If ever..

If ever I am tempted to question the matter, I turn on the sound, click this link, and ponder anew the truth of its short simple message.

Taken

Liam Neeson stars in this shoot-em-up thriller, as an ex-spy, whose daughter has been, er... 'taken'. The Albanian trafficking gang who have abducted her to sell as a slave to an Arab Sheik, soon learn that they are messing with the wrong man, as he fills them, one-by-one with lead and liberates his daughter. The sub-plot is that Neeson's character was too busy spying to be a good Dad when his daughter was young, but believes he can redeem that time by using his gun-toting skills to be there for her at the decisive moment.

The plot-line is a reasonable premise for a thriller, and the cast isn't bad either. Somehow though, this film fails to build any emotional intensity, despite the danger, the heroics and the wanton blood-letting. Having recently watched Changeling, a film that grabs the viewer by the throat and refuses to let go, 'Taken' seemed lightweight, trivial, and even un-engaging. Obviously they are totally different types of film, but they do illustrate the rather arbitrary nature of the certification process. The excessive shooting of criminals earns Taken an "18" certificate, even though it's violence is sterile, unaffecting and tedious - certainly not disturbing; whereas the violence seen and implied on Changeling (cert 15) is the stuff of nightmares. Changeling is a true story, with a dark ending, Taken has the standard feel-good ending in which the main characters are OK, and the others discreetly forgotten.

I can't help feeling that doing a movie like this was an odd choice for Liam Neeson - he surely can't be that short of good scripts on offer? Perhaps he harbours a secret unfulfilled ambition to play James Bond, and a lone spy systematically executing criminal masterminds in their secret bases in Taken was as close as he's got! Certainly this effort was below him, with a track recors of having voiced mighty Aslan in Narnia, and played Michael Collins in the excellent Irish historical film of that name.

Taken.. gains only two out of five stars - no more than standard Hollywood fare.

Book Notes: London Orbital by Iain Sinclair

Many years ago, I heard a book review programme on Radio4 on which they reviewed Edward Platt's Leadville, and Iain Sinclair's London Orbital. I soon found Platt's work and was utterly captivated by it. While the idea of a 'biography of the A40 Road' seemed like a 'minority interest' subject matter in the extreme, in reality this work was a stunningly sensitive portrayal of the human stories which interact with the decisions of city planners, a wonderful collision of poetic prose, urban geography, and biographies. With this in mind, I finally tracked down the other book recommended on that same programme; Iain Sinclair's London Orbital.

The premise of Sinclair's book is promising, intriguing even. The author and various companions set out (in the months running up to the millennium) to walk round the M25, recording their insights into the landscape, history, literature and people that they discover en route. The results turned out to be very surprising.

From the start the author writes in a style which is hard-going. While on some occasions his use of half-formed sentences consisting of lists of adjectives and nouns to describe what he sees, is punchy and effective; overuse of this technique makes it simply affected. Sinclair also enjoys bombarding the reader with streams of half-explained references, a technique which appears to detract from the force of his insights. After all, the informed reader already knows the things to which he refers, while the uninformed remains so, left stranded by Sinclair's constant preference for alluding to things, rather than actually talking about them. Reviews of London Orbital have divided readers very deeply into those who found all this irresistibly brilliant, and those who simply found it impenetrable, and gave up. I found that on every occasion when the density of language, irritating repetition, obscure allusion, and verbose pretension drove me to give-up and add to the little pile of "couldn't finish" books in my study - Sinclair would hit back with a piece of writing so touching, so beautiful, and powerful that I couldn't bear to put it down in case I missed another such moment.

For me the sections of the book which worked were those where I knew the landscape in which he was working. In such sections, the obscure allusions had reference points for me. Of course when I understood his literary tangents, when they occasionally drifted into my frame of reference, the impressions he sought to make were all the stronger. Likewise, when his landscapes were beyond my recollection or his references beyond my reading, the sheer volume of words that Sinclair spews forth became boring - because of his constant unwillingness to initiate the newcomer, rather than simply reward the learned with opportunities for smug self-congratulation.

Quite brilliant were Sinclair's observations on the ring of Victorian mental hospitals which mark out the outer-London ring, which the M25 follows. Built to give "lunatics" fresh air, and to screen London from their reality, they flourished throughout the 20th Century, but are now being developed into soulless luxury apartments. His explorations of these facilities and the way he is able to make the past mix with the present in a intermingled, morbid reality was delicious. His wanderings with companion Renchi, into psychogeography, of ley-lines and the M25 as a vast astrological wheel were dull tangents an already overlong book could have thrived without; trekking through leafy Weybridge in the wake of Diggers however, was magical. The descent into The War of the Worlds between Epsom and Leatherhead is compelling, but the view that the River Thames bridge at Runnymede is some deeply significant and illuminating concrete cathedral is simply putting too much strain even on the psychogeographers desire to write florid prose about the most artless of items. Frustrating too is the lack of a map to see where the writer has got to in any given chapter, given that his ability to wander away from the matter in hand is as great as his remarkable determination to complete the project! Likewise, the frequent references to photographers and cameras, but the total absence of images is strange. Either the publisher refused to add them to the paperback edition (already grotesquely swollen to almost 550 pages) or Sinclair is so convinced of the power of his writing that he has rendered the image superfluous. Not so.

To be fair to Sinclair, there is a tremendous book in here. The trouble is that such a fabulous book would be about 200 pages long, and an extremely judicious editor would need to be employed to cull the wanton excesses from the original. The worst part of the book is actually its beginning, (he doesn't reach the M25 until p125!), and the best parts are all when he stays close to the M25, physically -and in his writing. Where he succeeds is when he stays close to the books initial premise, when he tests the reader's patience is when he departs from this. To be fair, he improves as the book progresses, reducing his words-per-mile count as he goes - possibly realising that unless he did so, a thousand page book was in the offing.

I'm glad to have finished this, to have got through it and to have seen Sinclair finish his quest. There are passages that I have marked and will return to. But if I wanted to read a book that got inside an urban environment and felt it from the inside, I'd still turn to Platt's Leadville - every time.

Horrible Histories

My kids have discovered the brilliant and hilarious, "horrible histories", a children's TV show packed full of the weird and wonderful from history; told in often quite alarming ways! From cruel Victorian factory bosses sacking children who lost hands in their machines, to a madly ego-centric (and gloriously camp) Alexander the Great, naming countless cities after himself, to Kings George I-IV forming a boy-band and singing their story; education is rarely as funny as this! The official website, containing full episodes is here; in the meantime enjoy the following clip:

test

To get the song "Standing On The Rock" by Ian White: right click here

Last night in Acts...

Last night I had the opportunity to speak in church, taking one section in a teaching series on the book of Acts entitled, "How the Church Grows". I was asked to cover Acts 21:27-22:22, the arrest of Paul in Jerusalem and his defence. This was no easy matter - not least because Paul's suffering for the gospel isn't something I've experienced and so in a sense I was preaching 'above myself'.

A summary of the talk is in the diagram below which was my concluding slide. The emphases seem to be that (i) Paul was willing to suffer for the gospel - he went to Jerusalem knowing that persecution awaited him. (ii) He was willing to offend people, but only with the gospel because on all matters of culture, he fitted in with them as much as possible 'becoming like one under the law, in order to win those under the law'. (iii) His 'boldness' is matched with sensitivity to his audience, tailoring his talk to their understanding, and speaking with great respect and politeness.

Fabulous 3D mapping

I have had some mapping software for the computer for a few years, but my old PC went belly-up if I tried to use it! My "new" computer (I've had it since February!) has got the memory to handle it, and I've enjoyed planning some of my walks on it, and generating OS Maps in 3D! I've been impressed by the customer service at Anquet mapping too. When I tried to install the software, it wouldn't work at all despite the "successful installation" notice displayed. An e-mail to Anquet was very quickly answered telling me that the problem I reported was due to incompatability of my version with Windows Vista, and directions to a free patch to fix it. Sorted! The above route is of a walk I did back in June, over Beinn Liath Mhor and Sgorr Ruadh.

Doors Open

Every year, Perth & Kinross Heritage Trust co-ordinates a "Doors Open Day" in which public buildings are opened up for visitors to look around, and appreciate, when they are not in regular use. Last year our family took the guided tour of the local court, courtrooms, witness rooms, lawyers offices, judges bench, cells - the lot! It was a great afternoon out.

This year, the church I'm part of has joined in the event by opening up its premises for the day, combining viewing the now completed premises with an exhibition of local art, from the church, local nurseries, schools and care homes. In keeping with the building the art exhibition is themed around dramatic biblical stories, and this morning I saw one particularly striking Noah's Ark bring carried in from a nearby nursery school. Info below.

A great day out at the Falls of Bruar with all five of us, plus my sister and her new toy-boy boyfriend.

Cairngorms Bonanza!

It is a rare and splendid thing to look up the mountain weather forecast the night before an expedition and read, "No Rain", and "Chance of cloud-free Munro's: 100%"! It's even better when they get it right - and yesterday was just such a day! With the prospect of clear skies, and the whole of the Cairngorms before me, I packed for a long walk - and cycle, setting off soon after sunrise to make the best of the light. From early on it was clear that it was going to be a good day, the golden-orange morning sun shone through the mist still clinging to the surface of the River Isla near Blairgowrie, while glistening off the dewy grass on each bank; a mysteriously wonderful collision of textures and colours.

My day-proper started at the Linn of Dee carpark - a place from which many Cairngorm expeditions have begun. I have walked the path from here to Derry Lodge many times, but this time I had a bike with me, speeding my passage toward the high tops. Derry Lodge itself is a forlorn sight, once a hunting lodge in the heart of the Cairngorms, at the centre of a minute community where Gaelic persisted until well after WWII; it is now boarded-up and gently crumbling. I remember feeling similarly forlorn on my first visit to Glen Derry, a borrowed mountain bike broke - and as I fiddled with the broken pedal the party I was with cycled into the distance, leaving me to push the wretched machine all the way back to Linn of Dee. This time, however I was on a brand new bike - its inaugural flight in fact, and it did a great job, speedily eating through the miles. Memories of Derry Lodge are not all bad though; as I dismounted and got ready for walking I remembered camping here with the ever affable Percy Cowpat esq. many years ago. The smell of cigar-smoke and Glenmorangie, the gentle hiss of a heather fire, the brilliant blue-black sky bespeckled by millions of bright stars, framed on every side by the vast-black outlines of great mountains. Such reminiscence was quickly countered with the memory that when we broke camp in the morning to head out towards Beinn Bhreac, the wind suddenly dropped and dark columns of midgies rose from the heather like the fiery exhaust of a steam locomotive, eating our skin and even biting the whites of our eyes!

It was Northwards into Glen Derry that I was bound again on this trip, turning eastwards up the Coire Etchachan, the long climb up onto the Cairngorm plateau, past the little bothy known as the Hutchison Memorial Hut.

Loch Etchachan

At the head of Coire Etchachan the scenery changes suddenly and surprisingly. Within seconds, the bleak and bouldery corrie gives way to a pleasant loch, nestling beneath its cliffs -under Ben MacDui's long Eastern flanks. On my visit the delightful scene was made complete by a row of tents nestling on the water's edge, a high level camp-site pitched in pursuit of a Duke of Edinburgh Gold award. From Loch Etchachan, a scratchy path winds its way steeply at first up the side of Beinn Mheadhoin, a great bald whaleback ridge that marks the eastern edge of the central Cairngorm massif. Mheadhoin is noted for its series of absurd granite tors which sit bizarrely along its crown like a row of badly maintained craggy teeth. They do provide some nice scrambling up their sides though - a pleasure not usually associated with the Cairngorms. By the time I stood on the summit tor of Beinn Mheadhoin, a fierce wind was funnelling around the contours of the mountain, so I clambered down and retreated back to the shelter of Etchachan.

Summit Tor - Beinn Mheadhoin

My mind's peculiar tendency to anthropomorphise makes me think of Derry Cairngorm as a particularly happy mountain. I am sure that this is due to a combination of its gentle slopes and smooth lines, and the fact that I have so often seen it in sunshine when mountains all around it have loomed as menacing hulks in dark cloud. Climbing it proved to be a bouldery experience, but the views southwards across Deeside and into Perthshire were breathtaking. Climbing onto its summit, I must have moved within range of a mobile phone mast, as my rucksack started to vibrate and a familiar tune rang out. I stopped, unpacked, found the phone, only to be informed that I was in receipt of 100 free extra texts... lovely, but hardly worth stopping for. I must however change that text ring-tone. At the moment, it plays "Lady Day and John Coltrane" by Gil Scott-Heron; a funky little tune indeed. The problem is that the second lines goes, "Ever feel that somehow, somewhere, you lost your way? And if you don't get a help quick, you won't make it through the day!" This may not be what I want to hear next time I am wrestling with a map and compass in fog, rain, zero visibility whilst trying to navigate some precipitous ridge! In the meantime if you see someone in the Scottish hills screaming "SHUT-UP" at his rucksack, it just means I have received a text!

Distant Lochnagar

There are some guidebooks which talk about 'conquering mountains', to describe ascending them. I think that such talk is foolhardy. To wander up a mountain in summer conditions is not to conquer it, merely to walk with it, to spend time with it. In contrast, I find that to stand in these great mountains and to tremble before their grandeur is more akin to being conquered by them; surrounded and overwhemed by them, to hold them in awe. Of mountains, so of God; perhaps illuminating what a Psalmist once wrote: Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, your justice like the great deep. O LORD. For such granduer can be contemplated, engaged with, even perhaps wrestled with - but never conquered. Such thoughts filled my mind, and seemed to press home with an unusual urgency as I strained hard up a long climb, with a summit ahead of me, and the ground falling away on either side, Glen Derry on one side, Glen Lui on the other.

The Central Cairngorms

From Derry Cairngorm, I made my way back onto the central high ground of the Caringorm plateau, working my way back Northwards until I hit the busy trade route, linking Cairngorm and Ben MacDui. The Duke of Ed party had broken camp and were making their way up the long climb ahead of me, labouring under packs heavier than mine. I might have envied their night in the wild, but I didn't envy the loads they bore. It's seventeen years since I last walked this track, and there were a few things I remembered, the most distinctive of which was gash in the rock, next to the path - a spectacular gully eating into the mountain; a talking point in summer and a death trap when corniced in winter conditions. I remember posing for photos here all those years ago with Big Darren, The Rake and Crazy Jim.... and wondering what became of them all.

If Derry Cairngorm seems like a 'happy' mountain, then Ben MacDui is quite the opposite; large, dark, brutish, mysterious and foreboding. I trudged alone up the path towards its trig point, perched high on a cairn, the second highest point in Scotland - and could quite understand why fevered imaginations have run from the presence of the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDui. The Big Grey Man was not in attendance as I strode over the Ben's rock-strewn summit, yet the melancholy dread of the place was dense as I passed the ruin just short of the top; where the only sound was the howling of an anguished dog, which I heard but never saw. Two things have changed since I last stood on Ben MacDui, this time there was no dead-man lying in the boulders awaiting collection by the mountain rescue services; no helicopter hovering low, engines throbbing, swooping to collect the departed remains. The other difference was that the summit has been absolutely covered in cairns, shelters, seats and all sorts of bouldery creations. To be honest, I don't mind the odd cairn here or there - on a summit, or to mark a junction of paths; but this was grotesque, as if Fred and Barney had hosted a world championship of Jurassic Jenga, but all the contestants had abandoned the game in mid-session. Perhaps like Professor Norman Collie, they hurriedly fled the place in fear of the Big Grey Man!

The descent from Ben MacDui alongside the Allt Clach nan Taillear is awkward, and in mist would require some very canny navigation. It leads to a high col and over a swooping ridge to the ascent of Carn a Mhaim. The hill looks very easy when viewed from the likes of Braeriach, but at the end of a long day, with a brooding headache - it was a long pull. The sun, dipping low, and casting long shadows and orange patterns over the hills made a stunning backdrop to the views over the Lairig Ghru and down into Glen Lui far below. A decent path, drops from this hill, down to the Luibeg Bridge (which I actually found this time!), and then on back to Derry Lodge. After a long, hard strenuous walk, I was delighted to see the bike, leaning against the side of the Glen Derry mountain rescue station. Bringing the bike was a great idea, I have trudged the long miles back to Linn of Dee often enough to be grateful to spin swiftly along it and back to the car, to a rest, a drink and the drive home. Days as good as these are a treat to be savoured, an opportunity to be grasped, and an experience for which to be profoundly thankful.

Getting Geeky with the Archive

Loch Ossian on Rannoch Moor

One of the secrets which the dismantling of our old attic space revealed was an on old video camera, complete with leads, tapes and some amusing footage of our three kids when they were small. The kids really enjoyed looking at themselves as babies/toddlers on the tiny screen of the camera, which inspired me to see if the films could be imported to the PC for a little editing and then watching on a decent screen. As readers of this blog know, I also discovered that my PC had Windows Movie Maker, my first experiments with which are found here.

The old Sony Handycam camera however didn't seem to like my PC - despite all the relevant USB cables being shoved in the right holes. Some online searching revealed that the older Sony cameras are incompatible with Vista va USB, that Sony blame Micosoft, and vice versa. The same forums did suggest that connecting via Firewire would sort the problem out though. The result of this is that for the price of a foot or two of firewire - I can now import the hours of film that have been collecting dust in the attic for the last five or so years. On the films there are plenty of dreadful sections when the camera was switched on by mistake. When I saw these I hoped that they might contain scandalous admissions or accusations made by family members unaware that the tape was running; sadly all it revealed were reams of footage of feet crunching across gravel. Still - as these are on the PC, editing these out to leave watchable extracts is a simple, if somewhat time consuming process.

Next I discovered that a lot of the shorter film clips which I have on my PC were shot from an ordinary digital camera. These too can be slotted into the edited films at the relevant places.... mostly. The cameras we have owned over the years have mostly shot their movie clips as AVI's, which indeed slot straight into Windows Movie Maker. One camera however, captured its movies in Quicktime, which Movie Maker doesn't accept. Back online I discovered RAD Video Tools, a piece of freeware that had lots of recommendations as a tool for changing formats. Having downloaded that, and successfully making all my .mov files into .AVI's I can now work my way through chopping editing and putting together the film clips from the different years for the children's lives.

RAD Video Tools had a nice surprise in store for me too. When I opened up the "output" choices in the menu, alongside the various movie formats, it also had options for jpeg, gif and bitmap! In other words, it can separate out each individual frame as a picture, in massively higher quality than freezing the frame on a media player and capturing the screen. The photo of Loch Ossian on Rannoch Moor (above) was captured this way. One thing to note though is that even edited down to three seconds, there were hundreds of frames captured, so don't try that with a long clip!

The next problem is what to do with an old High-8 video that we have also found in the attic, which we used almost ten years ago. It has no USB or Firewire connections, and only outputs a signal on two jacks, audio and video. I am told that a gadget to convert the signal will cost me £90 - surely there is a cheaper solution than that?

Wester Ross

Assynt Cottage

Green Arrow on the Settle-Carlisle

Once again - a long time ago

The Road to Slaggan

The abandoned ruins of the village of Slaggan, lie by the sea at the end of this track. Once a busy crofting community, it was decimated by clearances, but lingered on as an inhabited place, into the twentieth century only to be finally killed by world wars. Last week I posted a YouTube link to a song about the Highland Clearances by John Lees (here), - it was a song I couldn't get out of my head as we walked back towards Ullapool with a setting sun behind us - trying to imagine what the last residents must have felt as they walked this road for the last time. The quiet beauty of that landscape, is still overlain with a heavy blanket of mourning, which rests its melancholy weight on all who walk that road today.

At Ropley

A long time ago...

Remembering Sandwood Bay

St Johnstone 2 : 2 Hearts

If Saints fans were worried that promotion to the premiership would leave them floundering, unable to compete and quite literally out of their league; then this afternoon's 2-2 draw with Hearts will have put all such fears to rest. For the first 45, Saints dominated, and deserved to take a 1-0 lead into the interval. Hearts two goals in the second half followed a significant improvement in their performance, coupled with their ability to seize the chances they generated, while goal-scoring opportunities were not taken, or taken and disallowed at the other end. The large crowd erupted, when Saints equalised in injury time, thanks to a curling Martin Hardie free-kick from 25 yards; a fitting conclusion to a thoroughly entertaining match.

Ticket prices may have been raised at McDiarmid Park, as St Johnstone enter the big league, but there's no doubt that the entertainment level has been raised far more. The relentlessly fast, more skillful play of the premiership is in stark contrast to some of the plodding Division one games of last season, and the ability of top-flight teams like Hearts, to hold possession and build from the back, is worlds-away from some of the dreary long-ball punting we were subjected to from the likes of Stirling Albion last year. It was also good to see that the premiership has lead to bigger-crowds of away-fans coming to Perth than some of the lower-league minnows could muster; this coupled with a big turn-out of locals in the home stands, meant that there was a real atmosphere too. With entertainment this good on offer, they deserve to do well.

Loch Glencoul

Loch Glencoul

Better Days

Changeling

Changeling is a true story, of a woman called Christine Collins (Angelina Jolie) whose son was abducted in LA, in 1928. The plot involves the LAPD's misguided attempt to arrange a publicity coup by re-uniting Collins to a substitute child, and confining her to a psychopathic ward of a mental hospital when she refused to co-operate. He case was taken up by The Rev. Gustav Briegleb, (John Malkovitch) a campaigning Presbyterian minister, fighting city corruption in his radio broadcasts. The film charts Collins' two struggles, one to find her missing son, and two for justice from the oppressive city authorities. It also follows the arrest and trial of child-murderer Gordon Stewart Northcott, who may know the fate of young Walter Collins.

Changeling is an overwhelmingly, dark film, with few breathing spaces to relieve the sinister atmosphere which broods over the whole. The story of child-abduction is unspeakably dreadful, the fact that the authorities who should uphold justice and defend the rights of the oppressed, end up as further oppressors, is deeply troubling. Christine Collins is both a real historic character, and also an example of powerlessness. Deserted by her husband, bereft of her stolen child, and declared insane by the state, she is portrayed as an example of female disempowerment. Yet, aided by Rev. Briegleb, she is able to rise to challenge of defending her cause, and seeking justice.

In stark contrast to the oppressive subject matter, the film is beautifully shot. Visually it is quite compelling, and this is something that director Clint Eastwood was obviously striving to achieve. The fact that such evil occurs within a world of great beauty, is a juxtaposition which adds much to a growing sense of despair. But the coupling of beauty with Eastwood's delicately mournful soundtrack, overlaying such bleakness, makes the film a most beautiful lament, for life lost, hopes gone, and powerlessness.

A side note is that the film also forwards an intriguing set of questions in the debate (still very relevant in the USA) about use of the death penalty. Nortcutt was as eligible for such a sentence as it is perhaps possible to be; yet what information do such people take to their graves that might benefit the living, should they be coaxed to speak?

Angelina Jolie is a much criticised actress, but her portrayal of Christine Collins, is excellent. She was chosen (apparently) for the role because she looks so much the archetypal 1920s beauty, and the period costume certainly suits her - but here she compellingly portrays this lone woman under immense strain, with some power. John Malkovitch is good as the campaigning minister too, although there's something about his cold dispassionate eyes that even when he is playing a deeply sympathetic character, makes you just wonder for moment, if he's actually a serial killer!

This is a memorable film, worth watching, troubling, dark and disturbing; yet strangely delicate, compelling and thought provoking. It's no barrel of laughs, and not one for anyone with young children who suffers from nightmares - but yet as a lament for the powerless and a call to stand for justice, is absolutely gripping.

http://www.changelingmovie.net/

Forever Yesterday

Welcoming Home The Ashes

What a fabulous climax yesterday to the Ashes Summer, when on Day 4 of the Oval Test, Australia's hopes of clinging on to the famous urn were finally dashed. It would be entirely unfair to say, in traditional style, "that the better team won" - because in terms of both raw talent, and performance statistics, the better team were unable to salvage the draw they needed to retain the coveted trophy which they so overwhelmingly won two years ago at home in Australia. Somehow England were able, with Strauss and Trott's accumulation of runs, and Broad's devastating first-innings bowling, to win the final test by a stunning 197-run margin.

The series itself has been something of a roller-coaster, both teams suffering from wild fits of erratic inconsistency, with both bat and ball. This is probably the key difference that will be noted in the inevitable comparisons with the summer of 2005 series, when both teams performed consistently well and the Ashes were "won". In 2009, while there were moments of heroic performance that turned the tide for one side or the other - there is a greater sense that this year the Ashes were "lost" - by heroic failures. Neither side played consistently at the top of their game for the series, and Australia was almost as poor at Lord's as England were lamentable at Headingly, only a few weeks later. Some statistician somewhere will work out how many of the woeful batting collapses we have seen from both sides this summer have been caused by batsmen being unable to leave balls wide of the off-stump, a problem no-doubt exacerbated by the prevalence of the 20-20 form of the game.

But despite that, there were some notable performances. Anderson and Panesar's battling defiance of the Australian attack on the last day at Cardiff, restored English hopes - after the Aussies had so comprehensively demolished their bowling attack in the opening match. Flintoff's spell of brutal fast-bowling at Lord's was as compelling as it was destructive, and as memorable as Strauss' big hundred. Headingly was a complete disaster for England who lost by a innings and oh....... hundreds and hundreds of runs - and was entirely devoid of hope except for the curious rejuvenation of Stuart Broad. Broad had begun the series as the new ball bowler (perhaps somewhat surprisingly), but by mid-series he was near the bottom of the pecking-order, Strauss not handing him the ball until Anderson, Flintoff, Onions and sometimes even Swann had all had a go. Yet, his series turned around in Leeds, with 6-91 with the ball, and a fine-looking 61 with the bat. Although Australia levelled the series here, setting up this week's thrilling finale, it also appears to have been the match preparation that England's man-of-the-match at The Oval required to bring his obvious potential to fruition. He ends up leading the bowling stats for the series, and with a batting average higher that Cook, Bopara, Bell, Prior and Collingwood - and mid-series suggestions of his exclusion from the team put to one side.

Flintoff's occasional bursts of headline-grabbing brilliance have masked a fairly ordinary series for the big-man, and an equally ordinary test finale, save for the spectacular, timely and brilliant run out of Ricky Ponting, whose partnership with the equally brilliant Mike Hussey threatened at one stage to wreck England's party. England will not miss Flintoff's frequent ludicrous dismissals at the crease, the constant worries over his fitness, and his career statistics do show plenty of bad games alongside the good ones. But they will miss some of the extraordinary moments of inspiration he has provided for his team, sometimes at critical moments. His second innings bowling at Lords was for a few short, match-changing overs, brilliant, and his final moment of glory, in hurling Ponting's stumps down from mid-on was such a typical Flintoff moment of sporting brilliance and showbiz, that it brought the whole ground (and countless people around the country) to its feet.

What a shame then, that the ECB have sold all the broadcasting rights to Murdoch's media empire. The reason that the 2005 Ashes was a national event, wasn't just the better play that year, but the widespread accessibility when home tests were kept on the reserved list of sporting events to be kept on terrestrial television. Murdoch's millions might filter down to club level with the odd sightscreen here, and the odd new net there, or even a coach trained to teach youngsters the game somewhere in Merthr Tidfyll; but the fact is that unless kids can readily see their heroes in action, demand for these facilities will be gone within a generation.

The second shame is that this great sporting spectacle has brought out the lunatic-fringe of the SNP, demanding that what media coverage there has been be axed in Scotland, because cricket is not a Scottish sport! This is ill-conceived knee-jerk populism of the silliest kind. For a start, cricket in Scotland is alive and well, played by thousands every week, and with significantly higher participation than Rugby that er... "Scottish" sport. That's why during the 2005 Ashes series, the live coverage gained higher viewing percentages in Scotland than in England! That the team is called "England" (but has regularly featured Scots and Welshmen) is of course a problem, but one which allows Scots to play at the very highest level under an England banner, or enter a separate Scottish team in the world cup - so one which Scottish cricketers are hardly motivated to campaign to change.

The next job for the England selectors is to assess the series and work out who will be in a position to take the team forward from here. Vaughan's team of 2005 did little after their great series, and there are some series selection issues to work through from here on.

If we to classify the players in terms of their likely inclusion in the next squad as 'certain', 'query' and 'drop', the following would be my assessment.

Certain

Strauss: the linchpin of the batting line up

Trott: a very impressive debut

Pietersen: brilliant but erratic

Broad: has proved himself in the last 2 games

Anderson: can he do enough when the ball doesn't swing?

Prior: hugely improved keeper, adds useful runs

Swann: England's best spinning option, useful batsman

Query

Onions: 10 wickets in three tests, wasn't enough to keep his place

Cook: consistently out cheaply fishing outside off-stump

Bell: Unreliable, never looks really 'in'

Collingwood: Has had a disastrous summer, averages lower than the bowlers

Harmison: Three quick wickets, might not be enough

Drop

Bopara: His centuries again the Windies don't look like being repeated

Panesar: He can't elevate his bowling to match his enthusiasm.

All that however, can wait for another day. Today, there is plenty to celebrate. Despite the best efforts of the likes of Ponting, Siddle, Hilfenhaus, Hussey, North and Johnson - we have the Ashes back. And that's fantastic!

East Lomond with old friends and new

West Lomond from East Lomond

Across the 'cleavage of Fife', perhaps?

Once upon a time Doonhamergeordie had the misfortune to be one of my flatmates when we were students in Dundee. We shared a hovel on Cleghorn Street, which had no heating, frayed carpets and windows which would sometimes fall completely out of their frames into the rooms. In our first winter there, I remember it being so cold that the water in the toilet and sink froze solid. One morning I also recall Doonhamergeordie announcing that we had gained double-glazing during the night. The secondary glazing was of course a layer of ice on the glass. Happily the landlord, despite his various aliases, tax-dodging scams, and his abhorrence of maintenance, charged very little for our slum, where we spent several amusing years.

After Uni, and our respective marriages to fellow students, he settled in NE England - adding the 'geordie' bit of his nom de plume. Following that he became a blogger (you can read his adventures here), although his literary output has been somewhat curtailed by the growth of their family, all of whom descended on us the other day. With six kids in tow we went out for the day - after some lengthy discussion about where to go and what to do. The suggestion was raised that we could 'do one of the Lomonds', which as the forecast was reasonable seemed like a good way of ensuring that childrens' energy would be constructively (and non-violently) expended. The thought of 'doing a Lomond' filled me with a childhood horror however- not that I grew up within sight of a Lomond, either East or West let alone a Ben Lomond! Rather, when I was in my third year at Clarendon School a teacher called Mrs Rutledge had a huge stack of books filled with tedious and ever-more-tricky arithmetic exercises. These books had a photo of a Scottish peak on the front cover and were called "Lomond Maths". I can still hear Mrs Rutledge admonishing me: "get on and do your Lomond'.

Happily the childhood personality scars associated with Lomond weren't so deep that I needed psychoanalysis in order to drive to Falkland, and take the little road from the back of the village up to the car-park on the ridge - nestling between the respective Paps of Fife. Its an easy road to miss in the village, and the Doonhamergeordie's and ourselves had a bit of a hunt around the place looking for the correct turning. Once on the road the car-park is unmissable, in that it is host to Scotlands most malodorous public cludgie, evidence that attracting tourists is a low priority for Fife Council.

After successfully meeting up with the Doonhmergeordie clan, and introducing our respective children to each other, we took to the path along the ridge towards East Lomond. Countless drivers on the M90 between Edinburgh and Perth are treated to a fine view of the Lomond Hills (and the smaller Bishop's Hill) as they pass Kinross, few of them probably realise that these hills provide easily accessible, pleasant walking on gentle hills with wonderful views. The ridge to East Lomond from the car-park is broad and gentle, and only becomes steep when the summit cairn is reached, and little hands demand to be held - and the smallest people demand to be carried. The pull to the top is quickly rewarded however with views across the Forth to the Pentlands, Bass Rock and Berwick Law, to the West across the Ochil ridge, North to the lower hills around Perth and into the vast tangle of peaks in highland Perthshire, and Eastwards to the Sidlaws and their distinctive radio-masts marking the skyline by Dundee. In the immediate foreground the the land slumps steeply and ominously away to the pretty and ancient village of Falkland on one side and towards ghastly Glenrothes, that 1960s new-town and full-frontal assault on aesthetics, on the other. But as is often noted from the top of the hills, with such a glorious backdrop, 'even Glenrothes looks nice from up here'. High praise indeed.

With the noise, chatter, silliness, and occasional tears which mark a hilwalk with six-young children we enjoyed the view, some snacks and took photos before clambering back down the hill. Then the rain came, soaked us, chilled us and made the little ones a bit grumpy. Once at the car it was decided to halt the proceedings (the playpark at Loch Leven can wait) and adjourn to our house for hot chocolate and a serious assault on the chocolate cake which Mrs Hideous had taken the precaution of baking the previous evening. Time was short and they were too soon forced to head back to Falkirk, where food and grand-parents awaited. But it was great to catch up with old (and not-seen-for -years) friends and to finally meet their entertaining kids!

Book Notes: Medicine Balls by Phil Hammond

Phil Hammond's book, "Medicine Balls" is something of a schizophrenic effort in that it is unsure whether it is a serious medico-political commentary or a satirical series of medical anecdotes, with the traditional black humour beloved of medics and undertakers alike. Its curious mixture of investigative style journalism and scurrilous satire is somewhat akin to Private Eye magazine - of which (under the pseudonym "M.D.") he is the medical correspondent. Its easy and enjoyable reading, featuring some disturbing reflections on the state of contemporary medicine, and some transcripts of ludicrous consultations in which he invites us to mock the foibles of the great British public, and to be fair to him, to have a few laughs at his expense too.

The following quote is a piece of his examination of contemporary medicine.

I was taken aback to read that drug trials funded by the drug-companies yield results four-times as favourable to the company as independently funded trials. That is shocking - and his suggestion that covering -up unfavourable results should be made illegal, is sensible, if doctors really are to be able to practice medicine with a credible 'evidence base'.


The other side of this book can be seen in the following quote. It is a transcript from one of his ludicrous consultations - which does contain some strong language.

If you like a surreal mixture of politics, science, medicine, research, humour, expletives, and gross-out medical nightmare stories, this may be a book for you. On the other hand, I'd quite understand if you didn't!

Loch Leven

However much you know that beauty can be found in unexpected places, you still don't expect to find it in Fife, well not outside its famous East Neuk, anyhow. Yet here is Fife's Loch Leven from the Vane Wildlife Park viewpoint, where we had a great afternoon (in spite of the drizzle) with some of our neighbours.

Huntingtower

I think we have an inbuilt tendency to ignore treasures on our doorstep. This was certainly the case when I lived on the edge of London - although the city was packed full of world-class places of interest, museums, entertainments and historical sites, we only ever visited them when showing other folks around. I'm sure if we lived miles from Huntingtower castle we would have had had several day trips to it - because it is a charming place. They have everything there, gloomy cellars, high battlements, rumours of ghosts, a bloodthirsty history, entertaining historical anecdotes to go along with the historical information, and dressing-up costumes for younger children. Norris and Doris toured the castle as a medieval knight and princess respectively (Boris considers himself above such things, and was more interested in bloody history!). The staff are really friendly and great with the kids too, historic Scotland do a great job getting the best out of these old places!

Our Wigwam

Walking in the woods with their 'mad' aunt; Boris, Norris and Doris helped her to build a wigwam. Cool, huh?

Birks

The Birks of Aberfeldy is always a winner for good, but short, afternoon's walking. A beautiful wooded glen, leads to a gorge into which several lovely waterfalls pour, and through which a circular walk winds. Just below a den into which three or four falls tumble, there is a rocky overhang and a seat. According to the sign this was where Burns in 1787 was inspired to write (amongst other things):

Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlets plays;
Come let us spend the lightsome days,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy!

The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws-
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy!

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The scenery is fabulous - and the walk, although steep in places, is well within the capabilities of little Doris (aged 4). Her brother Norris (7) was the one who needed watching carefully through. He broke his collar-bone a week or so before the walk, and was one-armed in a sling, scampering up and down hills, trying to climb trees, sliding over wet rocks and generally alarming his parents! We weren't inspired by all of this to write poetry, but we were inspired to search for coffee and cake at the end of the walk -a search that was duly rewarded.

The Hawk Conservancy

I had a few days with my kids and my parents in London and one of the places they took us to was the Hawk Conservancy Trust outside Andover. The venue was chosen as a good mid-way point to meet up with my Dad's 'big' brother and sister who travelled there from the west, while we drove upwind of the big smoke to meet them.

This is a really good day-out, which we all thoroughly enjoyed. While kids were not that interested in the bored looking birds in aviaries part of the place, the place had added some kid-friendly activities to engage them which made the kids actually look at the birds and explore all sections of the park. The best bit of the day however (which more than made up for the limited cafe) were the flying displays, in which their large collection of impressive birds of prey are let loose to fly around the valley, through the grounds, over the crowds. This was absolutely stunning. The staff who commentate these displays are not only well-informed, but hugely entertaining as well, explaining the various maneuvers the different birds make with knowledge and humour. The kids were mesmerised by the vultures swooping so low over our heads that you could touch them, by the speed of the diving peregrine falcon, by the African Fish Eagle plucking a fish from the pool in front of us, and by the elegance of the Kite's soaring on the breeze. They will also not forget donning the big leather glove to allow the beautiful owl pictured above to perch on their arm.

It was a really good day out - but if we go there again we'll try and make sure it is not during the last week of the English school holidays, as the place was somewhat over-stocked with school parties!

The Castle of Gloom

At the head of Dollar Glen, between the Burn of Sorrow and the Burn of Care, lies Castle Campbell, "the Castle of Glume", which is a beautiful 15th Century castle nestling on an outcrop beneath the Ochil ridge. Despite the misery of the names of the building and the surrounding streams, we had a lovely day walking up through the dank woody glen, and enjoying the stunning southward views from the tower.

This made me laugh (maybe revealing just how sad I really am)

The first three minutes of this clip just made me laugh out loud. ...... enjoy!

Windsor view

For as long as I can remember, I have loved open space. Growing up in London's suburbs meant that I was always aware of its absence, an awareness which was re-enforced by our family's search for it at any given opportunity. Free-time together invariably meant escaping from the Thames-valley's pressure and smog, to places such as Shaftesbury in Dorset, or the wild North Cornish Coast, to National Trust houses set in large grounds like Polesden Lacy - but if time was short, a quick trip to Windsor Great Park. I loved these places, and saved hard as a teenager to buy a bike that would bring many of them within my reach. Yesterday I found the receipt for the "F.W. Evans Tourer De Luxe (black)" on which I pedalled through as many of these landscapes as I could manage.

Windsor Great Park was the nearest place to our house that I could find that feeling of open space, that escape from the traffic and architectural overload with which the south-east had been blighted in the course of a generation. My Grandma described moving out to Ashford, Middx after WWII as moving out to a quiet village - but by the end of her life, London had caught up with her again, growing out to surround the village, deny it a shape or identity, lasoo it with the M25 and drag it into the uniformity of Londonness. But from here - I could cycle to Windsor Great Park, which had acres of grass, mature trees, deer and no cars; and I did whenever I could. There are paths and trackways through the park on which you very rarely see a soul - even today. There are remote corners of the park where even the rumbling of Heathrow can be forgotten.

As a child, Windsor Great Park used to give me that sense of remoteness that now only comes if I am out wandering through the Cairngorms or up some wild Torridonian ridge whilst looking out to Skye. Much as I love 'The Copper Horse' and 'The Long Walk' (above), it doesn't feel as wild as it used to! Nevertheless it is a place which overwhelms me with memories - of events and days, of life-formingly special people, some of whom are gone, some of whom I have lost touch with, some of whom walked through there again with me this summer.

As I sat at the foot of the "Copper Horse" and mulled over these things; my Dad played 'Hide and Seek' with my young children, around the vast trunks of ancient trees that will outlast us all.