Autumn, I’m afraid, is a coming in, as a medieval poet might say. Or, as Keats phrased it, “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close-bosomed friend of the maturing sun.” I admit you’d have to look pretty damn hard to see any sun in Manchester recently – the mist element has been stressed rather a lot, also the pelting rain – but it did dry up long enough last weekend to let me pick the apples.
We’ve got two smallish apple trees, a Worcester Pearmain and a Granny Smiths and both trees have produced a bumper crop.
So what on earth do you do with zillions of apples? Eat them, yes, I’d got as far as that myself, but there’s a limit to how many apples even a family our size can munch through. So I turned to chutney.
Wow. It’s gorgeous. There’s something about home-made chutney that knocks any other sort of pickle into a cocked hat. What you should do, according to the recipe, is leave the chutney in a cool dark cupboard for two to three months (and if that’s not handy for Christmas, I don’t know what is.) The trouble is, it tastes so fantastic, we’ve been through two jars already, and, as it’s just crying out for a knock-your-socks-off cheddar to go with it, it’s not doing my diet any good.
Here’s the recipe if you want to give it a go.
1 pound of onions
4 pounds of apples
8 ounces of dried fruit
1 ounce of ginger
1 ounce of paprika
1 ounce of mixed spice
1 ounce of salt
1 and a half pounds of granulated sugar
A pint and a half of malt vinegar
Chop up the apples and the onions and put them into a big pan. The great thing about using up the apples in this way, is that you can use all the very tiny ones that will never be much good for eating. I put them into the vinegar right away, and then they don’t start going brown and sad looking. Add everything else, bring it to the boil and then let it simmer for three hours or so. Give it a stir every so often. You can tell it’s ready when it goes fairly thick and, if you draw a wooden spoon across the mixture, it leaves a channel that doesn’t immediately fill with liquid.
In the meantime, sterilize your jam-jars. The easiest way of doing this is to put a titchy bit of cold water in the bottom and give each jar a minute in the microwave. You’ll have to sterilize the lids too, and the easiest way to do that is by boiling them in water for a while. (Five minutes or so should do it.) Then – carefully because they’re hot (der!) – put the jars in a warm oven to dry out.
Then put the chutney into the warm jars with a little greaseproof or waxed paper insert on top of the chutney. That stops the metal in the lid reacting with the vinegar in the chutney. Then wait two to three months… if you can!
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Importance of Being Bone Idle
Assiduous readers might have noticed (!) that I’ve recently published a book on Amazon’s Kindle. Now, one of the ways that a basically idle writer can escape work (ie, the hard stuff where you sit down and actually make the stuff up) is by dickering about on a computer. You know the sort of thing: read the emails, reply to the emails, read all the emails on any lists you subscribe to (Crime Through Time and DorothyL in my case) reply to same, check the lyrics on Google of that song that you can’t place, and – and this is a real trap – check your ratings on Amazon. Geesh, that takes time! I can’t tell you how long you can nosy round Amazon, gently reassuring yourself it’s sort of work. This is the sort of inner dialogue that goes on.
CONSCIENCE: Well, here we are, bright and early, ready to start work, yes?
SELF: Let me just see what the rest of the world is up to, yes?
CONSCIENCE: You could do some work first.
SELF: Whimper! What if the editor’s emailed? I can’t miss that, can I?
CONSCIENCE: Okay, just check. See? There’s nothing there that can’t wait.
SELF: But… But… I need to see if anyone’s left a review on Amazon. (BRIGHTLY) I need to know about that, don’t I?
CONSCIENCE: Do it later!
SELF: Now! Want it now! (IN DEFIANCE OF CONSCIENCE LOGS ONTO AMAZON)
CONSCIENCE: (THWARTED, CONSCIENCE RETIRES INTO A CORNER AND SULKS.)
This is roughly the sort of thing that happens most mornings. However, every so often, SELF scores the winning goal, so to speak. You see, the thing about Amazon is that the ratings are updated every hour, and if some kindly-minded individual (or even small groups of same) has bought your book that’ll send your ratings soaring. And if you don’t check your ratings NOW, as SELF would say, you’ll never know that for one brief shining moment, you’ve actually blipped on the Top Anything. And yesterday morning, after CONSCIENCE and SELF had had their usual knock-down, drag-out fight, SELF proudly reported to CONSCIENCE that – wait for it – Frankie’s Letter was Number 76 in Kindle’s Action and Adventure category, Number 14 in Spy Stories and Tales of Intrigue (Incidentally, when was the last time you logged onto Amazon and thought, “D’you know what, I fancy a Tale of Intrigue” or, when the partner of your joys and sorrows says, “What are you reading?” reply “A Tale of Intrigue, darling.”? My other half would think I was bonkers) and Number 9 – Number 9! – in British Detectives.
SELF had a celebration. CONSCIENCE has moodily admitted that SELF sometimes has a point.
CONSCIENCE: Well, here we are, bright and early, ready to start work, yes?
SELF: Let me just see what the rest of the world is up to, yes?
CONSCIENCE: You could do some work first.
SELF: Whimper! What if the editor’s emailed? I can’t miss that, can I?
CONSCIENCE: Okay, just check. See? There’s nothing there that can’t wait.
SELF: But… But… I need to see if anyone’s left a review on Amazon. (BRIGHTLY) I need to know about that, don’t I?
CONSCIENCE: Do it later!
SELF: Now! Want it now! (IN DEFIANCE OF CONSCIENCE LOGS ONTO AMAZON)
CONSCIENCE: (THWARTED, CONSCIENCE RETIRES INTO A CORNER AND SULKS.)
This is roughly the sort of thing that happens most mornings. However, every so often, SELF scores the winning goal, so to speak. You see, the thing about Amazon is that the ratings are updated every hour, and if some kindly-minded individual (or even small groups of same) has bought your book that’ll send your ratings soaring. And if you don’t check your ratings NOW, as SELF would say, you’ll never know that for one brief shining moment, you’ve actually blipped on the Top Anything. And yesterday morning, after CONSCIENCE and SELF had had their usual knock-down, drag-out fight, SELF proudly reported to CONSCIENCE that – wait for it – Frankie’s Letter was Number 76 in Kindle’s Action and Adventure category, Number 14 in Spy Stories and Tales of Intrigue (Incidentally, when was the last time you logged onto Amazon and thought, “D’you know what, I fancy a Tale of Intrigue” or, when the partner of your joys and sorrows says, “What are you reading?” reply “A Tale of Intrigue, darling.”? My other half would think I was bonkers) and Number 9 – Number 9! – in British Detectives.
SELF had a celebration. CONSCIENCE has moodily admitted that SELF sometimes has a point.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Gone Fishin'
I suppose it started with Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall, the floppy-haired and engaging cook and food enthusiast of TV’s River Cottage series. Week after week Hugh grows, hunts and finds ingredients for an always wonderful meal which he whips up on the beach, in a field, or on a boat in what always seems to be perfect weather with a bunch of really good mates.
In the recent series, Hugh was catching fish. He made it seem entrancing. And the idea is, O Idle Viewer, that we couch potatoes can also pop down to Jersey for a bit of Sea Bream or up to Skye for a chance at the mackerel etc, etc. (The episode where he ate a bit of jellyfish is not one I’m going to copy.) But, jellyfish aside, it all looked wonderful.
And, d’you know, I’ve got a fishing rod. To be honest, I’m not sure why. I’ve spent various seaside holidays where we’ve succumbed to the lure of fishing trips, and then I've been lumbered with doing something (like cleaning, scaling, gutting and cooking) to a mixed batch of finny denizens. And, what with one thing and another, I’ve been led to reflect that seaside fish is better deep-fried and wrapped in newspaper with plenty of vinegar and a portion of chips. But Hugh F-W made it look sooooo much fun. “Can we,” said Helen, swivelling round from the couch where she’d potatoed, “go fishing?”
Now, there’s certain obstacles to be overcome; even the most passionate Mancunian will agree that Manchester is not lapped by the ocean waves. Or traversed by swiftly-flowing rivers (not that you’d want to eat out of, at any rate) or, indeed, the willow-fringed, grassy-banked, sparkling trout streams of my imagination. So when I went to the local angling shop, and asked where I could go fishing, I wasn’t very surprised when the bloke behind the counter shrugged and said, “The canal.”
Oh, and I needed a rod-licence, too. And a landing-net. And bait?
Nothing, I said firmly, as he reached for the maggots, that’s minging.
Maggots are undeniably minging.
Plastic maggots, then?
Plastic maggots?
So, yeah, okay, I know it’s odd, but I spent £1.99 on a packet of plastic maggots. They smell of pineapple which fish apparently find irresistible. They like sweetcorn too, apparently. Where on earth do the fish get these advanced tastes from? I can understand a fish in the Huddersfield Canal being switched on by the scent of old shopping trolleys and take-away cartons, but sweetcorn and pineapples? Maybe they migrate…
So armed with niffy plastic maggots, sweetcorn, a rod licence, a net and a bit of hope, I stationed myself by the canal, baited the rod and waited. Helen sat on the picnic rug and, sketch book in hand, whiled away the time until she could get busy with the landing-net.
Now before anyone wonders if they’ll shortly be called up upon to choose between flowers or a donation to charity, let me reassure you. There is no way, ever, that I would eat anything out of that canal. All I want to do is snare a fish, admire it, take its photograph and return it to its native element. This (see my thoughts on cleaning, scaling, gutting and cooking above) seems like a good deal to me. I’m not sure what the fish would think, but it might entertain some mordant thoughts on the nuttiness of human behaviour.
The fish tried. They loved the sweetcorn. They ate it off the hook and came back for more. That rod is the most complicated way of giving a fish a healthy snack ever devised. We re-baited the hook and tried again. And again. And then It Happened. There was a massive tug at the line. Now, there’s not just tiddlers in that canal. There’s at least one twenty-pound pike and the way the rod bent double I could believe I’d got it. The line must have stretched, because I reeled in and reeled in and still there was a terrific threshing in the murky waters. “Reel it in, Mum!” yelled Helen. “I’m doing it!” I said… And then Helen put the net in the water. Now she didn’t mean to hit the fish, but she did. And broke the line. There was a clunk, a final tug and the fish was gone. An irritated-looking shiny black back rose twice out of the water and that was it. This never happened to Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall. Fishing on the telly is easy.
In the recent series, Hugh was catching fish. He made it seem entrancing. And the idea is, O Idle Viewer, that we couch potatoes can also pop down to Jersey for a bit of Sea Bream or up to Skye for a chance at the mackerel etc, etc. (The episode where he ate a bit of jellyfish is not one I’m going to copy.) But, jellyfish aside, it all looked wonderful.
And, d’you know, I’ve got a fishing rod. To be honest, I’m not sure why. I’ve spent various seaside holidays where we’ve succumbed to the lure of fishing trips, and then I've been lumbered with doing something (like cleaning, scaling, gutting and cooking) to a mixed batch of finny denizens. And, what with one thing and another, I’ve been led to reflect that seaside fish is better deep-fried and wrapped in newspaper with plenty of vinegar and a portion of chips. But Hugh F-W made it look sooooo much fun. “Can we,” said Helen, swivelling round from the couch where she’d potatoed, “go fishing?”
Now, there’s certain obstacles to be overcome; even the most passionate Mancunian will agree that Manchester is not lapped by the ocean waves. Or traversed by swiftly-flowing rivers (not that you’d want to eat out of, at any rate) or, indeed, the willow-fringed, grassy-banked, sparkling trout streams of my imagination. So when I went to the local angling shop, and asked where I could go fishing, I wasn’t very surprised when the bloke behind the counter shrugged and said, “The canal.”
Oh, and I needed a rod-licence, too. And a landing-net. And bait?
Nothing, I said firmly, as he reached for the maggots, that’s minging.
Maggots are undeniably minging.
Plastic maggots, then?
Plastic maggots?
So, yeah, okay, I know it’s odd, but I spent £1.99 on a packet of plastic maggots. They smell of pineapple which fish apparently find irresistible. They like sweetcorn too, apparently. Where on earth do the fish get these advanced tastes from? I can understand a fish in the Huddersfield Canal being switched on by the scent of old shopping trolleys and take-away cartons, but sweetcorn and pineapples? Maybe they migrate…
So armed with niffy plastic maggots, sweetcorn, a rod licence, a net and a bit of hope, I stationed myself by the canal, baited the rod and waited. Helen sat on the picnic rug and, sketch book in hand, whiled away the time until she could get busy with the landing-net.
Now before anyone wonders if they’ll shortly be called up upon to choose between flowers or a donation to charity, let me reassure you. There is no way, ever, that I would eat anything out of that canal. All I want to do is snare a fish, admire it, take its photograph and return it to its native element. This (see my thoughts on cleaning, scaling, gutting and cooking above) seems like a good deal to me. I’m not sure what the fish would think, but it might entertain some mordant thoughts on the nuttiness of human behaviour.
The fish tried. They loved the sweetcorn. They ate it off the hook and came back for more. That rod is the most complicated way of giving a fish a healthy snack ever devised. We re-baited the hook and tried again. And again. And then It Happened. There was a massive tug at the line. Now, there’s not just tiddlers in that canal. There’s at least one twenty-pound pike and the way the rod bent double I could believe I’d got it. The line must have stretched, because I reeled in and reeled in and still there was a terrific threshing in the murky waters. “Reel it in, Mum!” yelled Helen. “I’m doing it!” I said… And then Helen put the net in the water. Now she didn’t mean to hit the fish, but she did. And broke the line. There was a clunk, a final tug and the fish was gone. An irritated-looking shiny black back rose twice out of the water and that was it. This never happened to Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall. Fishing on the telly is easy.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Frankie's Letter
Whisper it softly, but I think I’ve just published a book. Yes, I know, it’s normally something anyone’s in two minds about, but this is an ebook, you see, and I’ve got nothing to hold in my hand. You know when you go onto Amazon? Well, buried in the reviews and the ratings and all the general gubbins, there’s a bright little message saying words to the effect of, “Are you an author or publisher? Then publish on Kindle!”
Now, I’ll be honest. I’m not a Luddite, exactly, but I’d never really fancied ebooks all that much. And then our Jenny celebrated her 16th birthday with an ipad. Wow. I mean, seriously, wow. It works like greased lightning and the books on it are amazing. Ebooks suddenly seemed like a really good idea.
So I thought okey-doke…. As it happens, I have a book – a book that I’m very fond of – that’s never seen the light of day. It’s called Frankie’s Letter – remember that title. Make a note. A note to the tune of, “Frankie’s Letter. What an enthralling title for a book. You know, I’d love to read a book called Frankie’s Letter. Frankie’s Letter sounds terrific. I wish I owned a book called Frankie’s Letter.” Bounce up and down on the spot if you like – I’m not at all judgemental and, besides, it’ll entertain the kids and bewilder the cat. Frankie’s Letter. It’s not a Jack Haldean but a complete new venture. It’s a First World War spy thriller, which I thoroughly enjoyed researching and writing. I’ve always wanted to write about the period of the First World War, but I didn’t want to write a war story as such. The war was so immense and so shattering to the people in it, that simply telling a straight-forward war story seemed – well, irrelevant, somehow. After all, with the world crashing round your ears, hunting out fingerprints and pondering long and hard about how deeply the parsley had sunk into the butter on a hot day or whatever seemed trivial. I mean, I’m as fond of sunken parsley as the next person, so to speak, but the circumstances have to be right.
And then I got my big idea. Yup, write about the war but write about the war from a distance. I needed someone who was capable of acting on their own (as a hero who has to keep trotting off for orders is not very heroic!) who was affected by the war and, ideally, could affect the war too. Hang on a mo. What about a secret agent? What indeed. And so Anthony Brooke was born.
He was and is a doctor, but, because of his fluency in German (Hey! He’s my hero! He can have whatever attributes that come in handy!) he gets swept up and sent of to Germany at the start of the war as an undercover agent. All is well until another agent comes staggering into his room and, with his dying breath, tells Anthony there’s a spy in England who knows Big Stuff and, if Anthony reads Frankie’s letter, it’ll tell him all about it. That’s the start and I think it’s pretty good, not to be overly modest about it. Anthony ends up back in Dear Old Blighty where there’s some very dodgy dealings going on, with beautiful, jewel-encrusted women, mysterious deaths, more spies (it was sort of “buy one, get one free in the spy shop” that day) grand country mansions, a spot of romance (see the jewel-encrusted woman above) and so on and so forth. Ace.
So back to the Kindle process. There’s a nice little message when you’ve finished uploading the book to say that for the next 48 hours your precious book is going to be “Previewed” (a sort of electronic limbo, I suppose) and then… Well, hopefully it’ll be on my Amazon page and everyone can get stuck in and start reading. But it is odd about all this electronic stuff. Somehow or other it’s hard to believe it’s real. Fingers crossed. Oh, and did I mention the title? Frankie’s Letter.
Now, I’ll be honest. I’m not a Luddite, exactly, but I’d never really fancied ebooks all that much. And then our Jenny celebrated her 16th birthday with an ipad. Wow. I mean, seriously, wow. It works like greased lightning and the books on it are amazing. Ebooks suddenly seemed like a really good idea.
So I thought okey-doke…. As it happens, I have a book – a book that I’m very fond of – that’s never seen the light of day. It’s called Frankie’s Letter – remember that title. Make a note. A note to the tune of, “Frankie’s Letter. What an enthralling title for a book. You know, I’d love to read a book called Frankie’s Letter. Frankie’s Letter sounds terrific. I wish I owned a book called Frankie’s Letter.” Bounce up and down on the spot if you like – I’m not at all judgemental and, besides, it’ll entertain the kids and bewilder the cat. Frankie’s Letter. It’s not a Jack Haldean but a complete new venture. It’s a First World War spy thriller, which I thoroughly enjoyed researching and writing. I’ve always wanted to write about the period of the First World War, but I didn’t want to write a war story as such. The war was so immense and so shattering to the people in it, that simply telling a straight-forward war story seemed – well, irrelevant, somehow. After all, with the world crashing round your ears, hunting out fingerprints and pondering long and hard about how deeply the parsley had sunk into the butter on a hot day or whatever seemed trivial. I mean, I’m as fond of sunken parsley as the next person, so to speak, but the circumstances have to be right.
And then I got my big idea. Yup, write about the war but write about the war from a distance. I needed someone who was capable of acting on their own (as a hero who has to keep trotting off for orders is not very heroic!) who was affected by the war and, ideally, could affect the war too. Hang on a mo. What about a secret agent? What indeed. And so Anthony Brooke was born.
He was and is a doctor, but, because of his fluency in German (Hey! He’s my hero! He can have whatever attributes that come in handy!) he gets swept up and sent of to Germany at the start of the war as an undercover agent. All is well until another agent comes staggering into his room and, with his dying breath, tells Anthony there’s a spy in England who knows Big Stuff and, if Anthony reads Frankie’s letter, it’ll tell him all about it. That’s the start and I think it’s pretty good, not to be overly modest about it. Anthony ends up back in Dear Old Blighty where there’s some very dodgy dealings going on, with beautiful, jewel-encrusted women, mysterious deaths, more spies (it was sort of “buy one, get one free in the spy shop” that day) grand country mansions, a spot of romance (see the jewel-encrusted woman above) and so on and so forth. Ace.
So back to the Kindle process. There’s a nice little message when you’ve finished uploading the book to say that for the next 48 hours your precious book is going to be “Previewed” (a sort of electronic limbo, I suppose) and then… Well, hopefully it’ll be on my Amazon page and everyone can get stuck in and start reading. But it is odd about all this electronic stuff. Somehow or other it’s hard to believe it’s real. Fingers crossed. Oh, and did I mention the title? Frankie’s Letter.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The gentle art of getting noticed
As you can see from the excited squeak of joy below about Killer Books, I was pretty pleased with things this week. I seemed to spend so long chewing the carpet about not being published, that when it finally happened, I thought words to the effect of “Here we go! It’s all plain sailing from now on.” (As a matter of fact, I thought nothing nearly so coherent; I thought, if you can dignify the process by the word “thought” “!!!@**” or perhaps “???” and even,“^&%!!” with a quick “$*&!!£!^^” thrown in for good measure.)
And, I must say, being published is a lot – so much - better than not being published but it does mean that there’s new challenges. Publicity, for instance. Now you know – because you’re obviously a well informed, thoughtful type of person – that my books are excellent. Not only are they easy to read with gripping stories, they can, at a pinch, be used to prop up a wonky table, stop a sofa cushion from sagging, provide a really classy mouse mat, serve as a platform for a performing gerbil or act as a very small pillow. However, not everyone knows that.
And that’s where publicity comes in. When two or three writers are gathered together, it’s the subject that always crops up. This isn’t personal, you understand. I am typical of many and live for Art alone, but editors love sales. It’s just altruistic kindness to them, you understand. So what on earth, apart from shouting in the street, which will earn you nothing but censorious glances, can you do? Well, there’s magazines, of course. Writing Magazine is always a good bet, as they frequently carry stories about the newly-published. (I’d recommend Writing Magazine anyway as an excellent way to keep in touch with the writing world). Depending on how thin the news is, local papers can be interested in a local author. (Sometimes news in local papers can be very thin indeed; my favourite local paper headline is “Worksop Man Dies Of Natural Causes”). There’s local radio, too. That’s sometimes iffy in its results, though. I did two and a half hours once on local radio. I thoroughly enjoyed it but I can’t say I had a huge listening public. Peter was away and my Dad, a keen tennis fan, was watching Andy Murray. One man rang in to ask if we could stop talking and play more music and another texted to say that he hadn’t got one of the jokes. Ah well, you can’t win ’em all…
The internet though… For anyone of a certain age – and in this context that means anyone roughly over twenty – it’s incredible how easy it is to be in touch with someone a few thousand miles away. When A Hundred Thousand Dragons came out, I emailed the independent bookshops in the USA to tell them about it. The addresses are there on the internet. Beth Kanell of Kingdom Books, Vermont, read the book and really liked it (Yo! Result!) and submitted a review to the monthly round-up of books promoted by the Independent Booksellers’ Association – and bingo! Dragons is a Killer Book.
And, I must say, being published is a lot – so much - better than not being published but it does mean that there’s new challenges. Publicity, for instance. Now you know – because you’re obviously a well informed, thoughtful type of person – that my books are excellent. Not only are they easy to read with gripping stories, they can, at a pinch, be used to prop up a wonky table, stop a sofa cushion from sagging, provide a really classy mouse mat, serve as a platform for a performing gerbil or act as a very small pillow. However, not everyone knows that.
And that’s where publicity comes in. When two or three writers are gathered together, it’s the subject that always crops up. This isn’t personal, you understand. I am typical of many and live for Art alone, but editors love sales. It’s just altruistic kindness to them, you understand. So what on earth, apart from shouting in the street, which will earn you nothing but censorious glances, can you do? Well, there’s magazines, of course. Writing Magazine is always a good bet, as they frequently carry stories about the newly-published. (I’d recommend Writing Magazine anyway as an excellent way to keep in touch with the writing world). Depending on how thin the news is, local papers can be interested in a local author. (Sometimes news in local papers can be very thin indeed; my favourite local paper headline is “Worksop Man Dies Of Natural Causes”). There’s local radio, too. That’s sometimes iffy in its results, though. I did two and a half hours once on local radio. I thoroughly enjoyed it but I can’t say I had a huge listening public. Peter was away and my Dad, a keen tennis fan, was watching Andy Murray. One man rang in to ask if we could stop talking and play more music and another texted to say that he hadn’t got one of the jokes. Ah well, you can’t win ’em all…
The internet though… For anyone of a certain age – and in this context that means anyone roughly over twenty – it’s incredible how easy it is to be in touch with someone a few thousand miles away. When A Hundred Thousand Dragons came out, I emailed the independent bookshops in the USA to tell them about it. The addresses are there on the internet. Beth Kanell of Kingdom Books, Vermont, read the book and really liked it (Yo! Result!) and submitted a review to the monthly round-up of books promoted by the Independent Booksellers’ Association – and bingo! Dragons is a Killer Book.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Killer Book Top Five!
Hey, everyone, get a load of this! Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books, Waterford VT, http://www.kingdombks.com sent a review of A Hundred Thousand Dragons to the Independent Mystery Booksellers’ Association of America for their Killer Books monthly roundup. Five out of over a hundred books are chosen – and Dragons is one of them! To see the Killer Books page, go to http://www.killerbooks.org.
You could have knocked me down with a very small feather!
You could have knocked me down with a very small feather!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Tote that barge...
It was Scotland for the family holiday this year. Not all of Scotland, of course, as there is a limit to how much time you can spend enjoying yourself, but the bit between Inverness and Fort William. Now, if you have a gander on a map, you’ll see that to get to Inverness to Fort William involves a bit of Scotland that’s even wetter than the fairly damp country which surrounds it.
It’s the Great Glen, where, a very long time ago, the top of Scotland bumped into the mainland and hung about with lots of water in the middle. That’s Loch Ness, Loch Oich and Loch Lochy (I think whoever named Loch Lochy got bored with thinking up something different to come at the end of the word “Loch”). The bits in between are filled in with the Caledonian Canal.
We hired a boat from Caley Cruisers, and there we were; six of us, aged from 87 (Dad) to Jenny (16) and various assorted in the middle. The thing you’ve got to remember about hiring a boat – the really important thing to remember about hiring a boat – is that you drive the thing. All by yourself. Yes, there’s a training film. Yes, the bloke from the boatyard tells you what to do when you climb on board, but he gets off, you know, and it’s your boat and you’re in Loch Ness and the wind is a bit fresh and the rain’s coming down and it’s not half choppy and should the boat be bouncing like that?
Jenny retired to lie face down on her bunk and think about life. Elspeth ditto. Aged parent did the crossword in the cabin, Lucy entertained herself by standing on deck saying things like, “Wow, that’s a big wave,” and Peter, skipper’s cap firmly on his head, drove the boat. Peter, thank goodness, absolutely loved driving the boat. Very politely, at times during the following week, he’d offer to surrender the wheel and we, just as politely, reassured him that no, it was fine, he could do it.
I’d taken a shed-load of books to read but by jingo, I needn’t have bothered. For one thing, I didn’t have time. On a beach, you see, the scenery stays still but on a boat, especially somewhere as gorgeous as the Great Glen, the scenery keeps nipping past you. Or vice-versa, but you know what I mean.
And then there’s the ropes. The front and back (or, to dazzle you with technical jargon, the prow and stern) of the boat have ropes which have to be thrown off, passed round bollards and secured back on the boat, untied, hauled in, coiled up and this happens a lot. Obviously you have to tie the boat up when settling down for the night, but going through a lock requires an awful lot of rope-handling. (Ironically, there aren’t any locks on the Lochs but there are on the canal.) And tote that barge? Yup, when it’s a series of locks, the only practical way to get the boat through is to haul it. Ol’ Man River…
Oddly enough, the scourge of Scotland – midges- didn’t bother us. I’ve been eaten alive in Fort William before now and had stocked up with enough repellent to equip an Amazon expedition. I think the word got round and the midges retired, knowing when they were beaten, and went to chew on someone else instead.
It stopped raining for a couple of days and the place looked like paradise. I shed two of the four layers of clothing I was wearing and got out the fishing rod. Ho hum. No fish in Scotland was harmed during the making of this holiday. I caught some pond weed, but that was about it. The fish and chip shops, on the other hand did a roaring trade. We didn’t encounter the weirdness of the deep-fried Mars Bar but Lucy developed a liking for chip-shop haggis and black pudding. It resembles fried loofah or a very old depth-charge and the innards, when you dig into it, look like old-fashioned mattress flocking. It’s as well she had it on holiday because, believe you me, that’s one thing I’m certainly not going to try at home.
It’s the Great Glen, where, a very long time ago, the top of Scotland bumped into the mainland and hung about with lots of water in the middle. That’s Loch Ness, Loch Oich and Loch Lochy (I think whoever named Loch Lochy got bored with thinking up something different to come at the end of the word “Loch”). The bits in between are filled in with the Caledonian Canal.
We hired a boat from Caley Cruisers, and there we were; six of us, aged from 87 (Dad) to Jenny (16) and various assorted in the middle. The thing you’ve got to remember about hiring a boat – the really important thing to remember about hiring a boat – is that you drive the thing. All by yourself. Yes, there’s a training film. Yes, the bloke from the boatyard tells you what to do when you climb on board, but he gets off, you know, and it’s your boat and you’re in Loch Ness and the wind is a bit fresh and the rain’s coming down and it’s not half choppy and should the boat be bouncing like that?
Jenny retired to lie face down on her bunk and think about life. Elspeth ditto. Aged parent did the crossword in the cabin, Lucy entertained herself by standing on deck saying things like, “Wow, that’s a big wave,” and Peter, skipper’s cap firmly on his head, drove the boat. Peter, thank goodness, absolutely loved driving the boat. Very politely, at times during the following week, he’d offer to surrender the wheel and we, just as politely, reassured him that no, it was fine, he could do it.
I’d taken a shed-load of books to read but by jingo, I needn’t have bothered. For one thing, I didn’t have time. On a beach, you see, the scenery stays still but on a boat, especially somewhere as gorgeous as the Great Glen, the scenery keeps nipping past you. Or vice-versa, but you know what I mean.
And then there’s the ropes. The front and back (or, to dazzle you with technical jargon, the prow and stern) of the boat have ropes which have to be thrown off, passed round bollards and secured back on the boat, untied, hauled in, coiled up and this happens a lot. Obviously you have to tie the boat up when settling down for the night, but going through a lock requires an awful lot of rope-handling. (Ironically, there aren’t any locks on the Lochs but there are on the canal.) And tote that barge? Yup, when it’s a series of locks, the only practical way to get the boat through is to haul it. Ol’ Man River…
Oddly enough, the scourge of Scotland – midges- didn’t bother us. I’ve been eaten alive in Fort William before now and had stocked up with enough repellent to equip an Amazon expedition. I think the word got round and the midges retired, knowing when they were beaten, and went to chew on someone else instead.
It stopped raining for a couple of days and the place looked like paradise. I shed two of the four layers of clothing I was wearing and got out the fishing rod. Ho hum. No fish in Scotland was harmed during the making of this holiday. I caught some pond weed, but that was about it. The fish and chip shops, on the other hand did a roaring trade. We didn’t encounter the weirdness of the deep-fried Mars Bar but Lucy developed a liking for chip-shop haggis and black pudding. It resembles fried loofah or a very old depth-charge and the innards, when you dig into it, look like old-fashioned mattress flocking. It’s as well she had it on holiday because, believe you me, that’s one thing I’m certainly not going to try at home.
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