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.

Dunkeld etc

Early summer, a hazy day for a walk up Birnam Hill with 'Boris' and 'Norris'

Private Eye Cartoon

One of the great things about Private Eye, is that they laugh at everyone.

Charles Marsh's 'Wayward Christian Soldiers'

When does faithful contextualisation of the gospel become merely the loss of the gospel's distinctiveness, subsuming it beneath the dominant values of the culture? It is exactly that question that Charles Marsh explores in his book, "Wayward Christian Soldiers: Freeing the Gospel from Political Captivity", with reference to the church in the USA. This is an old discussion, but Marsh explores it in some unique and fascinating ways. Firstly his target for the critique that contextualisation has lead to sublimation has an unusual target. Usually such a critique is offered by the evangelical wing of the church -and directed straight at theological liberals, who have historically sought to minimise any differences between the church and the world, both by the demythologising core Christian belief and in adopting the ethical standards of surrounding culture as the norm. Marsh however, has white, American evangelicalism in his sights in this book, as he charges them (he is one, incidentally) with failing to critique the American national project, Imperial Economics, and expansionist foreign policy with the teachings of Christ. With many references to Bonhoeffer and the Christian resistance in Germany in the 1930s-40s, Marsh sees the American church as having failed in its primary task of loyalty to Christ, and has allowed itself to become the flag-waving and morale-boosting department of the American national project. A grave charge indeed.

Marsh argues that there have been key issues on which American Evangelicals have faced a choice between Faith and Flag, between the claims of Christ and the needs of their nation -and that on successive occasions they have chosen the flag. A particular case-study he makes is of the propaganda battle in the six months running up to the US-led invasion of Iraq, in which US Evangelicalism was a lone cheerleader for the war-effort, in the face of the near universal condemnation of the plan from the world-church. The book begins with the author discovering his local 'christian' bookshop in those days, removing Holy-Spirit, Dove of Peace badges from display, and replacing it with the Stars and Stripes!

To read Marsh's discussion of Franklin Graham's flag-waving click on the image below:

"the masses who cannot tell the difference between the cross and the flag. The Jesus who storms into Baghdad behind the wheel of a Humvee is not the Jesus of the gospels." This is stirring and provocative stuff - which needs to be said.

To read his discussion of Charles Stanley's pro-war propaganda click on the image below:

Marsh here accuses Stanley of the worst kind of theological liberalism; of reducing the gospel to the cheerleading department of a deeply non-Christian regime; of standing in the ignoble tradition of the court-prophets of the Old Testament. They were the ones who refused to deliver the ringing denunciations of Yahweh that fell to minority voices like Jeremiah - but sought the favour of Kings and Princes by the delivery of favourable 'prophecies' and declaring that their various schemes and machinations were the recipients of divine approval.

Marsh pleads with his fellow-believers to recover the integrity of the gospel message by de-coupling it from the religious-right movement (which has in fact merely 'used' gospel language and people for its own ends). He calls for the US church to listen more widely to the world church, to renounce its lust for power and seek again a commitment to quiet service - as a way of helping people see the Christ of the gospel, shorn of the unhelpful baggage of the GOP and its war-mongering foreign policies.

Reading this book as an 'outsider' was fascinating. I am convinced that his general thesis is exactly right, and that he is extremely perceptive and penetrating in his analysis. Obviously though, it is easier for me to (in the words of the old maxim) see the speck in my brother's eye more clearly than the plank in my own. If the use of the 'Prince of Peace' as a tool for war-mongering, stands out a mile as a being as bizarre as it is wicked to me; I wonder which aspects of my own attempts at being a disciple of Christ are equally hopelessly culturally compromised in ways of which I am blissfully ignorant? This book may have been 'just' a cheapo from the Oxford Uni Press summer sale - but it has got me thinking!

Todi (2)

The little Italian town of Todi, perched on the hillside, with statues, piazza, and of course, impressive church.

Torrebaldo

Izallini

Rain, rain, rain

Today is the last 'proper' day of the summer holidays - and the kids are in the house watching the rain falling outside. I have been outside getting soaked unblocking choked gutters merrily spewing water down the side of the house. However, the grey skies, and gentle but persistent drizzle we get in Scotland, is nothing compared to what we got in Italy earlier in the summer - it looked like this:

I'm Hiding

The attic conversion is now finished, the book shelving hung on the walls and we've finished decorating (well all but a few fiddly tidying up bits). The kids have helped me lug one or two boxes of books up the ladder, and stacked them on the shelves, theology to the left, history to the right, politics under the window, fiction over the stairs, maps on the top shelf, humour next to medical texts, below biographies etc etc. Just a little bit of organising to do here now... If things go a bit quiet and you haven't seen me for a while, I am most likely to be found up here, with a book. It is the most convivial of places for the reading of books, do join me next time you are round at ours.

Twine

I took the kids down to Edinburgh today to experience something of the famous Edinburgh Festival. The first great part of the day was the train ride into the city, over the Forth Bridge past the airport and into Waverley station. As usual at festival time the streets were packed with tourists, people advertising their various shows, and a bewildering array of street entertainers, artists, and people selling all manner of the weird and wonderful. We ignored all of these and marched to the Lawnmarket on the Royal Mile, to watch a children's play called Twine, the cast of which included our old friend Ross, who is part of the Tortoise in a Nutshell theatre group.

Norris (aged 7) said, "I liked Twine because it was funny and interesting. The best character was George because he kept on coming in to the stage every so often with a box of people on top - that's what made it funny. Uncle Claude pretending to be French made me laugh. I liked Uncle Claude's music and people were saying that he was pretending to be French but do not tell him because it will make him angry. I liked the chocolate cakes that they gave out at the end too!"

All three of the kids seemed to really enjoy the show - and were utterly absorbed by it from beginning to end, the hour flew by and they were disappointed that it had to end. There were no problems with restlessness or naughtiness, because they couldn't take their eyes off the characters. I looked accross to my kids at various points during the show - and they were utterly absorbed. The 'story within a story' idea as very well done, and alongside the flights of imagination of the storyline, the musical accompaniment was especially effective. The bizarre family of storytellers who have surreal and improbable adventures after an elaborate Tea-drinking ceremony, reminded me of The Rutles, but where that comic band were transported by 'tea' into Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds territory, this family are joined by a boy made of string, whose inability to speak draws them within the stories they are trying to tell! The age recommendation for the play is 6yrs+, but my 4 year old was highly entertained by it - because even when the dialogue was 'over her head', there was enough happening visually to hold her interest. Well worth a trip!

Camp

The Field

I think my favourite week of the year is the church youth camp, when about twenty adults, four children and thirty-five teenagers leave Perth and set up a canvas village in the countryside and live there for five eventful days. Every year the camp has a theme (usually topical) which is a focal point for all the games, competitions, awarding of both chores and rewards for behaviour - and the spiritual input too. Last year the camp took place in the middle of the Olympics, and so we explored a lot of the Bible's sporting illustrations and were busy 'running the race' and 'fighting the fight' etc. This year, as we plunge into recession the theme was 'money, money, money' - which had the added benefit of having a readily available cheesy theme tune too! The money theme worked in all the games, sports, craft competitions etc because teams could win or lose amounts of the camp currency 'The Dollop'. In the meetings, money also played a significant role because Jesus' parables use money a lot (i) as an illustration of our sin as being like a debt needing to be paid (Matt 18:21ff) and (ii)because he had lots to say about what we do with our resources in parables like that of the 'talents' or 'the rich man and Lazarus'.

The camp is a physically very wearying, but spiritually uplifting time. Sleeping in a tent in the rain is not exactly a refreshing way to spend the night, and playing football with sixteen year olds is potent reminder of my advancing age, by day. However, the adults and young people, all living there, working together, playing together, worshipping together, thinking together and laughing together at evening entertainment was just.. brilliant! It would be inaccurate to only say that all the teamwork and effort in putting up tents, cooking meals, planning, budgeting, risk-assessing, band practices, writing talks, planning sports competitions, organising crafts, praying, disclosure Scotland forms, parental consent forms, plumbing, wiring, hiring toilets, fiddling with laptops, preparing presentations, etc etc had been worthwhile for the effect that it had had. In fact it was much more than this, in that the teamwork in doing these things was in itself part of the reward. The fact that some of the younger people are having more and more input on both the practical and spiritual aspects of the camp and edging out some of us dinosaurs is also fabulous! I hope we can do it again in 2010!

Early Morning on The Field

In Cairngorm Sun on Bynack More

Cairngorms slopes from Bynack More

Mrs Hideous has on occasion been heard to comment that if the sunshine could be relied upon, then she would never want to holiday away from Scotland. As I drove up the grim North road yesterday, through badly organised roadworks, behind slow trucks and caravans, with the mountains of Drumochter looking menacing and foreboding through torrents of rain - I reflected on the wisdom of her words. Sitting in traffic on the A9, in driving rain under a darkening grey sky - hardly inspires. The thought of putting on waterproofs and walking up a hill straight into the teeth of such weather was as sickening as the thought of the warmth of the bed I dragged my reluctant limbs out of that morning, was attractive. Had I not had an arrangement to meet Dr K at Glenmore Lodge, the observable weather and the gloomy forecast of rain and high winds to come would certainly have beaten me back.

Much to my surprise however, as I dropped down from Drumochter the rain began to ease. Accelerating past Dalwhinnie (the mobile roadblock of caravan coupled to underpowered car plus inept driver, turned off towards Fort William, the west coast and countless more drivers to unnecessarily delay), I noticed a patch of blue sky to the North and thought that maybe a walk was on. By the time I had got to Newtonmore the patch of blue was dominating the sky, and by Aviemore the scene, dominated by the looming Cairngorm bulk, was lit by bright sunshine. When I met Dr K. at Glenmore Lodge, he was doing serious work with the sun-cream.

Leaving sparkling Lock Morlich and its hundreds of watersports enthusiasts behind us, we took the track that runs from Glenmore Lodge alongside the Alt na Feith Duibhe to the clear green waters of the An Lochan Uaine. As is common all over the Cairngorm National Park, progress along the long miles to the hills is accelerated by the provision of excellent tracks and maintained paths. At the car, the planned waterproof layers had been dispatched to the rucksack, and within a mile or two of striding through the warm fragrant pine woodland, fleecy jumpers were similarly discarded. The track cuts through a delightful notch in the hills as it curves round to Ryvoan Bothy on the Braemar path. We forked off, away from the bothy and round into beautiful Strath Nethy, and a useful little footbridge across its broad, powerful outflow (below).

Once over the river, we took the obvious (and eroded) path which ascends the shoulder of Bynack More's long northern ridge. The path forks on the ridge, the historic right of way descending to the east of the mountain towards the Fords of Avon and the Lairig an Laiogh, and a newer Munro-baggers track towards the summit. Somewhat predictably, and in the company of several other walking parties, we struck southwards and upwards, over several rocky false-summits to the splendid viewpoint of Bynack More. In blazing sunshine, with views accross the Cairngorm massif to Cairngorm itself and distant Ben Macdui, as well as Northwards out across the vast lowlands of Speyside we eventually (revealing a startling lack of fitness) made the summit. Returning by the same route - and with no hint of the promised high winds and rain, we made Glenmore Lodge and fresh supplies of drinks, in good time, despite aching feet and the tingle of freshly tinged skin.

If the weather in Scotland was like this all the time - who'd ever go anywhere else?

Distant Bynack More and Bynack Beg down Strath Nethy

Todi

Pause!

I'm having a short blogging holiday, the pause button has been pressed. The reasons are many and varied, and include the busyness of the 'end of term' stuff, the kids being off school next week and needing more of my time, a huge list of books I want to read and the long overdue application of the maxim, "when you ain't got nothing worth saying, just shut up!"

Seeya!

Beinn Liath Mhor & Sgorr Ruadh

(photos c/o That Rogers Character and Dr K.)

The long, undulating, three-topped summit ridge of Beinn Liath Mhor.

Liathach across Torridon

Can you spot me?

The big-round of the hills of the Coulin forest, high up between Loch's Torridon and Carron is a stunning, exhilarating and overwhelming experience; the kind of hill-day that stretches the superlatives to breaking point. Beginning at the roadside below Achnashellach station, a forestry track crosses the rails and climbs through the woods before a walkers path takes a sharp left prior to some deer fencing - this excellent stalkers path leads high into the corrie and has side paths which lead up to all the major ridges.

High in the corrie the path splits, on track to the left heads for the ridge between Sgorr Ruadh and Fuar Tholl (this was to be our descent path), while the right hand path lead to a seemingly impossible climb through the rocks and terraces of Beinn Laith Mhor's southern ridge. In practice a path weaves its way (albeit steeply) in and out of all the hazards and along the stunning ridge. This is one of the best ridge walks I have done - and were it not situated in the shadow of Torridon's mighty Alligin-Liathach-Eighe threesome, would have a reputation for being an absolute classic high-level round.

The views from the summit of Beinn Liath Mhor are more than words or camera can capture, but they live on, indelibly inscribed upon my memory. Now back at home I have spent several days clearing up after a child with a particularly florid tummy-bug. Happily, by simply closing my eyes and calling on my memory, within seconds I can be once again gazing from on high down the length of Upper Loch Torridon with the blazing sun glinting off Beinn Eighe's quartzite sides......... And that was only the view in one direction, Glen Shiel, Affric, Slioch were in sight, Fisherfield and of course countless hills to the south and east were all there, while to the North the distinctive spines of An Teallach sat on the skyline. Glorious days.

The trickiest part of this walk is the traverse of the ridge at the head of the corrie, punctuated as it is by a steep sided rocky knoll. A 'false path' misleadingly guides walkers descending Beinn Liath Mhor towards it, whereas a better descent comes by keeping to the northern edge of the ridge and looking for an eroded descent path. Once on the knoll, don't climb to its summit but look for a traverse path on it southern side - which again leads to a steep descent route down to the lochan and the main path to the bealach from Achnashellach station. From here it is an energetic but straightforward pull up and round to Sgorr Ruadh's airy summit cairn. My little camera was full-up, so I am relying on pictures from the other guys for this walk! They haven't sent me any from Sgorr Ruadh, but that is a tremendous peak, perched high on the ridge with especially good view of Maol Chean Dearg. Time prevented us from scampering up Fuar Tholl the stunning corbett that dominates the view from the A-road, so we picked our way through the hummocky terrain to the descent path - a fast and easy descent and wonderful conclusion to one of the best days I have ever had in the hills, a wonderful conclusion to our hillwalking holiday.

Moruisg & Sgurr nan Ceannaichean

In Dr K's absence, That Rogers Character and myself found the right layby on the A890, crossed the river by the footbridge and found the cattle creep under the railway line and began the long gruelling ascent of Moruisg. This hill is hardly the grandest or most shapely of the high ground in this area - but it does throw a challenge into any walker who wishes to climb it. The walking books speak of the gullies running down the side of the hill, but fail to mention how steep the ground gets between them. Its one of those climbs where the car is visible for the first hour or so appearing smaller and smaller down at the roadside. The climb does reward the walker with a broad ridge to stride up to the summit cairn however - opening the way to an increasingly interesting, narrowing ridge around to Sgurr nan Ceannaichean.

The photo above (taken just after we had come down from the hill) shows the cloud crowning the summit ridge like a distinguished head of hair. The reality of climbing up into this cloud (picture below) is that when we sat down at the cairn to enjoy the view we could just about see each other and the three other foolish souls who had chosen such a day to satisfy the peculiar need to stand on top of mountains in the fog.
In poor visibility the twisting ridge tested our map reading abilities, and I was glad that That Rogers Character was there to confer with. Such times on my own always add an element of intense concentration that can detract from the sheer fun of hillwalking. When I'm on my own I am excessively cautious and don't have the courage of my convictions, obsessively reading the map, and checking with the compass and GPS all the time. Having two of us checking the route and independently coming to identical conclusions about our location and direction is somewhat reassuring!

The route off this one isn't too bad, the North ridge of the second hill providing plenty of steep grassy slopes with which to pick routes around its rocky bluffs - leading to a path down towards the river and rail crossing back to the day's starting point. Here, waiting for us was Dr K himself, who had spotted us on our descent and greeted us with good news, - and he had been to the supermarket and stocked us with good food and fine ale for our final evening at Gerry's Hostel.

The boys are back in......... Am Ploc

The Hillwalking Boys - enjoying the Plockton Sunshine!

That great writer on the British countryside, Alfred Wainwright wrote lovingly of "Dear Plockton", to which he "arrived in eager anticipation and left in reluctance". He adds, "By common consent, it is the prettiest of Scotland's west coast villages",..."It really deserves a more romantic name, Plockton meaning the town on the headland. But what's in a name? Plockton is a little paradise." We'd like to add that in addition to all these charms, it makes a great place to have a rest day from hill-walking and has a fabulous little fish and chip take away too. Wainwright describes the village as "unspoilt and unsophisticated" and his "priority holiday venue...throughout the 1970s". Plockton is full of happy memories for me too, having been here a couple of times with my family (and my sister), on both occasions in weather more suited to the villages famous palm trees than to its situation in the Northwest Highlands. I remember watching some of the Live8 gig here with Lord Provan of Mearns after a particularly memorable ascent of the Forcan Ridge - and now I have another sunny Plockton memory to add to the collection.

Knowing that we were out of food, and that in the still relatively Sabbattarian Highlands we would have trouble finding an early morning shop - hillwalking was out of the question. So, after much time-wasting at Gerry's Hostel, Dr K. became decisive - and announced that we were going to Plockton - a suggestion with which we were happy to concur! The day before had been a leg-aching, energy sapping long day in the hills. The air was cold, the walks long and the experience invigorating. Nothing could be more contrasting - within sight of the same mountains - than a Plockton day. While twenty miles inland, dark clouds menaced the high peaks of the Coulin Forest, the sun blazed on "Dear Plockton!". While the day before our rucksacks had been filled with ropey sandwiches and high energy snacks, Plockton has fresh succulent fish 'n' chips, and ice-cream. On Sgurr a Chaorachain we had clambered into Goretex, but at Plockton at least one of our number shed almost all his attire and lept into the sea (the vigour with which he did so almost causing him to shed the little he was still wearing). Sgurr Choinnich had treated us to an arduous but rewarding climb up a narrowing ridge, but Plockton invited us to enjoy the widening views of the bay - where I fell asleep in the sun.

The hillwalking boys have a lot in common with the Stooges, about whom I have previously posted. This is not least because two thirds of the personnel are identical, having lost one stooge to the delights of Oklahoma (the place - not the musical), and gained a hillwalker in Nairn. A day with nothing to do but to slow one's breathing down to a rate appropriate to the surroundings may sound dull to some - but dull moments are thankfully few and far between with the hillwalking boys. I like to think that when it comes to choosing friends I am quite discerning; and here I have them with wit, honesty, faith, wisdom, and who exemplify what it means to face adversity with integrity. They (we!) also have the worst, ham Australian accents in the world, Bruce! Exactly why conversation repeatedly lapsed in this direction was never entirely clear - but may have been related to the fact that a few days away from our wives was initially billed as the "no Sheila's!" event.

Plockton remains a place of overwhelming happy memories for me, a charming place around which I have wandered with my wife, my children, my sister and a handful of good friends. Ah! it would be great to be back in Plockton again.

Sgurr Choinnich & Sgurr a Chaorachain

The reason that we ended up striding out into the Coulin Forest, from the infamous Gerry's Hostel, this week was simple. Looking at a map of Scotland I noticed a vast swathe of countryside into which I had never ventured, despite the number of days I have spent traversing the paths, wading the bogs, scrambling the rocks and walking the hills of this fine country.

These hills are accessed from Craig, where a level crossing breaches the railway line and gives access to a forestry track which curves its way deep into the mountains. Several miles into the walk, and after a river crossing over Scotland's most precarious wire bridge (optional when the river is low - compulsory when it's in spate), a footpath forks off from the track and winds its way up to the Bealach Bhearnais. This bealach is the meeting-point of several fine glens, and a route to a whole cluster of mountains, and a place for ultra-keen Munro-baggers to pitch their tents as a staging post to legendarily remote peaks such as Lurg Mhor. Being only moderately keen baggers, we were not there with tents contemplating 'completing' the whole region in a weekend, but were happy instead to climb the long eastern ridge of Sgurr Choinnich to its lofty viewpoint, before crossing the delightful ridge linking it to Sgurr a Chaorachain. Sadly time prevented us from progressing out to the hills' fine south easterly top to enjoy its wide views - but forced us to turn Northwards and back to the path homeward. We turned westwards too early, and endured a grim descent towards the path, had we persisted northwards for longer we would have been spared some underfoot unpleasantness.

The walk back to Craig through the forest is long and gruelling after such a fine day spent on high tops and airy ridges, the little white house at the level crossing rises into view from several miles away... but never seems to get any closer, even as the feet get sorer! This would be a good track up which to push a mountain bike at the start of a day just to enjoy a long and speedy downhill freewheel at its conclusion.

Back at the hostel, having lost our heavy boots and gained a hot shower we reflected on this new range of hills we had tasted. We were all impressed with their size, graceful ridges, remoteness and huge views and began to make plans to return with bikes to try our hand at reaching some of the areas more remote peaks.

At Gerry's Hostel

The A835 winds it's way southwesterly from Achnasheen to Strathcarron, following the path of the Dingwall to Kyle of Lochalsh railway line. With the great peaks of Torridon to the North and a vast wilderness stretching all the way to Glen Affric on it's south side, it is a road ringed by great mountains, and very little else.

Very little else that is except Gerry's Hostel (Scotland's Oldest Independent Hostel) says the blurb, which is located at the hamlet of Craig at the start of one of the major footpaths penetrating the great upland ranges on the south side of the road (map here).

Gerry's is basic, comfortable and equipped with a reasonable kitchen, good beds, hot showers and a good drying room. It is also a little quaint, and rather eccentric - a characteristic it shares with its eponymous owner!

I spent four nights here with 2 great friends this week, during which time we managed to explore many of the surrounding hills and glens. We had Gerry's to ourselves for virtually the whole time which was an added bonus too. Gerry's own website is here. The unusual nature of this little hostel, (well actually of the owner) has led to a plethora of legends amongst hill-folk, most of which are undoubtedly untrue. Nevertheless, a Google search on "Gerry's Hostel" still produces a few tales today. My memories however are all good - of great hills, good friends, big meals in the common room, fine pints of ale and good books, wide-ranging conversation, maps and mountain guide-books being spread out across the table, and the infrequent trains rattling past on the adjacent Kyle line.

The Return of the Three Stooges

Although flung to all corners of the world, Scotland, Birmingham and Oklahoma - my two oldest friends and I have stayed in touch since we studied together at Strode's College, sometime in the last century. Last weekend we all managed to get together for the first time in a decade, which was great, although tinged with regret that such times are so rare.

We reminisced about weird and wonderful events, in places as diverse as South Mimms service station and Coleraine. We talked about the ludicrous speeches we'd made at each other's weddings, and of the time when the police searched my car for drugs and seemed genuinely disappointed only to find a packet of chocolate digestives. We re-kindled very old jokes, which have lain dormant for so long and caught up on many intervening years of life that have slipped by and wondered how long it would be before we were all in the same place again.

In one of our parents homes (who were on holiday) we all realised how strange it was that once there were three of us; then we all gt married over the course of four years, and have all subsequently been breeding - and that there were fourteen people around the table! Happily all three of us found excellent wives who are good friends too. So while all six of us were chatting around the dinning table, the kids all bundled outside and seemed to get on really well (despite being relative strangers), and played with bikes, balls, ice-creams, nintendo's and the like. Two of that great number of children had never been to the UK before, to see where their Dad grew up - and I was particularly moved that along with the sightseeing tour they took of places like the London Eye; they also saw many more personal landmarks such as houses he had lived in as a boy and the place where he became a Christian as a child (here), and the place where their Mum had, as an exchange student in London (here).

Despite the long drive, the many hours on the road, the late nights and tired children, it was a great weekend. There's something joyful, encouraging, stimulating and right about enjoying real fellowship with old friends. We talked about families, children, work, politics, curry, music, America, faith, prayer, culture, worship, joys, struggles, hopes, pains, achievements, illnesses and Jesus himself; with a sense that all of these facets of life are lived before Him, and all the blessings in life come ultimately from Him.

The weekend was a rare treat, and I come away with a profound sense that life was intended to more like that was - and less like today is.

All Orange and Black

Just another Perth sunset, the breathtaking beauty of which the camera cannot do justice. This is taken looking North-westwards from the city-centre, in the foreground the Perth College area of the city at the top of Letham; in the background the Glen Almond hills.