On my reputation at my local bike shop

I have been patronising Martin Swiss Cycles for over a decade and I have got to know the people there moderately well. In turn, they know me fairly well and are very fond of Floria dei Fledermoose, or as they call her, "Batmoose", owing to the logo I put on the front stem. Anyway, when I brought her in for an overhaul yesterday, I asked them with no shame if they wouldn't mind also installing the "thumb" bell that Margo had "given Floria". This neat little bell is designed to be attached to Shimano shifter/brake levers on road bikes in such a way that in order to ring the bell, a rider need only lift his or her thumb. The bell came with instructions, but as shifter/brake levers are somewhat complex things (and I don't even pretend to know how they really work) I didn't feel comfortable "shoving" a third party widget into part of the braking system, even if only for the front brakes! These bells can be adjusted for either left or right hand use and I asked the shop that it be installed on the left.  As much as possible, I put my handlebar accessories (bells, bike computer, etc.) on the left in order to leave the right hand on the rear brake lever as much as possible.

I seemed to have digressed somewhat. Anyway, the guy taking Floria from me accepted my request without a fuss.  Indeed, he seemed quite happy to do it.  I like to think I am a slightly exotic and therefore interesting customer at the shop. My take on the place is the bulk of their customers fall into the categories of MAMILs (a.k.a. Middle Aged Men In Lycra or Spandex bikers), Westmount kids, riders of comfort bikes and some wannabe mountain bikers.  While I could be accused of belonging to the first category (I am a middle aged man who has been known to wear Lycra), I defend my "honour" by pointing out that my tires are far too wide and my bikes too heavy and practical for me to be a true MAMIL.  The fact that Floria has a milk crate attached on the back means I would have a hard time being truly accepted by the MAMIL community. ;-)  (Incidentally, I noticed a "factory" version of milk crate bike basket on sale at the Shop!)  All this to say, that I am an outlier among their customers as they don't get all that many hard core cycle commuters or bike tourers. Hence, I like to think that I am memorable.

The "Thumb bell" installed

When I picked Floria up at lunchtime today, the thumb bell was installed as requested. After settling the bill (Martin Swiss isn't cheap but they do good work), I set off on my business of the day. The bell is surprisingly loud given its size and very handy. Almost too handy. ;-)  However, I still haven't got used to its location yet as a couple of times, I found myself reaching for the older bell mounted near the stem rather than the handy one!

The other side for comparison

On a saying of mine being proved right

I am known for having stated a number of times in various contexts with regards to pregnancy due dates: "Babies can't read calendars". Before any ardent feminists jump on me, I will freely admit that as a never married male with no background in medicine, I can't say this is based on anything but observations of a less than statistically valid number of pregnancies of women of various ages as well as heresay from various women and doctors.

Having stated that disclaimer, I haven't run into anyone who disagreed with the basic notion as it really is a very basic observation. Furthermore, this article from the BBC website, more or less proves the fundamental accuracy of my statement, as well as reinforcing the notion that science, for all its wonders, still has a lot to learn about how we come into this world.

On the end of the trip

I have an odd affection for Waverley Train Station. For some reason its location in the former Nor'Loch and the sloping access ramps make it appear to disappear into the cityscape. This is evidently nothing more than the exploitation of practical realities yet somehow it strikes me as being an elegant solution to the demands of the situation. As well, the way the platforms are laid to include both terminating and through lines heading both East and West struck me as maximizing the number of platforms that may reached without recourse to stairs, lifts and ramps.

Consequently, I was a trifle disappointed that my train to Wolverhampton was on a platform that required me to use a pair of lifts to get to. This may have been a consequence of it a Virgin Trains service rather than a ScotRail service! ;-) However, it got me to Wolverhampton on a beautiful day and on time so I guess I shouldn't complain.

I made Wolverhampton my jump-off point to get to Izzy and John as I had found Birmingham tricky to get out of on my previous trip to Bromyard. (As discussed in a previous entry.) I correctly surmised that Wolverhampton would be an easier proposition. It did involve a fair distance on the relatively busy A449 (a far cry from the single track "A" road on Mull), but the road was in great shape and there was a tailwind.

Around Kidderminster, I began to encounter an issue that I'd not really had in the Highlands: rural navigation.  Outside of towns, there is rarely the question of which route to take in the Highlands as there is usually only one option. Conversely, there were many roads I could have taken to Bromyard. Not that it challenged me, but it was a change of pace. 

I stopped for 'arf a pint in Great Whitley at the Hundred House Hotel as is traditional. Well, I also did it last time. Just afterwards are a couple of stiff hills. On the second, out of Stanford Bridge, a Toyota Land Cruiser with a license plate that read "KITTY" stopped just past me. A woman of about my age with a posh accent and a toddler in the back seat stated that I must be exhausted and offered to give me a lift. I declined as politely as my breathless state would allow. I didn't say that as I had beat the Highlands, I wasn't going to let Herefordshire beat me!

I got to Bromyard ahead of my ETA. John and Izzy were having a Paralympic tennis player to tea. Mrs. Plum, their Schnauzer greeted me with enthusiasm which was a shade painful as her claws scratched my bare shins! Nice dog though.

John and Izzy were their typical, slightly warped selves and I wouldn't have them any other way.

The next day, I visited Lower Brockhampton, a nearby moated manor house from about the 15th century. The moat was mostly a statement by the owner saying how rich he was! It was very strange to see the ancient woodwork. As well, the handout explained that the exposed half-timbers were limewashed instead of being painted black (as is generally the custom in that part of England) as the limewash allowed the wood to breath and dry thus preventing rot.

When I got back to John and Izzy, John was very interested in what I'd seen as he'd never been there despite it only being 2 miles away. One of his queries was which family had owned it! I couldn't remember as it hadn't interested me. Likewise, I hadn't a clue who owns Scone Palace much to his disappointment. John is highly knowledgeable about the ins and outs of British gentle families. He is also pleased as Punch to have an entry in Who's Who.

I stopped by the house of their son Ben who is currently not speaking with the rest of the family for reasons that I don't have sufficient accurate knowledge of to comment upon. As luck would have it he, his wife Charlotte and Oliver, their youngest son, were there on a weekday. I hadn't been able to contact Ben ahead of time but he was happy to see me. We had a chat and a cuppa. Oliver was born a couple of months after my last visit. At that time, Ben confided in me that he and Charlotte had decided they would name the expected baby Oliver after an older brother of Ben's would died in his twenties having always been a sickly individual (blind among other things). However, as Izzy was pressuring him to do so, he was telling Izzy they were going to name the baby something else in order to tease her.

Izzy insisted on driving me to Worcester in order to catch the train back to Didcot. I accepted as I had acquired a couple of large books in Bromyard. By careful use of National Rail Enquiries website, I'd been able to identify a train that went directly from Worcester to Didcot.

Elly was just walking out the side door as I rolled up.  She greeted me with the news that her brother Justin and family would be having supper there the next evening. This was very good news as I hadn't seen Justin since 1990! Elly's daughter Caddy was back from her term at Oxford. She is frightfully bright and hardworking. Also vaguely embarrassed by her parents which is normal at her age (20).

The next day, I took the train into London and finally managed to see Westminster Abbey after three unsuccessful tries over twenty-three years! It was a strange experience as there are layers and layers of history to the place. It is final resting places of many great kings and queens as well many lesser kings and queens, not to mention a great many lesser men and women. Also memorials to many who weren't buried there. I got the impression of Victorian clutter. As well there was awe at being in the presence of the remains of figures such as Saint King Edward the Confessor, King Richard II, King Edward I (a.k.a. "Longshanks" and "Hammer of the Scots"), Henry's III, V and VII, Queens Mary Tudor and Mary Stuart a.k.a. Mary, Queen of Scots, Queen Elizabeth I and Geoffrey Chaucer.

I wanted to buy a few things in London afterwards, however my progress was grossly slowed by London's Gay Pride Parade. A royal pain in the ass, especially in conjunction with London's somewhat convoluted street plan. I was quite worried about making the train I wanted back, but I made it.

Justin, wife Sophie, and children Anthony, Henry and Charlotte had arrived at Elly's before me. We had a lovely barbecue as the kids lost badminton shuttlecocks in the garden. Caddy was in the uncomfortable position of being the only one in her age range. Even more awkward for her was the fact that it came out that one of her future tutors/professors in Oxford had taught history to Anthony at his middle school or some such. His school is one aimed at the children of boffins or something like that.

I spent this morning packing and disassembled Leonardo. Elly drove me to the station where I caught a stopping train to Hayes & Hatlington where I changed for Heathrow. Along the way, I had Flanders and Swann's "On the slow train" running in my head. Before my next trip to Britain, I should load it into my iPhone. I should also do more in the way of prep work in loading data into the iPhone including the phone plan details. Also, I need to work on the balance of things.

On a crannog

As I approached Pitlochry, I saw a sign announcing "loch/lake" access. I then thought to myself, "I didn't know there was a loch in Pitloch...oh. Boy, do I feel silly."

In Pitlochry, I made phone contact with Tamsyn, the daughter of someone Mummy went skiing with in Norway. She lives in Perth, and been mooted as someone who would be willing to put me up for the night and indeed she was. We made arrangements for the next day.

I also phoned my cousin Donald D. in Edinburgh to see what progress had been in arranging to see him and his family especially his mother, Mary, whom I had not seen since 1996 despite two visits to Edinburgh. It was still a work in progress, so we left it at that.

The weather the next morning was mixed rain and cloud with a stiff wind out of the North West or so. In rain gear, I followed NCN route 7 to Kenmore along quiet if somewhat up-and-down roads against the wind. I made poor time and it was only afternoon that I reached the Scottish Crannog centre.

Crannogs were houses built on stilts in various lochs early in the first Millennium BC. The Crannog Centre had a reconstruction of a crannog to visit with an archaeologist tour guide whom I embarrassed a couple of times. The first time was after a general lecture on what was known about the crannogs and there inhabitants.There seemed to me a curious omission in the diet described by her, so I asked her if they ate fish or shellfish at all. Her answer wasn't very good in my opinion as it amounted to a vague "maybe". On shore, we were shown working examples of various tools thought to be used by these people including a trio of wood lathes. The first of these was a bow driven lathe which she described as inefficient and asked for volunteers to help power the thing. I volunteered along with another man. We pushed and pulled the bow back and forth with such vigor that it turned out that the design could be quite effective, though I did point out that it required a sturdy pair of men to make it work properly!

After lunch, I retraced my steps to Aberfeldy making much better time with the wind now at my back. After stopping at the distillery to buy a bottle of single malt as thank you present for Tamsyn, I took a busier but flatter road back to the the junction of NCN routes 7 and 77. Along the way I could see white water rafters on the River Tay. This reminded me of a case that Donald D.'s father had won on behalf of such people against owners of salmon fishing spots. (Donald later informed me that the case had been on the Spey not the Tay, but I suspect his victory had likely established precedent.

I rolled along through the afternoon, making decent but not terrific time. The NCN took me along the Tay into very manicured grounds beside the river. I felt ever so slightly nervous some ghillie would pop up and either escort roughly off the grounds or charge me £10 for the right to ride across the Duke of Dunrovin's estate. ;-)  It turned out to be the Dunkeld Hydro Hilton. (Dominique D. later told me that "Hydros" were temperance spa-type resorts.).

Shortly thereafter, the NCN took me in front of the Dunkeld railway station. As it was getting a shade late, the day was cold and I was tired I decided to investigate if there was a useful train anytime soon. As it turned out, there would be one in about twenty minutes, so I rang Tamsyn and gave her the train's ETA in Perth. She met me at the station which proved to be a bow-shot from her flat.

I think we got on quite well. After supper, she gave me a short tour of downtown Perth followed by a stop in a pub for a pint.

The next morning, I ran a couple of errands in Perth, including getting a ticket to Edinburgh before setting off to visit the Palace of Scone. In the process, I got lost in Scone. Once I found the Palace, I made a point of having a scone in its coffee shop. Doubtless, many others have done the same play on words.

The Palace of Scone is very much a stately home. Its video history makes a very definite point as to how a great many Scottish kings were crowned there.

It also makes a slightly petulant point that the Stone of Scone should not have been taken to Edinburgh Castle on its return from London to be displayed along with the Scottish Crown Jewels. It instead implies it should have come to the Palace of Scone. As a historian, I disagree as the coronations took place at the Abbey of Scone, which burned down in the 16th century. I need to check my facts but I believe the last coronation of a king there was that of Charles II and wasn't any entirely kosher affair as Cromwell and company were truly the people ruling Britain. The present building is more recent and no longer has the power it had having become a largely private building.

I got back to Perth much more efficiently and caught the train to Edinburgh, arriving mid-afternoon. The trip took me across the fabled Forth Rail Bridge, the painting of which was once synonymous for a Sisyphusian task.

I love Edinburgh. However, I suspect that there will be a day of reckoning for the city planners regarding Princes street as it is clogged with buses and will get worse once the tram system starts running. They have also made the sidewalks too wide. Consequently, I found making a North-South transit somewhat hair-raising. There is a 19th century railway tunnel between the New Town in the vicinity of Scotland Street that might be useful as an additional route for traffic.

I got to my guest house where I deposited much of my clobber before setting out on Edinburgh in search of a book or two before supper. I wasn't particularly successful.

On a good day

This is a short entry aimed to say that I am now in Bromyard, Herefordshire, chez Izzy and company after taking the train down from Edinburgh to Wolverhampton. Wolverhampton is much easier to get out of than Birmingham.

On NCN route 7

Today was very much a better day on any number of accounts. For last two days, I have been following the National Cycle Network (NCN) route 7. The NCN is analogous to Quebec's Route Verte, though not exactly the same.

It has provided me with a relatively traffic light route from Inverness taking in the Cairngorms mountains and possibly other mountain ranges. It is a little hard to tell which bunch of snow dappled mountains belongs to what geographic division or subdivision. The general NCN route in this area is something of a confusion of old and new roads. These include the old military roads (a.k.a. General Wade's roads), the old (disused) A9, the new A9(T), "B" roads and some even lesser roads.

Stops today included the Ruthven Barracks where BPC finally admitted to his followers that the jig was up. Ironically, the Barracks had been built to suppress Jacobites. Now it is an empty shell.

I also visited the Dalwhinnie Distillery. My comment in the visitors' book was: "Good, but 'tis nae my wee dram."

Near Blair Atholl, I saw a merganser and four or five chicks swimming in the River Garry.

The weather has been a perverse mix of rain and sun that has me changing clothes several times a day. Tomorrow is my last day of real biking on this trip, though there will be a decent day from Wolverhampton to Bromyard.

On ups and downs

Yesterday saw me cross from the wilds of the West Coast, past Loch Ness to the more "civilized" East Coast of Scotland. It was a long, fairly wet day. The high point was Urqhart Castle. Coming up next was biking along the tow path of the Caledonian Canal between Loch Ness and Inverness. The low point was the lack of coordination between two flag men which might have killed me as one doesn't seem to have said to the other to wait for the cyclist before letting traffic through on the A82.

The A82 answered a question that had been at the back of my mind for awhile, namely why isn't there a railway line through the Great Glen. The answer is that there isn't enough space.

Today was a series of exercises in frustration and stress that I will not relate as I would rather forget them.

I also visited Culloden Moor. Bonnie Prince Charlie should have shown himself a true king and surrendered himself in exchange for clemency for his men or had them retreat to a better position. The Jacobites didn't have a hope in hell on that open ground.