses direction into Thurso. (The train was a diesel multiple unit (or DMU (Budd cars were DMUs)) with cabs at either end of the two car train.) At Thurso, the bulk of the passengers disembarked. One exception was a party of older people who had failed to exit the train in time. I gather they had tried to exit through an inactive door. Despite their pleas, the train departed, a slave to schedule. They remonstrated with a member of the crew who seemed to provide a solution. The train returned to the junction station where the party got off.

It was then off to Wick and one extremity of the British rail system. (Actually, it was only a passenger extremity as biking North to John O’Groats, I passed a bit of freight railway some miles to the North.) The ride to John O’Groats went very well. The open spaces and the sunny weather gave the afternoon a “Bring me that horizon feel”, even if the destination was a definite end point and the distance was only 17 miles. I guess it was the contrast with the day before.

When I stopped in Nairn yesterday for an afternoon snack, an employee of the establishment was have a smoke under an awning out of the rain. When she saw me arriving, she moved a sandwich board so that Leonardo might rest out of the rain. When I came out after a hot chocolate and a chocolate tiffin slice, there was a French-speaking couple examining the menu in the window. They were in front the bike, so I asked them politely to take a step back so I could get my bike. I did it so in French, bien sur. As I had come out of the establishment they were contemplating and I obviously spoke acceptable French, they questioned me about how good it was. I said I could only say that I had only had “un chocolat chaud et un gâterie” but they were good. There was a discussion of “le bon français” term, or more accurately, I apologised for not knowing what the right term was. We agreed that “patisserie” or “gâterie” were acceptable terms for a nonspecific confectionery.

Tomb of the Eagles tomorrow! And the weather looks good, touch wood. Also, this is post number 700.

On a wet day with a sad ending

I started somewhat late. Heading West on the NCN 1, I was passed by a great number of Ride the North cyclists, many of whom offered greetings which I was morally obliged to respond to. Getting bored with “Morning” I started changing it up with “Bonjour”, “Buenos dias”, “G’day” and “Howdy.” ;-) I asked a volunteer how many cyclists there were in the event. The answer was upwards of nine hundred.
 I stopped in Elgin to visit the ruined cathedral, complete with Scotland’s only octagonal chapter house. This took time, but it did get me out of the stream of cyclists.

It began to rain in earnest a little short of Kinloss. I stopped for lunch at a café at East Grange. It kept raining for the rest of the day. At Nairn, I left the NCN 1 for B9091, which was a simpler and more direct route. It became the B9006. I observed that the number could be flipped and still read the same.

I made Inverness where I had to navigate a new college or university campus whose signs were mostly in Gaelic, mostly to be annoying I suspect. I found the large SYHA hostel and checked into my dorm. I was soon joined by two young Indians and a Belorussian.

After a shower, I headed into Inverness to find the Blackfriars Pub has closed. Very disappointing.

Tomorrow, I catch a train to Wick. The choice is pretty much a choice over Thurso so I can say that I have been to one extreme point of the British rail system.

On contrary winds and overly scenic roads

Before I recount today’s events, I will digress on architecture and dogs.

 Buildings in Aberdeen were often built of a local granite which has been misused to a certain extent. The stone is a pale grey of no particular distinction. The problem arises from how much the stone is used and how little variation in the stonework there is from building to building. I got the feeling they all used the same sized blocks from the quarry and simply stacked them up. The uniformity was likely part of the plan by the three architects largely responsible for the look of Aberdeen which ends up as cold uniformity and somehow unfinished. I was trying decide how the stone could be made more interesting and came up with building with courses of stone of varied thickness or finishes. That or paint the stone. Something like this was done in the Fraserburgh area.

There was a Doonesbury cartoon in which the defining characteristic of the British gentleman was described as his love of dogs. This has come across on this trip as I have noticed a lot places with signs indicating their dog friendliness. Sometimes, it is expressed as “We are very sorry...” but often it is something setting reasonable conditions such as “on leads, please” or “not on the furniture, please.” I have been impressed by the good behaviour of the dogs and their owners I have passed on bike paths.

Today was sunny and nearly cold much of the time. It was also quite windy from the West. This made for a gruelling ride as I was headed Westwards for much of the day. As well, I rode through some stunning countryside which in Scotland is code for hilly and mountainous. It was particularly draining as I thought I had about a 100 km to go today, and therefore I was bemoaning my slow pace. I arrived in the twin towns of Macduff and Banff. The route between them was beside the sea and as I was on the sidewalk which was on the seaward side, I got some salt spray on me as the waves were high and crashing.

Banff made me think of the old Magnum P.I. TV show as it turns out that Higgins is the hereditary Baron of Banff. It wasn’t a particularly appealing town, leading me to think that there was the reason he decamped to Hawaii! I had lunch in bakery in Portsoy. A conversation with one of the staff lead me to double check the distance to my bed. This lead to two things. The first was that I realised that I had overestimated the distance. The second was that I had been lead astray in my identification of just where my bed was. The Brits have an annoying habit of lumping towns and villages together so something might have the address of Village A, Town B, the two being separate by five miles or more. Thus I thought my hotel was in Forchabers rather than Garmouth. Thankfully, I was sufficiently far away that it didn’t matter.

Thus, I left Portsoy with less of a distance to ride and less of a regard for my planning skills. I had rejoined the NCN 1, which I used in when it suited me. In Cullen (home of Cullen Skink), the NCN got on a spectacular railway viaduct. It had three arched sections. I read somewhere that the railway had had to build the viaduct as Lord and Lady Something didn’t want the railway crossing their land.

At Portgordon, I started to see runners wearing numbered bibs. There were volunteers along the way, so I stopped to ask one of them what the event was. It was an ultra-marathon sponsored by a distillery. As we chatted, two competitors ran past. The volunteer called out a friendly “Are we having fun?” To which the answer was “No!”

 I should have been faster on the draw, but just past Portgordon, I saw I was on Beaufighter Road. That particular area was remarkably flat. It was also home to young trees and an industrial park. The penny dropped a little later when I saw large expanses of partly overgrown concrete pavement. I was riding across an abandoned WW II airfield. The Bristol Beaufighter was a British aircraft design used for night fighting, ground attack and maritime strike. The young trees indicate nature taking its course and the industrial park suggests it wasn’t wanted or suitable for farming or housing. I latter found out it was called Dallachy.

I got to my hotel in Garmouth fairly early. After a half pint and a shower, I had a nap. When I returned to the bar for supper, I noticed several women in biking Lycra and bibs for the Great North Ride. I asked one where they had started this morning. The answer was Aberdeen! She had ridden 85 miles or so! They will ride back tomorrow.

 I feel like a wimp. I tell myself that they were on lightweight road bikes and weren’t carrying a lot of clobber. (I later confirmed this point.)

The multiplicity of athletic events in these parts this weekend sheds light on part of my issues today. I believe my original destination for today was Elgin. However, I couldn’t find an available bed there. At the time, I thought it was because today is a Saturday. Now I wonder if it was because of all the amateur athletes wanting beds for their sporting events.

On rolling the Dyce

I wasn’t feeling in the mood being touristy yesterday, so all I did on that front was to visit the Aberdeen Maritime Museum. It was about fishing, a bit about clippers and a lot about the offshore oil industry. One very interesting bit was a video about the helicopter flights out to the rigs. It seems Aberdeen Airport has a large number of helicopter movements.

I returned to the Youth Hostel to give Leonardo some well deserved TLC. I was working on the drive near the front door when a gent asked me if I was doing repairs. I said: No, I am just doing maintenance.

In the early evening, I was sitting in the Grill pub, contemplating the maps I would be using to get to Rosehearty, when the person sitting beside me asked about my bike trip, having noticed both my helmet and the Sustrans map. We fell to chatting. He was a Welshman who had worked in Aberdeen, but now lived in Houston. He was back on a business trip. I asked the obvious question to which he admitted that yes, he worked for the oil industry. He also said he was glad I was still using paper maps. I gave him a sheepish grin and a nutshell account of the day before.

As I was leaving the pub, I overheard a Brit complaining: “Only in Scotland: it’s raining and sunny at the same time.”

It was getting dark after supper, so I walked the bike back to the hostel. As I neared it, I was approached by a young man coming from the hostel. He inquired if I had a bicycle pump. (My thinking is that he had asked the staff at the hostel if they had a bike pump and been told something like: “No but there is a well-equipped bike tourer staying here who might have one and be prepared to lend it” followed by a general description of yours truly.)

Being someone of a helpful disposition and someone who has had the help of strangers, I cheerfully put the pump at his disposal. He turned out to be from Marseille. He had just arrived with his Peugeot bike. It was something of a vintage affair, possibly older than he was as it had gear leavers on the down bar. It was obviously a road bike, judging from its skinny tires but someone had replaced the handlebars with a hybrid style set of straight bars. It had no racks for panniers. (He was going to use a backpack.) In my conversation with the young man (early twenties) it emerged he had just arrived by air (hence the lack of air in his tires) and was heading off the next day. To where? Oh, I was thinking of Inverness or possibly Aviemore. This set off alarm bells. I explained that was heading to Inverness, but I had planned on three days. (Admittedly, I was going to take a relatively scenic route.) I asked if he had bikes in the UK before, to which he said “no.”

I therefore, asked him to come with me so I could show him some of the potential flaws in his plan by spreading out my maps for him. I also warned him about how it can be tricky to get on a train with a bike owing to limited spaces. As well, I noted the approach of the weekend and the consequent shortage of accommodation. I hope I sounded like I was giving constructive cautions rather than being a naysayer.

The next day seemed bright to me as I got ready, but the friendly young Scotsman at the reception seemed to think it was going to cloud over. I recounted my anecdote about rolling the the weather dice from the Gigha ferry.

From the Hostel, I made my way downtown to where I picked up the NCN 1. It took me through Old Aberbeen and the University on torturous cobbles then by poorly signed roads to the Dyce Railway Station which adjoins Aberdeen Airport. I can confirm a heavy traffic in helicopters as used to supply oil rigs.

The station was also the point where I got on the Formatine & Buchan Way. This is a multi-use path (bikes, pedestrians and horse riders) built on the rail bed of the Formatine & Buchan Railway which from Dyce to Fraserburgh and Peterhead before being done away with by Beeching (though it remained in freight use until 1979).

The NCN 1 used parts of it, other sections being deemed too rough. (Which makes me wonder why they routed the NCN 1 over the cobbles of Old Aberdeen.) Apart from a flooded bit 2.5 miles before Strichen, it was quite alright for Leonardo on tough 37mm wide tires.

The weather was annoying as it was mostly sunny but cool with a somewhat contrary wind. The annoying bit was that it would start raining for a few minutes before stopping. Furthermore, it seemed the hardest rain happened when I was in sunshine! Somehow, I was getting wild results from my dice rolls.

At Maud, I came across the former junction between the Fraserburgh and Peterhead lines at a station that had four platforms. I made Fraserburgh a shade too late to visit the Scottish Lighthouses Museum. From there, I made slowish progress against the wind to Rosehearty and my hotel. As I was walking to get supper, I saw a man putting up signs for some sort of event which included a “Warning Cyclists” sign. Intrigued, I asked what it was about. It seems there is a “bike, run or walk” event happening tomorrow! I don’t feel the urge to sign up.

On old abbeys and castles and new motorways

It was raining when I left the Auld Brewhouse where I had spent the night. I rode up to Arbroath Abbey where I spent too long looking at the heavily plundered stone and contemplating the Declaration of Arbroath and its significance.

It stopped raining by the time I left, which was far too late. I used a fair bit of NCN 1 as I made my way along the coast. I had a quick lunch in Montrose, as I wanted to get to Dunnottar Castle in time for a visit. Before leaving the town, I made the fatal error of applying sunscreen. This tempted fate into causing it to fog over for a good bit.

Dunnottar Castle was well chosen as a defensive site. It sits on an isolated rock on the coast which is hard to access on foot whilst unopposed. It would have been extremely difficult if the occupants resisted. 

Not impossible as at least twice it has fallen. The first time it was taken was by William Wallace in what was probably a sneak attack. He promptly burnt the English garrison to death in the chapel. This probably justifies the English later hanging, drawing and quartering him. 

The second time was when Oliver Cromwell and company besieged the place trying to get their hands on the Scottish Crown Jewels. They failed to get the jewels as the wily Scots managed to smuggle them out somehow before the Castle fell. There is a diorama of the siege in Castle which shows two impressive gun batteries in the Castle. This surprised me as I thought it would be a pain just to get food, etc. to the Castle. They must have been very determined and clever to haul a dozen canons up. Then again, it must have taken a lot of effort to build the place as the stones themselves would have had to have been carried by hand or garron up the narrow paths.

This last element helped preserve the site after the last occupants were on the wrong side of 1715 with predictable consequences. The difficult access made it relatively little used as source of stone for locals, very much unlike Arbroath Abbey, of which very little remains in situ.

Another infamous bit of history was the time 177 men and women were imprisoned for months in a cellar for refusing to acknowledge the king as the head of the church. Most did not survive the experience or being shipped to the New World for penal servitude. They were fools in my opinion. Then again, my ancestors' motto seems to have been: “When it comes time to sell out, get a good price.”

Dunnottar was a shock as it was heavily patronized by foreign tourists. I know I heard Spanish, French, Dutch, German and Italian being spoken. Other languages, distinctly possible.

There was a lovely hill down to Stonehaven from Dunnottar Castle. This might have lured me into a bad choice. I was tempted to catch a train the rest of the way into Aberdeen, but I didn’t, confident that I would make it guided by my road map, Google Maps on the iPhone and the NCN. The basis of what went wrong showed up just outside of Stonehaven in the form a nearly completed motorway running North. It wasn’t open, but not only was it not on my road map, I was later to discover the Google Maps didn’t know about it. The NCN route took me through a maze of back roads, that at times went against my instincts. Nearing Aberdeen, I chose to believe Google Maps over it. After a longish downhill, I ended up on a dead end caused by the new motorway. The easiest way out turned out to be the very busy A90. I was sufficiently tired that I didn’t give a damn about the high speed traffic: it lead to Aberdeen and it was downhill. I was soon doing 50 km/h. 

I found the hostel at about 6:30. I was disappointed to find my room was on the top floor which owing to poor planning, meant three trips up before I could shower, then check Google for the nearest place to eat. Thankfully, that was just across the street, as I have rarely felt so exhausted.

Thankfully, today is a rest day as I am still exhausted.

After doing laundry this morning, my first stop was to get the NCN map for Aberdeenshire. As Mummy has commented to me, I have been using the NCN more this trip than on other trips to the UK. There are several reasons for this. The first is that I happen to have chosen a route that the NCN has mapped. Note the frequency of references to NCN route 1. This is a major route which many cyclists have done before me. As well, I am traveling in areas well equipped with backroads, but less so with signs. Furthermore, I now require reading glasses to read maps, so on-the-fly map reading is a thing of the past. I now bike with reading glasses around my neck. All this to say that the NCN is now more useful to me now than before.

On frigates versus research vessels

Last night as I was entering the hotel restaurant where I had supper, I noticed a car with a odd looking license plate. On the left most side, highlighted in red where the letters “GBM”. Usually that spot indicates the country of origin. I took a second look and noticed that in finer print there was “Isle of Man” written. It was a Manx car! The owner happened by and noticed my curiosity. He was evidently used to people being interested in his number plate as he pointed out that the red surround was because the Isle of Man isn’t in the EU. EU countries would have a blue surround around the national letters. I must check with Mark what the abbreviation for Jersey is.

Today started misty and grey. Blessedly, there were fewer hills today and they were at the start of the day. As well, the NCN navigation was simpler. The first part of the day was dominated by country roads.

The bridge between Newport-on-Tay and Dundee was oddly laid out as the biking and walking path was between the lanes of traffic! On the Newport end, access was by a ramp. At the Dundee end there were stairs and an elevator. I had lunch at the café serving a museum about RRS (Royal Research Ship) Discovery which was docked next to it. RRS Discovery was involved in South Polar exploration. I didn’t go in as I wanted spend my time on HMS Unicorn.

The latter was a frigate built on spec after the Napoleonic Wars. It was never commissioned but lay in ordinary (storage) in the hopes of a war. It was used until 1962 in variations on the theme of accommodation and training ship. For a while it was renamed HMS Crecy to release the name for an aircraft carrier. When the carrier was retired at the end of the 1950s, the name was given back. As well, the carrier’s bell and battle honours were transferred to the frigate. It was interesting to see a ship more or less out of Patrick O’Brien in the flesh. It also reinforced my gratitude at not being forced to serve on such ship. There wasn’t a proper deck on which I could walk upright. I found the orlop deck a particular challenge to navigate, bent double the whole time.

From Dundee, the NCN took me along the seashore for the most part. One bit that wasn’t along shore was a section wedged between an active railway and an active Ministry of Defence firing range. The active part of the latter was indicated by red flags. I am in Arbroath tonight. I had a disappointing smokie for supper followed by a very good cloutie dumpling.

On Culross

After thanking Mary profusely, I set off into the cool morning. Wielding my Sustrans map, I cunningly managed to get on NCN route 1 which got me over the Forth Road Bridge. This was curiously empty apart from buses and taxis. Most traffic was on the new bridge whose name escapes me. It was just to the West, while the East was the iconic and proverbial Forth Railway Bridge which pleasantly had trains go across it while I watched. They were only three car locals, so they looked disproportionately small vis-à-vis the overbuilt tubes of the rail bridge. (The Forth Rail Bridge was designed shortly after the Tay Bridge disaster. Consequently, the engineers were over cautious.)

I then hung a left towards Rosyth where I caught sight of The HMS Prince of Wales, a new aircraft carrier being fitted out. Its twin islands are a distinctive feature of the class.

I stopped at the Ship Inn in Limekilns for a coffee. After the barmaid’s first attempt at a latte was far too weak, she became very apologetic. I dismissed it saying that far worse had happened on my trip than a weak latte. She asked what?, to which a replied the rain yesterday. We had a nice chat. The Ship Inn is a small place with probably a hundred or so labels of guest craft beers hanging from the beams. This is particularly impressive as the place only has three pumps for guest beers!

My goal was the National Trust for Scotland town of Culross. It has been restored to something vaguely approximately its glory days in the late 16th century when a George Bruce bought the coal mining rights from the Cistercian Priory, using the latest in high tech mining technology (a horse powered bucket chain) he made a lot of money and convinced James VI to make Culross a royal burgh. This gave George the opportunity to make more money. The good times came to an end when a storm flooded the mine (which extended under the Forth) and Sir George (as he had become) died in the same year. Culross declined after that until being preserved and restored by the National Trust starting in the 1930s.

There occurred to me afterwards, that there was a problem or at least curious things with the above narrative as provided by the NTS. George Bruce bought the concession from the Cistercians in 1575, which was after the installation of Protestantism in Scotland. I need to investigate who actually sold him the mining rights.

Anyway, thanks to the National Trust Cultoss is now a preserved town with some streets cobbled in such a manner as make the Paris-Roubaix seem like seamless tarmac to cyclists. The town and some of the buildings, especially Sir George Bruce’s “palace”, have been used in many film and TV productions including (sigh) Outlander.

Leaving Culross by the road past the ruined priory, I climbed away from the annoyingly variable coastal NCN route I had taken to Culross. My goal was another NCN route further inland. This proved to be an old railway bed (thank you Dr. Beeching) which brought me to Dunfermline in short order. There, I rejoined the NCN 1 North. This took me by country roads up a series hills arranged in steps up to a vista of Loch Leven and a whee! down to Kinloss, my goal for the night.

On the Fringe

I sent much of yesterday morning chilling in Mary’s flat. I feel a connection with her as she has a love of books and the spirit of a librarian. Seriously, she offered me a clipping from the Sunday Telegraph with an article about driving in the North of Scotland.

I eventually emerged into the fine rain to first buy a shirt at M&S, then a ticket for the bike and I from Edinburgh to London. Lunch at a Turkish kebab place near the South Bridge followed.

While was there, I poured over the Fringe Festival Program trying to decide which shows would tickle my fancy. The Fringe Festival has an unbelievable number of shows. To give you an idea, there are more than 300 venues, large and small. The shows are typically about 50 minutes. Performances start at about noon and run until quite late. Do the math, then try to decide among acts you haven’t heard of for the most part. I ended up selecting four shows that day.

Which was probably one too many.

The first was Camilla Cleese and Steve Hofstetter. They each did a stand-up set. The draw was of course Camilla, daughter of John Cleese. She has inherited her father’s height and introversion. Her father was also a source of her material. Both were very good.

The second show was A Very Brexit Musical put on by Cambridge University students. That was the only dud as I didn’t have enough knowledge to catch the references. It took me half the show to figure out that the PM who was daft enough to call the referendum was David Cameron. Boris Johnson was a too obvious buffoon in a bike helmet and high-viz vest. I also couldn’t relate to Elizabeth May as a vamp.

The next show was Police Cops by the Pretend Men. The Pretend Men are a three-man troupe of talented lunatics (and I say that with affection) who mercilessly parodied buddy cop films with skill and dexterity. Part of the performance involved dance. It also involved many character changes. Rave.

The last was the only show I had any reference to, and that was a review in the paper. Raymond and Mr. Timkins present Ham was a crazy show. They were miming a narrative to a very mixed soundtrack of popular song snippets which were appropriate to the various props presented with exquisite timing. So rave again.

Weather, meh.

 I might just plan my next visit to Edinburgh to coincide with the Fringe. Damn sight better than Just for Laughs.

On planes and trains

It was raining when I left North Berwick. The town has been a holiday haunt for many years. I passed one symbol of this in the form of a roofless stone church. It had been the local parish church for the Church of Scotland. However, the congregation had outgrown it, so they built a new one, recycling some of the materials from the old one. However, they left the shell because they thought it would be a nice romantic ruin for the tourists! This was circa 1880!

I was heading for Edinburgh, but as it was a short day, I decided to take in the Museum of Flight which was slightly off my route but well worth the detour. Among other things, it has G-BOAA, one of British Airways Concordes on display and their pride and joy. One of the guides was able to answer a question that had been in my mind since seeing another Concorde in Seattle: why didn’t they replace the big and heavy 1960s electronics with modern ones and then add a row or two of seats when they had to refurbish the planes after the Air France crash? It seems that the idea was explored but deemed too expensive. The museum has two other jetliners that I wasn’t allowed into. A BAC-111 and a Comet 4C. The Comet was parked next to one of the two Avro Vulcan bombers which actually used weapons in anger. During the Falklands War, it had made Black Buck raids. These involved an intricate series of inflight refuelings in which mandated tankers having to refuel other tankers in order to refuel tankers to refuel the bomber. On its last mission, this bomber damaged its refueling probe on the way back. This resulted in an emergency landing in Brazil. As Brazil was a neutral with Argentinian sympathies, the plane was interned for about a week, then released on the promise that it wouldn’t be used in the conflict again.

There were a number of other interesting exhibits including a real-time video about Loganair flying Islanders from Westray in the Orkneys to Papa Westray. This flight is the record books as the shortest scheduled flight at two minutes! In the Concorde Hangar, there was the forward fuselage of a Boeing 707 with an exhibit about the "glory days" of jet travel, particularly from the crews’ perspective. I was very surprised that in those days, in first class you not only got free drinks but also free cigarettes! I think I should have expected that one, particularly as I flew over in business class this time. Combined with the presentation of the elite clientele of the Concorde, it gave me a view of wealthy travellers. There was also a Panavia Tornado F3 on display. I was able to look under its fuselage and examine the recesses where it had carried air-to-air missiles semi-conformally. I had long been curious where the top fins went when missiles were carried like that. It turns out that there is a deeper bit of the recess to accommodate the fins.

Anyway, I enjoyed the museum longer than I expected. Consequently, I was behind schedule to get to cousin Lady Mary’s flat in Edinburgh and as more rain was threatening (it had cleared), I opted to take the train from Prestonpans into Edinburgh. Mary made me welcome and after supper, urged me to partake of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I took in a stand-up routine nominally about sport by James Nokise, a Kiwi of Samoan extraction. The jokes were good but the venue was overly hot. I am currently in the Cumberland Bar from which I have previously blogged. That time, the UK was temporarily without a Prime Minister.

On North Berwick

Yesterday was a success on the whole. I lost the NCN leaving Berwick-upon-Tweed and found myself on the busy but manageable A1. It soon brought me to Scotland where there was rest area for people to photograph themselves in front of a sign saying “Welcome to Scotland”. There was a coach load of young East Asians doing just that. There were three flagpoles each with the Scottish flag on it. Across the road, the reciprocal rest area also had three flags. However, there it was a Union Jack, a St-George flag and the yellow and red flag of Northumberland.

I left the A1 at Burnmouth where I returned to the NCN and smaller roads. There was a lovely bit on the A1107 with gorgeous views in bright sunshine of the North Sea. The NCN route 76 then took me down a winding, narrow road which made me glad for the disc brakes! At the bottom was a ford and the Pease Bay holiday camp. I could have done without the climb out of Pease Bay.

NCN route 76 then paralleled, more or less the A1 for some distance, with a lot ducking and weaving to avoid a quarry, the A1, the East Coast Mainline and a nuclear power station.  I had a late lunch in Dunbar, then made way to North Berwick where my cousin Donald was waiting. He and his wife Dominique live up to the family tradition of hospitality and then some. In short, I was made welcome. It was a good end to a sunny day.

Today has been grey, cool and windy, with a few drops, and the threat of more. In fact, in Edinburgh, it has been quite wet. Thankfully, I was in North Berwick.

I climbed North Berwick Law, an impressive steep hill of some 600 odd feet just to the South of town. It was a stiff climb and as I looked out over the Firth of Forth, I pitied the poor sods who had built the two abandoned buildings near the summit. One was part of a nunnery. The other was a WWII era observation post. Given the steep slope, I guessed that all materials would have had to be manhandled up.

Coming down into town, I stopped by Law Cycles as Leonardo had having problems with the lower gears. From my description of the issue, David the mechanic diagnosed a bent hanger. This sounded sensible so I went back to my B&B to fetch the bike and my spare hanger, just in case. David fixed the problem while I had lunch. He mentioned that my rear brake pads were worn which caught my attention. I had spare pads, but had never replaced them. Looking at the brakes, I realized that I really didn’t know how one went about it. I therefore asked him to show me how. He was happy to oblige. I think that I would be able to do it myself next time but would take three times as long. So here’s a rave review for Law Cycles! http://www.lawcycles.co.uk

I then took Leonardo over to Tantallon Castle which was quite interesting in the ways of castles at the end of the castle era. It had last been used in 1651, when General Monck shot it into surrender.

Coming back into North Berwick, I spotted a bird dragging its wing along the ground. Thinking it was something like a kildeer faking injury to draw away people away, I stopped to take a look and a photograph. However, a closer look revealed it to be a small raptor with a genuinely injured wing. It was near a bus stop sign with a stop number so I photographed that as well. I wasn’t sure who was one was supposed to call, so I went down to the Scottish Seabird Centre on the grounds that they would know. One of them did, and volunteered to go and get the sparrow-hawk as he identified it from my picture.

So a good day, on the whole, though not for the poor sparrow-hawk.

On a successful Red Sea crossing

Today was a day for touristing. First off was Bamburgh Castle as restored by the 1st Lord Armstrong, weapons merchant, scientist, engineer, businessman, philanthropist and shipbuilder. The site had been a fortress for time immemorial, predating the Angles, as Ida the Flamebearer (possible ancestor of Bernard Cornwell) captured it from the Celtic Britons. It was an interesting mix of eras and Victorian wealth. The purist can grouch, but it was interesting to see how the various buildings and rooms had been re-purposed over the years.

It was after twelve before I was done. Consequently, I had a ham and cheese toastie for lunch and headed of for the the Holy Island. I was under a certain time limitation as access to the Island was via a causeway which would be flooded by the tide by 16:20. So it behoved me to get cranking. NCN 1 took me along country lanes and up a 17% grade and around to the causeway which I crossed with the wind behind me.

I visited the Lindisfarne Priory, learnt about St-Aidan and St-Cuthbert and bought some local mead. Then I headed back. I had thoughts about Red Sea Pedestrians and Egyptians as I cranked against the wind. I knew that I was in plenty of time, but the salt water on the road, blown by the wind was preying on my overactive imagination. I made it, of course.

I paused for a break on permanently dry land. I noticed that there was a half dozen bikes of various sizes on the bank across the road behind a minibus. I asked if I might take a picture and fell into a conversation with one of the women. It was part of outing by locals for kids and family. Most of them were going back by van, but she and a boy were going to bike part of the way. Part of this was on a farm path parallelling the road on the NCN 1. We set off together, but I soon left them behind, then was turned off on another farm lane by the NCN 1.

This got smaller and less kempt. Eventually, it became a single track bike path on top of a dike. I was quite glad I had 37 mm wide tires! In front of a farm gate, I encountered a Scot from Aviemore on a pedal-electric bike with a trailer. He was returning home after a summer going around the Baltic. After the gate there was a tarmacked road with a sign warning people going the other way that the area was a former military firing range so please be wary of any unexploded munitions! The Scot and I paced each other to Berwick-upon-Tweed, through the hazards of flying golf balls and across farmers fields. We helped each other with farm gates and the like. Then we got to Berwick and went our separate ways.

Supper was some tasty Indian food.

On the Coast of Northumbria

The young German lads only returned from their night on the town at something like 4 in the morning. This woke me up. Given their continued absence had been on my mind as a concern, I felt the punishment fit to the crime was simply to get up at my normal hour and not be terribly concerned about disturbing their slumber as I gathered and packed my clobber.

I rode to beside the Tyne where I picked the trace of NCN (National Cycle Network) and hung a left to follow the river to the North Sea. After a bit the NCN route left riverside and proceeded along a car free trail that I began to suspect was an old railway. I was wrong: it was something far more interesting. It was an old wagonway. Wagonways were a step in the evolution of railways. Simply put, relatively ordinary wagons hauled by horses and gravity ran along wooden and later iron rails. I should have suspected this as the grades were higher than typical for a railway.

 (The general Newcastle-on-Tyne area is the birthplace of steam power including railways. I used to think Britain was well placed to have been the local for the development of steam power as it had plenty of the two basic ingredients: coal and iron. I have recently realized that I was wrong. There was a third ingredient in abundant supply: fresh water, a non-trivial thing. Arabia, for example, is unlikely to have been the locale for the development of steam power even if Allah had left clues in the Koran.)

Anyway, the NCN took me past an old Roman fort and its' associated bath. Unfortunately, it was too early to visit the former. The latter had a load of garbage in the parking lot. A dog walker whom I chanced upon was most indignant about the fly-tippers who had left it there.

The NCN routes are frustrating as they can be great and they can be confusing. Also, they tend towards being off-road if at all possible no matter what the added mileage. For the long distance cyclist with high tolerance for traffic this not always needed. Also their signage isn’t as plentiful or clear as it might be. Furthermore, Sustrans (the organization behind the NCN) needs to work on their map design.

However, the NCN got me out of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and onto NCN Route 1. This was at Tynemouth, Newcastle’s sea resort since at least the 1800s. It still is a classic British seaside resort, with the addition of a surfing school and doubtless many other forms of modern entertainment.

I had a light lunch in Blyth. I then skipped a bit of the NCN only to rejoin it at about Lynemouth. Near there I saw a sign for a “Travellers’ caravan site”, (Travellers being a term for the Roma a.k.a. Gypsies.) The route was nicely scenic and there was an assortment of British holidaymakers. Families with children armed with shovels and buckets (the British road sign pictogramme for a beach is a sandcastle), older people out for a brisk walk, cyclists of several breeds, young and old, dog walkers of all ages and many more that I failed to identify.

It had been cloudy for much of the morning and it began to rain. This slowed progress. I stopped for break in Amble, then headed off again in full rain gear. Of course, before I reached the vicinity of Warkworth (no great distance) it stopped.

Around Lesbury, I came upon and stuck to the B1339 as it was a more direct route to Bamburgh than NCN Route 1. I stopped at a garage in Embleton for a snack. The cashier (an older man) assumed I was Dutch after I said I couldn’t tell him how many miles I had ridden since Newcastle as I worked in kilometres. I explained I was Canadian and we had adopted the metric system more than forty years ago. He grumbled about the state of the roads which of course amused me greatly, being from Quebec.

I was getting tired to the point I didn’t want to look at the odometer. It was of great relief to finally see the afternoon sun on Bamburgh Castle as I left Seahouses.

Tomorrow is a short day as I will visit the Castle and the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.

On architecture, comments

The volunteer near the door of Durham Cathedral made a disbelieving comment about how much it cost to keep to maintain the place as part of the appeal to donate. I countered that I could easily see it given the size and age of the building. She grumbled that wasn’t it a pity that they had built it out of sandstone. This was also a bit silly as that was what to hand.

I did make a donation to the upkeep.

Newcastle-Upon-Tyne is a city heavily dominated by large Georgian and Victorian commercial buildings to the extent that was pleasantly surprised that any of the titular castle survives. It was started by Robert Curthose, son of William the Conqueror. The surviving bits are now separated by a railway viaduct, but it was nice to see.

Newcastle is also something of a party town judging from the signs near the inside of pub doors saying please be quiet leaving the pub. It also seems to a place for geeks as there are four stores aimed at geeks within fifty feet of my hostel!

On Durham Cathedral and losing the A167

The train managed to pick up food at York. The announcements about it put me in mind of a interstellar cruise liner stalled by a lack of lemon soaked paper napkins from Douglas Adams' œuvre. I wolfed down a bacon roll before getting off at Durham.

I chose Durham to start with as it features in several novels by Bernard Cornwell. Unfortunately, about the only thing extant was Durham Cathedral, which features in only one novel. Most of the novels in question are set prior to the Cathedral and feature a resolutely pagan character, viz Uhtred of Bamburgh in the era of Alfred the Great and later. He has an antagonistic relationship with the Church. At one point, he is the Lord of Durham. I couldn’t help but wonder at what he would make of the Cathedral where his fortress stood. As well, it is the resting place of St-Cuthbert whose corpse is featured in one of the novels. Cuthbert’s coffin and some of the contents were on exhibit, biz a cross, a comb and a portable altar.

The Cathedral also houses the tomb of the Venerable (or Venomous) Bede, the first English historian. He is figure from my career as a historian and thus significant.

I had lunch of roast beef in the undercroft of the monks dormitory. This felt indulgent, but proved a useful calorific indulgence as it turned out to be “one of those days” from a biking perspective. The heavens opened up for one thing.

It was a short ride to Newcastle but I managed to lose the A167 twice in Chester-Le-Street. Contrary to what might be inferred from Flanders and Swann’s “On the Slow Train”, the place still has a train station.

Still, I managed to get back on track. The Angel of the North statue of a man with what looks like aircraft wings helped to orient myself. I found my way across the Tyne into Newcastle and then to my hostel. I hope to two young German lads sharing my room don’t snore!

My theory about Campaign for Real Ale Pubs having better food has failed as both of the ones I popped into in Newcastle have had no food.

On the train to Durham

My slumber was again disturbed by snores. This time from Americans from Michigan. I hope this doesn’t mark the start of a trend.

I had been warned to be at least ten minutes early for the train in order to stow the bike. However, the departure board didn’t let me know which platform the train was leaving from until 9 minutes before departure! Then it turned out that the bike was to go at the end of the train my seat was at the front. I will have to migrate back nearing Durham.

My plan was to get breakfast on the train. Unfortunately, owing to a mix-up, catering services are not available on this train! Furthermore, all my food is on the bike. Brunch in Durham, I guess.

I had been offered to bid on an upgrade to first class by LNER. I declined to do so. However, the lack of knee room makes me question that wisdom.

At a guess, in the first twenty minutes the train passed through a greater distance of tunnels than the Canadian does in four days!

On the Wallace Collection

My sleep was interrupted around midnight by the snores of an Aussie in the bunk above me. I was unwilling to rouse him as he had just arrived from Canberra via Singapore and had slept two hours in past thirty. Thankfully, the snores stopped after a bit and I returned to my dreams which were both odd and not terribly interesting.

I moseyed over to King’s Cross to get my train tickets and find some breakfast. I then had a hard time finding a bank machine able and willing to give me money.

After returning to the youth hostel, I rode over to the Wallace Collection where I spent most of the day. The items reflected the collectors and the fashions of the times which meant there was a bling element to them. I particularly wondered about the Indian weapons and armour as they were often flashy and gilded. I wondered how many of them were actually intended for use either martial or even ceremonial versus intended to be sold as knickknacks to foreigners. I also wondered how many fakes or partial fakes were in the collection. (A partial fake being an authentic item which received a later embellishment to increase its value.)

One interesting type of object was oriental porcelain objects which had been mounted in bronze by the French under either Louis XIV or XV. There was a lot of bling from Versailles owing to the French Revolutionary sales (they even had an auction poster from 1793) and francophile collectors.

I am probably being too cynical as the last owner willed it to the state and was otherwise extremely generous.

Anyway, time for sleep as I have catch a train at 7:30 which means being at the station at 7:15, etc.

On the pittie of the Cittie of Yorke

I have a confession to make. I flew business class to London on Air Canada. My logic was that I might sleep in the comfort of a pod and thus be better able to cope with the logistics of getting a UK SIM card, assembling Leonardo at Heathrow, leaving box and unneeded bits at left luggage and then taking the Transport for London (or TfL) to Paddington from where I was to ride to the St Pancras Youth Hostel. In the anticipation/worry about flying indulgently, I fear I botched the shipping the bike bit. There is something off with Leonardo which I fear might due to bad packing. He is not shifting well and the wheels feel are weird. I found a bike shop near St Pancras. They didn’t have the time in their schedule for a tune up in my time frame, but wondered if the bearings in my axles were worn. I am considering booking a date with bike mechanic in Edinburgh as I have down time there.

I then set off for Stanford’s book/map store. I found the navigation rough, which seemed odd as the last time I didn’t feel as stressed. Then again, last time I was nowhere near as jet lagged and sleep deprived. I bought a couple of bike maps featuring Newcastle-in-Tyne and Edinburgh.

I then returned via the Cittie of Yorke pub. The spelling is that used when the place was opened something like four hundred years ago. The place is stunning. Old wooden brewing vats are suspended above the bar. There are little wooden cubicles to drink in and all kinds of weird features including a triangular stove. I came in and my jaw dropped. The barman asked if I needed anything as I was just standing there with my mouth open. Even at the best of times, I can have an awkward manner. In this case, I was able to take refuge in the truth by saying: “Sorry, don’t mind me, I am both jet-lagged and stunned by how incredible this pub is.” He accepted this, doubtless having had to deal with similar reactions in past as well as far more problematic patrons.

I ordered a BLT and a pint of bitter hand drawn from an oak barrel. I sat down in a cubbyhole and waited for lunch.

The pittie was that the Cittie of Yorke, easily the most amazing pub I have been to, was rather empty. The Saturday was sunny and warm and London was bustling with tourists. However, I guess it lies in a less touristy area and is part of London’s legal district near the Inns of Court if I recall the term correctly.

On wee bairns and "whee" bikes

About a month ago now, I made a quick trip out to Vancouver to inspect and marvel at Louise and Thomas' Tessa and John and Caitlin's Arthur. They are both very cute. What was really fun was to witness Tessa's first go in a Jolly Jumper. It took her a few minutes to figure it out, but she was screaming with happiness by the end. I also go to witness her first encounter with her cousin Arthur. As well, the two were put in their Jolly Jumpers attached to the same doorway so they could bounce in concert.

Inspired by a comment I had made in an earlier post, Margo very kindly rented me a carbon-fibre road bike, or whee bike in the parlance of Margo as you can go "whee!" very easily. It was good fun, even if it did distract me from the wee bairns a shade too much. However, I am not about to rush out to buy one. For one thing, I am leaving tonight for the UK. Also, true whee bikes start at around $3000.00 and I am not sure how much I would use it. Living in Montreal means that it takes quite a while before you can get out into good biking territory, unless you have a car and I don't own one. As well, storage space in my flat is already at a premium.  Furthermore, the rented whee bike revealed one weak point in the system, namely me. I felt it showed me up as being relatively out shape. Which of course I am, but I don't like being reminded of it. ;-)

On Laurentian roads

This entry is a bit late owing to various factors including a serious heat wave and family politics.

The middle Vélo-Québec bike challenge this year was in the Laurentians. The Parents picked up Leonardo and I early on the Friday afternoon in the hope of avoiding St-Jean Baptiste long weekend traffic on the Laurentian Autoroute. We might have made it had the Parents thought to start out with a full gas tank. As it was, a stop to fill up the tank in Laval meant that we spent something like nearly three hours stuck in traffic.

We had supper with Thierry, his daughters and a boyfriend of one of them. Thierry is a family friend from way back. He and his older brother Christian (my best friend from high school) were with me on my very first Tour de l'Île back in 1993.

I had to look up that date via a slightly arcane and somewhat sadly relevant connection. In writing this, I had frisson from thinking it was 25 years ago that I first did the Tour de l'Île.

The next day (Saturday), the Challenge's route took us along a variety of Laurentian back roads which had made with no discernible logic. There was an awful lot of up, down, left, right, repeat, etc. The short hills lead to a lot of gear changes and I confess at times I lost track of where I had shifted to fore and aft. This resulted in some less than desirable gear combinations.

I arrive at the lunch stop to find my Father who had taken a shorter option before lunch. He regaled me with how his route had taken him along a road that went by a camp he had gone to in his youth. He spoke as if I had gone along that road even though I repeatedly pointed out that I gone a different route.

After lunch, there was a longish bit of old provincial highway leading towards Lachute. This was parallel to the Ottawa River and thus on level ground. Unfortunately, the end of the Challenge was up in the Laurentians and climbing was in order. While climbing a hill on a more sensibly laid road than normal, my chain hopped off the front rings with a crunching sound. I managed to get the chain back on via adroit shifting and pedalling. However, the sound was enough to attract the attention of a nearby encadreur (volunteer). He expressed concern, which I dismissed. Nonetheless, I noticed that gear shifting on Leonardo was becoming less than crisp.

My route took me off the sensible road and onto a back road, the same one that my Father had been going on about. I had decided that between the relatively high humidity and the hills that I would "only" the basic distance which amounted to 107.75 km (average speed: 19.7 kph, maximum: 55.4). This road proved particularly perverse as it climbed up paved roads only to have the descent on gravel!!!!  This was less of an insult to me than to the people on skinny tires.

It was not a great day. Furthermore, a week and half later, I took Leonardo in to the shop so they could figure out what wasn't working smoothly, the diagnosis was that the drive train needed to be replaced.  I have faith in my local bike shop and their logic seemed very sensible to me.

On the 2018 Tour de l'Île

I volunteered again as a Bénévélo Méchano this year. For various reasons, my friend J.-P. didn't do so. The weather was about ideal. Coolish, but warm enough for T-shirt and shorts and very sunny. The wind was out of the East (mostly) which was about ideal. 

I took the Metro to Sherbrooke Station and headed to the Sun Youth Building to pick up my stuff from Vélo-Québec: a red t-shirt, inner tubes, various bits of paper and lunch. The Sun Youth Building was formerly the Baron Byng High School which is most famous for having been the Alma Mater of Mordecai Richler. After 30 minutes of waiting, my team set off for Parc Avenue to await the start of the Tour. 

While I waited, I stood around occaissionaly waiving my pump, hoping to attract customers. A couple of them came. I was dealing with one man with a bike featuring inner tubes with Schrader valves (i.e. the common ones). There seemed to be oil in the valve for some reason. As I was filling out the tires, the valve stems inflated, which was odd. As I was finishing with the second tire, the valve exploded, to my consternation and that of the rest of the team. The decision was made to replace both the inner tubes.

Not long after the start of the Tour, I was flagged down to help a someone with a flat tire. He was apologetic about the bother. However I assured him that A. it was my job for the day and B. owners of Devinci Toscas had to stick together!  Like me, he was riding a Devinci Tosca! Quite possibly the same model year! The problem turned out to be the failure of the rubber at the base of the valve stem. 

A few kilometers later, I heard a bang and a hiss from the bikes in front of me. I saw someone veer towards the sidewalk followed by some friends and then myself. He was pleasantly surprised by my rapid appearance, making favourable comments about the high level of service! His Schrader valve stem had blown apart much like the one at the start. I replaced his inner tube with a Presta valved one. It was a bit weird as all the flats I encountered that day involved stem failures.

Nearing the back river, some firemen had extended a ladder over the road as well as a sprinkler. While on Gouin Boulevard, a first aid Bénévélo flagged me down to ask me to raise the seat on his young daughter's bike. He was a bit apologetic until I explained that people riding bikes with seats far too low was something of a pet peeve of mine! I was only too happy to raise her seat.
 
Later, the route took us through the Lafarge Quarry and cement plant. As per Lafarge's more or less standard procedure, there was carefully clean heavy machinery lining the route for the perusal of the cyclists. There were also employees wearing long-sleeved T-shirts with the Lafarge logo on them to talk to cyclists wanting to persue the machinery more closely, and to prevent the cyclists from getting too close!

Also as per standard procedure for Lafarge, the drums on the cement trucks were turned so that the brand name was very obvious. I have written about this more than once.

The one downside of the day was that there was no milk left at the end.

Mummy writes:

My stats for the Tour de l’Île:  9 km to the start, 66 for the tour, 9 km back. 

Perfect weather, cool and sunny. 

We met Joey (Michael was in Hong Kong) on the Charlevoix bridge as usual.  We were there at 7 having breakfasted, so pretty early.  I was worried about running into and having to go around all the people lining up for the regular Tour de l’Île, as we had to pick up Hugh’s bib, which for some reason had never arrived by mail.  In fact there was nobody lined up to start, they were still getting everything set up.  They had a package ready for Hugh, it all took practically no time.  So off we went. 

There were several streets where there were lots of tow trucks blaring warnings, then hauling off the many many parked cars.  There must have been every tow truck in Montreal out making money.  I wondered if they had unfairly put up the no parking signs after everyone had gone to bed, but I’m sure they really didn’t.

We stopped for a red light and the young man volunteer was very enthusiastic and insisted of taking selfies with each of us.

The Rivière des Prairies was very impressive.  A strong east wind (Daniel would say the weather gods were on our side, for once) against the considerable current.  No boats out, but one sea plane.  So many pretentious houses, a few lovely old ones, quite a few modest 1950s ones.  Lots and lots of small parks by the river.  And a big one near the end of the island.  Hugh and Joey followed the 60 km tour signs to lunch, I went over the bridge, tough against the wind, to Repentigny, then back with the wind, just for fun, and joined them at lunch.

Back along Notre Dame mostly.  Lots of bike path.  Joey was impressed with how many bike paths there were.  She has always done the closed streets version of the tour.  We took a detour into a park to watch the shipping.  Eventually we joined the closed street tour, then Hugh and Joey went straight home and I went to the finish.  Going up Berri, I was impressed at how many quite small children were able to pedal up.  And quite a few people who looked young and fit were pushing their bikes.

So many people at the finish.  I got our chocolate milk and headed back to Daniel’s before 2.