Stormsearch's Adventures

Tall Ships Festival: Dunoon, day 2, part 1

2011-09-18T00:42:00.001+01:00

I talked about Day One in Dunoon in my last entry, leaving off just as we boarded the ferry to Gourock, on our way to see Royalist and the other tall ships at last.

It was a beautiful clear sunny day, with a wind just cool enough to keep it from being unpleasantly hot. On the top deck of the ferry, we discovered that the walkway went right round the bows under the bridge. Going forward, we saw this cruising along the far bank:

I thought she looked rather odd with her straight bow and curving stern. I wouldn't go as far as to say she is ugly - I don't believe any vessel with sails is ever really ugly - but she certainly looked business like. I thought from here that she was actually very modern, but that's just an illusion because of her new masts and spars; she's actually from around the late 1800s or early 1900s, and her design was actually pioneered in Aberdeen. This sort of vessel was used for fishing. Although, I didn't learn that until two or three weeks later, when we stopped in Aberdeen on the way home from Shetland, having visited Lerwick as the next port of call on the Tall Ships race.

Looking downriver, we could see right out to see, past both Arran and Cumbrae (Arran's the lumpy one on the right):

On the other side, we could see up Loch Long:

This is as far up Loch Long as we could see; the loch turns the corner here.

It was such a clear day we could see the Cairngorms, further inland:

A closer look at the mountains:

Although we were in brilliant sunshine, not everywhere had such nice clear weather:

Further across the river, we could look back and see right up Holy Loch:

All the way up to the head of the loch:

The red blob on the left hand side is the car ferry in the photo above.

The houses back in Dunoon (or rather, Hunter's Quay) looked very picture-postcard-y:

At this point, we packed up our cameras and made ready to make a run for the train. We made a mad dash from the ferry, though it turned out that we didn't need to; the trains are timed to meet the ferry. Or, probably the other way around.
Gourock station is right next to the ferry pier, and thus is right on the shore. There was a wall between our platform and the sea. Well, a sheer drop to the sea. Over the wall, I could see these two lucky people sailing a very very nice dinghy. (I think it was a Firefly).

Once the train arrived, we hopped on board (with the hoards of people), luckily getting a table to ourselves. Across from us, we heard two natives discussing where to get off. The official paperwork told people to get off the train at a certain station, but the conversation that we overheard established that that was right at the far end of the Tall Ships area, and that actually, getting off at the previous station would be better because it's closer to the centre of the festival, and there'd be fewer people queueing there.
P and I decided we liked the sound of this, and were up for an adventure. We followed the natives off the train, and down a narrow alley between warehouses (clearly related to the docks) and then along the side of a main road. It was only around ten thirty in the morning, but there were plenty of people spread along both sides of the road, all heading for the tall ships.
We made the trip to Dunoon primarily to visit Royalist. Royalist is the sea cadet ship, and P had sailed on her several times as a cadet. She wasn't going up to Shetland, and so we'd decided to head across to visit her, since she was nearby. Besides, I'd heard plenty of stories about her, and wanted to see her for myself.
We spotted her just as the train pulled into the station; the sign hung in place of her main topsail was hard to miss.

But on arriving at the docks, surrounded by hundreds of people, and a forest of masts, we lost her. We were heading up towards on side of the dock, alongside the warehouses when I spotted her masts again, on the far side of the dock to where we were.
We dashed through the crowds of people. (We thought it was busy. We were wrong. We could actually move between groups of people; later in the day, you couldn't move between groups of people, you had to wriggle past people to make any progress. They were like sardines.)
Anyway, we made it to the edge of quayside. There were barriers preventing us getting very close, and the tide was out, so Royalist seemed far below us, with her mainsail yardarms almost level with where we were standing. P had made a phonecall before we arrived; HQ had said that once we arrived, we were just to ask and we'd be taken on board. We stared down at Royalist; there was no chance of speaking to anyone from up here, we'd need to get closer.
In person, Royalist was even more stunning than the photos I'd seen. Her proportions were just perfect, she was big enough but not too big. Her masts fitted her size, and she just looked...well, beautiful. I could see why P had fallen in love; and I was determined that one day I would get to sail on her.

(See? Is she not one of the most beautiful ships you've ever seen?)

Having made up our minds, we headed round to the head of the dock, where we'd seen a ramp down to the pontoon. There was a flaw in the plan; a locked gate, with security guards. We explained what we wanted, but they said they couldn't let us both through. One of us would need to go through and bring back a member of the crew.
P gave me his bags, and set off through the gate. I hung around watching people, my heart in my mouth. Would we be allowed on board? He seemed to be away for ages, but suddenly I caught sight of a familiar hat on the pontoon - and a guy in overalls beside it.
Arriving at the gate, they let me in, and I bounced through, probably grinning my head off. I was introduced to Steve, the engineer (hence the overalls). He was delighted to take us on board, and he offered to give us a tour. P and I exchanged excited and gleeful looks. We were getting on board! And getting a tour, as well!

(This is actually the very first photo I ever took of Royalist. The fact that at that moment her ensign was flying in the wind, rather than hanging limply, seemed to fit with the tone of the holiday, with having perfect timing on everything, down to whether flags flew or not. Besides, Royalist is the best tall ship - it seemed to me completely natural for her flag to be blowing perfectly at that moment!)

The tour was very exciting; I got to see all over the ship, from the fo'c'sle and mess deck where the cadets lived and slept, all the way back to the crew cabins and mess deck at the stern. Then we were allowed to wander around on deck. I moseyed up to the bows, and looked at the bowsprit, wondering if I'd ever be able to stand here and look at it with blue water below and the wind in the rigging, the ship alive and at sea.
We sat and chatted with Steve and a few other crew members for a bit, learning more about the ship and hearing stories about her, but the cadets were starting to turn up; it was getting to be time for their lunch, so we took our leave.
Probably we were meant to go straight back and out the gate, but we decided (who wouldn't?!) to make the most of it while we were in the restricted crew quarters. We wouldn't get another chance!

You can see here how far below the the level of the quayside she is. Add to the height difference the fact that the metal barriers to keep the crowd back are a good four or five feet back from the edge, and it's really impossible to talk to people on board when the tide is out. In fact, you can't even see the top of the barriers, they're so far back from the edge of the dock.

We walked up the pontoon, away from Royalist, as far as we could go. The ketch we'd seen on the ferry crossing (or one very similar) was moored nearby:

To our left, out in the middle of the dock, this ketch was being manoevered. There wasn't much room for the boats to manoever, so they used ribs to nudge them into their mooring place. The military vessels next to them were two officer training vessels, one of which was commissioned when P was in the sea cadets - coincidentally, he'd actually been at the commissioning. This too appeared to be the theme for our holiday.

We walked back to Royalist. By this time the cadet (sitting next to Royalist's bowsprit, above) had gone on board for his lunch. Of course, I took a ridiculous number of pictures of Royalist - but she was undeniably the prettiest vessel there. The crew agreed; they said that most people think she looks like the quintissential pirate ship, which is why they like her, but usually, the public seems to agree that Royalist is always their favourite vessel. So, it's not just that we're biased, it's just that she's such a lovely ship.

Here's a view from under the bowsprit - I took this because I wanted a photo of what Royalist would look like if you approached her in a dinghy.

We walked past Royalist (I tried not to look enviously at the cadets on board) and took more photos from her stern. I took this one of her masts and rigging; I wanted to climb the shrouds so badly...

...that I could almost feel what it would be like to stand up on one of those platforms, or to climb out on the yard arm... One day! In the meantime, I'd better get on with learning the names of all those ropes - and what they do. At this point I should admit that I'm geeky enough to have several books on tall ships' rigs and rigging - though book-learning is no replacement for actually doing the job.

I like this one because it's exactly what I was seeing at the time - it gives a good idea of what it was like being down on the pontoon with the steep walls of the dock seeming to tower above us.

Once again her ensign was being very obliging:

Most of the tall ships had new metal spars and masts; only one of them - another brig, similar to Royalist but a bit larger - still had masts and spars that were wooden. She can just be seen in the background here.

Once we had looked at her and admired her as much as possible, we headed along the pontoon towards the stairs...after one last longing look:

We walked along the pontoon, ogling everyone else's ships. There was a mix of tall ships, ketches, sloops, cutters and yachts in this dock. Dpanier looked like a good size of yacht - big enough to be roomy, small enough to handle.

This beauty is Opposition:

Opposition was originally owned by Edward Heath, British Prime Minister, though she was named Morning Cloud then. Heath was a keen yachtsman, and used Morning Cloud in the Admiral's Cup, which he won - the only British Prime Minister to ever have captained a winning team.
Later on, P ended up chatting to the captain of this vessel (who said she's beautiful below decks too) who said that next time we meet, we're invited on board. He'd have invited us then and there, but they were leaving to go on shore. He told us that we needed to come to Cowes for Cowes week.
In the background you can see all the people round the dock peering at the boats, it was sort of like being in a goldfish bowl. This was still very early though - later in the day, that crowd was at least two people thick, and there wouldn't have been any spaces between people.

Opposition had lovely lines:

Beyond Opposition, we could see the two Ocean Youth Trust Scotland yachts. They have two smaller yachts too - one of which we've sailed off the west coast before.

We walked on round the stern of Opposition, which was moored right in the corner. Here one of the crew give a handy size comparison:

Without people:

There were plenty of yachts:

I spy a fairly piratical-looking brig, luring us to continue round the pontoon:

I shouldn't give piratical brigs too much credit though - neither of us wanted to climb up and out of the dock without having seen as many of the boats up close and personal as possible. This was too good a chance not to take it.

Beyond the OYT boats was this beauty, a lovely gaff-rigged cutter. A few crew members were on deck, working or snoozing in the sun. We spoke to two of them who told us that in the storms they'd encountered on the way up, they'd sustained some damage when the gaff failed or snapped and the mainsail came down. They were trying to fix it in preparation for the next leg of the race.

Irene looked well cared for, but it was quite evident that she was an older craft.
Except, the crew told us, she wasn't. In the 1980s, she caught fire, and burned down to the waterline - everything in this picture that's painted grey and blue, everything to that red line was burned. The owner has lovingly reconstructed everything. It was a work of art, and very awe-inspiring.

I'm sure you can spot a familiar paint scheme beyond that bowsprit!

Yep, Royalist!

And another OYT yacht. All the boats had hung up bunting.

I thought she looked very military like from this angle, particularly with the gun-ports. Unfortunately they're not really gun ports - there's no space below decks for any guns, and she'd never have carried any. They're part of the paint scheme, but they really add to the overall look. Royalist evokes something of a bygone age of sail, and I think that sense of adventure and romance is what people are responding to when they think she's the most beautiful ship.

While for me, Royalist was definitely the most beautiful vessel there, she definitely wasn't the only beautiful vessel.

This side of the dock was quite chilly and damp; the dock walls were high enough to cast a good shadow:

At the far end of the pontoon was the (to me) Mysterious Brig. I think it's because of her masts and yardarms being wooden, especially such dark wood. To me, she seems like much more of a pirate ship (the business-like murdering sort, not the romanticised Captain Jack variety) than Royalist.

She does look rather less piratical with a bright red rib suspended from the davits though!

Here's the black ketch again:

The boats looked very festive with all the bunting:

A size comparison; the John Laing looks like a good-sized yacht until you see her next to a small tall ship. They didn't seem to have much order to the way they'd arranged the vessels. Usually the smaller ones would be moored together, and the larger ones moored together. Here, they were all mixed.

Using my zoom lens, I took the opportunity to get a shot of the scroll work on Royalist's bows, as well as her name plate.

We'd seen everything we could at this end of the pontoon; it was time to head back and up the steps onto dry land. I took one last picture of Royalist:

At this point, I shall once again pause (hopefully not for as long), since it's bedtime.

Tall Ships Festival: Dunoon, day 1

2011-08-29T00:23:00.000+01:00

I hate fibromyalgia. But instead of moaning about feeling bad, I am going to tell you about what I did on my holidays. I had two holidays, this year, both of which were full of lots of fun, excitement, amazing experiences, and they were both very ship-oriented. Since I was old enough to read about tall ships, I've always wanted to go to sea. I learned to sail dinghies when I was about 9, and I've sailed yachts - I've even participated in accidentally pirating a yacht! But despite dreaming about going to sea on a tall ship, and reading everything about them that I could get my hands on, I never had the opportunity. When I was 16, the Tall Ships Race left from Leith, and I went to see the ships with my family. The point of the Race is that a certain proportion of the crews are between the ages of 15 and 25. They have to have a certain number of teenagers on board. I was old enough to go, and many of the ships were wanting crew - but my parents felt that though I was old enough, I was still a bit too young to go. I swore to myself I'd do it before I reached 21, but money was the issue, and there was a boy - a very, very bad influence - and then I went to university, and before I knew it, I was 21. I've sworn now that I'm going before I'm 35 - and with more intent to actually do something about it.

Anyway, we'd planned a week's holiday in Shetland - where my family is from - as the Tall Ships race was leaving from Lerwick on the last leg of the race to Norway. Shortly after this was arranged, we discovered that Royalist, the sea cadet training vessel, was also participating in the race, but only as far as Greenock. P sailed on Royalist several times when he was young, while I'd only seen photos of her, and once - from afar - her masts, when she was in Gosport for fitting out and we were in Portsmouth. It wasn't hard to decide to go through to Greenock to visit the Tall Ships there, as he was keen to see her again, and I was keen to see her properly for the first time. We decided to stay in Dunoon, because it was more scenic, cheaper, and allowed us to explore the area.

On the ferry across to Dunoon, we spotted several tall ships motoring up the Clyde. One of them looked suspiciously familiar. As she came closer, it seemed as though she had gunports, for cannon. Royalist has gunports; we were suspicious. As we watched, we became almost convinced that it was Royalist. Closer still, and there was no doubt about it. We grinned at each other in glee. What perfect timing, and a brilliant start to the holiday! That was just the first of several incidents of perfect timing over the course of the weekend.
Once off the ferry, we headed along the promenade to our B&B, which was right on the shore. Our room was really big, and looked out across the bay; we were up in the attic, with a dormer window giving a view both up and down the Clyde. Anyway, after dropping our bags, we headed back out to explore the town. Behind the hills on the other side of the river, the clouds were turning a menacing blue-grey. As we turned into the Tourist Office, a jagged fork of purple lightning made me jump (and yell with glee; I like thunderstorms). Once again, excellent timing. We wandered along the high street looking at the shops, while the clouds drifted in our direction (while I secretly hoped for more thunder).

We headed back towards the Castle House museum, which was actually built as a family home originally, and had a spectacular view over both beaches and across the Clyde. We were climbing the hill just as the rain began, though sadly, there was no thunder. We investigated the museum, which had information about Iron Age roundhouses found in the area, as well as examples of the way the house would have looked in the Victorian period when it was lived in. Once the rain was over, we headed out to take photographs from the top of the hill.

This was taken next to the flagpole. You can see the shower of rain which passed us by, heading down the Clyde.

I liked the yacht moored below us, and watched a man pottering about on deck for a while. We saw the yacht again later in the week further up the river. That chimney in the distance is the powerstation. Beyond, you can see Arran, and right out to sea:

I made a quick video of the panorama (using consecutive photos).

We lurked up here for a while watching the river traffic, of which there was quite a lot.

We saw tall ships and and other vessels making their way to Greenock. We later saw her at the Festival; close to, she was rather lovely.

Not all the traffic was leisure or festival traffic; A minesweeper heading down the Clyde.

Two of the ships heading up the river to Greenock. We later saw them both at the Festival; close to, they were both lovely - though there's no comparison to seeing them with their sails set.

Leaving the Museum, we headed back to the guest house to have a rest before heading back out to find some dinner. I took the opportunity to curl up on the windowseat, which was perfectly Jehane-sized. (Ahem, it was really an inordinately large worktop area around the sink. The worktop took up the whole width of the dormer window, and was a good two or three feet in depth. It very clearly should have been a windowseat, though, so I put it to its true purpose.)

After having suitably recovered (and maybe snoozed a bit) we headed back out to find some food. While walking along the high street scrutinizing pubs, we came across this lovely old sign on a communal gateway to the tenement above - in its original position. A very modern combination lock looked rather incongruous next to it, as did the "Pirate Watering Hole" complete with skull and crossbones next door.

Dunoon is unfortunately not as prosperous now as it once was. It can be seen everywhere on the peninsula and in the town, from abandoned cottages to beautiful stained-glass windows like this one, boarded over.

A mysterious gateway up to the house perched on the hill above.

We made our way up the hill, following our noses. There was an alluring scent of food drifting from somewhere. At the top of the hill, we followed a street round in a circle, which led us to a square with some of the oldest buildings we'd seen so far, and the town's church. We explored the graveyard; it had a lovely view of the old Victorian pier.

A photo of the church itself.

The level of the graveyard had evidently risen over time (graveyards and rubbish dumps both have a tendency to do this quite dramatically). These stones were now well buried in the slope - they weren't just broken bits of stone propped against the wall.

An example: Not broken off, just getting slowly buried by the slope.

Heading off to hunt down the origin of the nice food smell - which had been joined by the scent of barbeque, leaving us feeling even more ravenous - we passed this Dunoon version of the Weeping Angel sort of sculpture, which has taken on a whole new menacing side courtesy of a certain series. I was intrigued by the expression on the face of this carving.

Close up of the statue. I thought she had a very pensive expression.

We took our leave of the sculpture and headed for food. One of the old buildings in the square had been renovated recently. It turned out to be a rather nice pub and restaurant, and was the origin of the nice smell that had wafted down to us earlier.
We both ate very well, although the meal was rather anti social; we both had new phones, and the pub had wireless. Of course we spent the time checking our email and twitter. The pub's wifi password was rather amusing: "You have to buy a drink".

Afterwards, we wandered slowly back along the promenade towards the guesthouse.

Looking up towards Gourock and Greenock. The clouds were being rather impressive.

The clouds were turning pink, making me think of the old ryhme; "Red at night, sailor's delight. Red in the morning, sailor's warning."

We watched the ferry leaving for Gourock.

Looking across toward the victorian pier, old ferry terminal, and new ferry terminal.

As it got darker, Cloch lighthouse came on.

One last yacht was slipping quietly up the river. The ferry was fast gaining on her.

Meanwhile, in the other direction, the Gourock ferry was just arriving.

The clouds turned pinker as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

The wake from the ferry began to reach us, breaking the stillness of the water.

The two lines of waves could be seen crossing the bay in a long line.

As they passed us end on (due to the shape of the bay) we were treated to a perfect cross section of a series of waves.

The sun shone out briefly from behind the hill, as the ripples from the ferry's wake distorted the reflection.

The next morning, we were up bright and early to get the ferry to Gourock, on our way to the Tall Ships Festival at Greenock. While waiting for the ferry, we had tmie to pick up a coffee from a little coffee place opposite the pier.

Opposite the coffee shop; we saw this sign in early photos of Dunoon in the museum the previous day.

We'd waited a while for the ferry, and quite a queue had built up. We heard someone say that the ferry should have arrived already, though there was nothing in sight.

But looking in the other direction, there was a black and white dot on the horizon, all the way down river. As the light caught the sail, I realised it was a fair-sized yacht heading up the river, probably to go to Greenock. I hurriedly swapped lenses on my camera, and zoomed in.

The first sloop was motoring up the river, but the one behind it still had enough wind to sail.

While I waited for the sloops to draw nearer, I pointed my camera down towards Toward Point, which was down near the end of the peninsula. Although I thought that's what I was looking at - it wasn't. This is in fact just a bend in the coast with a small settlement; Toward point is round the corner - as we found out when we ended up walking there on our final day. This is probably Innellan.

A channel marker and lighthouse south of us. Once we got home, I noticed some odd shapes in some of Paul's pictures of the lighthouse (which were more zoomed in than mine). Zooming in on the photo, we realised that several seals were lounging on the rocks, and lurking in the water around the lighthouse.

The cliff on the left looked rather familiar from our other sojourns on the west coast; this is actually the cliff on the west side of Wee Cumbrae. This is miles downriver from Dunoon - we were really surprised that we could actually see it.
This is closer to what we were seeing with the naked eye; the sail makes the sloop really stand out.

Another of the sloop. Around this time, the ferry finally arrived; it turned out there had been some sort of fuel problem across on the other side of the river. We hopped on board, going up onto the top deck to continue taking photos.

As we watched, they tacked, to head across to our side of the river, since they were sailing up into the wind. As they went about, their sails seemed to disappear.

...and at this point, with us on board the ferry to Gourock, on our way to the Tall Ships Festival, I shall end this post on what is definitely not a cliff-hanger, despite the excitement and anticipation I was feeling; at last, I'd get to see Royalist up close! If I couldn't yet go sailing on a tall ship, I could at least enjoy the experience vicariously through others.

But now it is late, and I should go to bed before I fall asleep at my desk.

This, that, and the next.

2011-06-11T21:49:00.001+01:00

I started my new job on Monday this week. I'd already been in to visit them twice, which I think worked really well; I came in knowing where essentials like the cafe and the toilets are, so negating the sense of new-ness. I knew where my office was, how to get to it, and I was even organised enough to leave myself some chocolate in my desk drawer. (The Chocolate Tree peppermint flavour - it is what After Eights dream of being. Delicious.)

Anyway. My last job was in Social Sciences, and my new job is in Proper Science (Biological variety). It's common knowledge that core-sciences have way more money to bandy about than, for instance, your average History department. I'm really noticing it; it's the little things. My computer is brand-new and very speedy. I have a lovely 19" widescreen monitor. As an admin, there are a whole host of ginormous advantages in working in a science dept:

We have our own mini finance department. Instead of having to jump through eighteen hoops to send off an invoice for payment, I just pop it in an envelope and our mini-financiers take care of it for me.
Taxi fares: I'm used to having to pay these out of pocket, and then having to claim expenses. Here, they have a contract. The only paper to change hands is a receipt.
Accommodation: they're already set up with credit at pretty much anywhere we might want to put people. No hasty negotiations, no worry about getting the payment through before the guest arrives, and no worrying about how on earth to do late bookings.
Websites etc: These are all well-built with excellent interfaces - updating is a dream. As opposed to having a website that has incestuous nesting tables, and no CSS - so that if you change a menu item, you have to change it on every single page on the site.
Anything which might speed things up and make one's life easier.

Okay, maybe these things seem rather trivial, but when you're dealing with these every day, the amount of time saved is huge. Everything just runs smoothly, it's delightful. My new manager laughed at me when I did a happy dance about the finance stuff.

There are a bunch of other interesting things about the new place though:

Bathrooms. These are on alternate floors; even numbers for the women, odd for the guys. I work on an odd floor, so have to trot up or down to go to the bathroom. Seemingly everyone developes excellent bladder control, since it's quite a hike to get to the bathrooms.
My building is an old one with a new one wrapped round it. I enter through a lovely airy modern atrium, go through a door, and find myself in something straight out of the 60s. More accurately, something straight out of the 60s that's never been renovated. The stairwell is like something from Fallout 3/any post-apocalyptic scenario you wish to mention. Except with peppy "If you climb to this floor every day in a year you'll have climbed three Munros" notices. The first time I came here (two years ago for an interview) the servitor took me up in the lift, "because they break down all the time and you don't want to get stuck in there without a radio...there's no mobile reception." Needless to say, I've only used the stairs since I started, although apparently the lifts don't break down - with anyone in them - any more.
Because I work in a building inside a building, it takes me about 4 minutes to get from the front door to my office. Literally - I timed myself leaving the building the other day.
I work in an actual lab with actual experiments going on. We have "Containment Level 1" and "Biohazard" stickers all over the doors. The offices are round the outside, with big picture windows and gorgeous views. The inner walls and doors are all glass, so the lab tables in the centre are brightly lit.
They test the fire alarm every week. For two and a half minutes each time. At first I thought it was annoying, but now I'm thinking that if the fire alarm goes off we're all going to wait 2 and a half minutes before doing anything, and if it takes us 4 minutes to exit the building, it's going to be 6 minutes of a blaze in a multistory building before anyone actually gets outside.
I have to tweet. As part of my job. This is awesome.
I also have to blog. As part of my job. This is also awesome.
I am going to be part of the team arranging a crazy high-profile event with the BBC at this year's Festival. Eeeeeek. But also awesome. But eeeeeeek!

This is the last moan I'll have about the old job. On my last day, my old manager asked if I was going to be doing condensed hours at my new job, because if I was, I could work for them on my extra day off. Um, no. If I'm doing condensed hours, that means I'm still doing a 40 hour week, just over 4 days not 5. That means I don't want to do a 48 hour week instead of having a day off in the middle of the week (which is really for health reasons - invaluable for when I'm having a bad week). Then I was quizzed on where and whom I was going to work for. Previously I'd been told to approach New Job and ask to work for them part time so I could work for Old Job part time. I'd said this was not a good idea in a manner which should have made it obvious that I personally did not want to. I was then told that she would approach New Boss for me. (This against a background of refusing to let someone work part time for their old job - so okay to do to someone else, not okay to have done to you. Riiight.) Anyway, I refused to tell anyone where I was working after that. It's morally and ethically wrong for Old Boss to approach my new job (against my wishes) and tell them I'd work for them part time - not to mention illegal - but this seemed not to be a problem. I attribute this madness to massive mindbending quantities of stress, since it's not usual behaviour. So when I was given the old once-over about where I was going to work, I was naturally rather suspicious, and therefore reticent.
Anyway, it's all over with now - although I do think about my old colleagues often. It's a horrible stressful situation to be in regardless of whether you're the one being offered vast quantities of money to work 50 miles away (and therefore the one having to manage the whole thing), or whether you're the one having to work there until you find another job.

Oh yes, one last thing. I recently upgraded to the HTC Wildfire. I'm incredibly pleased with it; the battery life is two and a half to three days (when I'm playing with it non-stop), the touch-screen is sensitive enough but not too sensitive, and it's an Android phone (my first) as opposed to a Nokia, so I'm having fun getting lots of free and useful apps. If anyone has any to recommend (free or otherwise), please do so!

Edinburgh's Wild West

2011-05-30T15:47:00.003+01:00

Today it is a Bank Holiday in Scotland, and the sun is shining (except for a brief and frenzied hail storm this morning). I don't get bank holidays where I work (we get them added onto our holidays so we can take them when we want), but I'm off work today because of Fibro plus stress plus totally insane dreams which I can remember perfectly (and which I acted out, as indicated by the bruises on my arm). This morning, moving, having limbs, and braining was something which happened to other people (seriously, I couldn't even figure out how to work gmail! And it wasn't until 7 new tabs later that I realised the plus button is not the same as the tab scroll button on Firefox).

Anyway, I'm feeling a bit more up to braining now, so have an entry with some photos. There's a street (well, more of a very small back alley) in the depths of upper-middle-class residential Morningside which masquerades as a snippet of the lawless American Wild West. Unfortunately, it wasn't dropped into Morningside by some long-lived and magical tornado (a là Wizard of Oz), instead, it was a normal alley of garages and workshops until a furniture maker (who specialised in Spanish-style furnishings) built all the wooden frontages as an advertising gimmick. This was a very long time ago, an some bits have rotted away, although most of it is being kept in decent condition. The decay is also pleasingly photogenic.

Saloon:

Trading Station:

Street:

Close up on the balcony:

Jail:

I liked this window with chains, on the livery stable:

Cantina. Everthing else had a wooden frontage, but this was plaster or stucco:

Window detail on the Cantina:

Sign on the Blacksmith's:

Stage Depot:

Furniture Company - apparently this is the only sign which is essentially real:

Gold Exchange - Change your nuggets here!

The hatch on the exhange door:

Door handle on the exchange - they went to some effort, even with the small details:

On the way home, we saw a rainbow:

It was a full arc:

Once it faded away, we moved on:

Blackford Pond (and a thought-provoking experience)

2011-05-29T21:50:00.000+01:00

Today, I had a very unusual and rather thought provoking occurrence at work. Our building is open to the public, and it doesn't have a specific reception, so very often people who are thoroughly lost turn up at our offices looking for directions. Today, an elderly couple in their late 60s, early 70s, turned up. They had travelled for three days - all the way from Australia - to find their daughter. She hadn't been in contact with them for ten years, and they'd managed to trace her to the university. They'd spoken with several members of HR, and had tracked down where she had possibly recently worked, so they were pretty sure she wasn't dead. The couple were exhausted, and very lost. I directed them as best I could. The whole episode made me uncomfortable and a little melancholy; they'd be tracing her from Australia as far as they could, so they'd booked a flight and come over to continue the work. They literally got into Edinburgh last night, had stayed at a nearby hotel, and had come straight to the uni first thing this morning. They seemed very excited at the prospect of finally finding her. And they were so elderly! It was as if they were trying to find her before they died. And the lady had fallen last night, and badly twisted her ankle, so she could barely walk - but they didn't have time to go and get it checked, or let her rest up. Now of course, I don't know the whole story; the daughter may have excellent reasons for not wanting to speak to them. Perhaps they did something terrible, so that she cut them out of her life; I know from experience that parents can do horrible things to their children (not my parents, I hasten to add), things that entirely justify their children never speaking to them again. But even so, it left me with an unsettled feeling for the rest of the day, and the desire to hug three very specific people.

On a lighter note, I also have a bunch of pictures to share. P and I went for a walk round Blackford Pond, where I was able to play with my zoom lens. It was a beautiful sunny spring day, with many baby waterfowl in evidence - and even a bunny - despite the teeming hordes of yelling small children and yummy mummies pushing buggies and conversing about where Jemima will go to school. There was one pair of mothers I did admire though: they'd somehow managed to persuade their three-or-four year olds that pushing buggies is the best thing ever. So the kids were happily pushing their own buggies round the pond (and racing each other) while the mothers sauntered behind, unencumbered by buggy. A very cunning plan, I thought. One of the mothers thought so too; she saw me looking, and shared a conspiratorial grin.

Anyway, on to the wildlife. Herein are photos of fuzzyness (ducklings) and fluffyness (cootlets), a bunny, and some rather comical ducks.

There were some lovely flowers around the pond. The yellow irises were stunning, particularly against the water which was reflecting the blue sky.

There were wild hyacinths too:

Now to the animals!

At one point, a wild rabbit ran out of the undergrowth and across the path to nibble on the grass beside the pond:

It was so cute! This was only about six feet away from where were sitting, if that.

There was a very regal swan drifting about, while its mate sat on the nest:

A group of male Mallards drifted by, eyeing us curiously:

(His head is so iridescent!)

This one came back for another look:

Some very obliging ones posed for me. For these two, it's worth clicking through to Flickr to see the large size - the detail on their feathers is stunning. Here are the direct links: Photo one Photo Two

There was a lot of preening going on:

This duck was having a good scratch:

The ducks weren't the only ones preening:

One duck came up onto the path and waddled along at what was (for a duck) a pretty fast trot. It made for a comical photo:

This being Spring, there were many babys. The coot babies were very fluffy, in a messy sort of way (in comparison to the soft, downy fluff of the ducklings). They were quite big, too. I wondered whether they were in the teenage coot stage; messy hair, and knobbly-kneed legs that seemed too big for them.
A good example:

This one gave the impression that he was displeased with having his photo taken:

This one just looked at me in a resigned sort of way:

They were still young enough to be fed by their mother:

She also brought up weed from the bottom of the pond for them. She'd usually give it to the chick nearest her at the time:

At which point, the other two would swoop in and grab as much weed from their sibling's beak as they could. All three would be cheeping furiously through beakfuls of weed:

A long-suffering parent, looking very serene:

Once they've lost their baby-feathers, their adult plumage comes through, and they look much smoother and sleeker:

Near where we were sitting was a duck couple who were trying to herd a gaggle of six ducklings, all of whom kept heading off in different directions all at once:

They did sometimes seem to play games of chase:

They were very curious, heading at once for a patch of weed:

Which they proceeded to peck furiously:

They came over to investigate the bank close to me. Ducklings have ridiculously large legs, for their size. Their legs are at least the same length that they are. You can see one leg under the water here:

I was able to get a couple of good close-up ducklings. They're so fuzzy! This photo also demonstrates the Giant Legs; that thing next to his back is his left leg:

Here's another adorable close-up (I love the water droplets on his back:

One last shot of the brood of ducklings:

A story

2011-04-22T22:29:00.002+01:00

The year I turned seven, my parents bought the beach house, and my world changed. Instead of the city centre garden, we had a whole beach! There were islands, and a cave, and the paddling pool. Then, as we got older, there was the swimming pool proper, with slides, and diving boards, and floats; endless games of pirates, capture the float, or diving down to see who could sit on the bottom for longest, watching the legs of tourists above us. They looked like frogs.
Later on, we learned to sail. Havoc took us to explore the islands out in the bay, and beyond. She gave us freedom from the land, and when the wind was strong, and the sails trimmed just right, we felt like we were flying.
At night, once everyone had fallen asleep, I'd creep through to the family room, and watch the moon across the water. In the distance the lighthouse flashed, the yellow beam splashing across rocks and sand and grass, then on, out of sight towards Fife. I'd have conversations with the Older Me, telling myself that no matter what happened, I would always be able to come back here. However bad things were during term time, however bad things were in the future, the beach would always be waiting, silently, the water silvered by the moon as the waves whispered against the sand.
The winters, too, were wonderful, filled with wind and thundering waves, spray flying high over the empty swimming pool, flooding it so that the water spilled over, and we had to jump onto the steps over the rocks, out of the way. Where the tourists' legs had looked like frogs, now seaweed floated serenely. Beyond, the water was churned up, a seething mass of white that would draw back then roar in again, thundering against the wall and sending the spray soaring over our heads so that it would seem as though it was raining. We would laugh into the teeth of the gale, marvelling at the wildness of it all.
Later on, we'd sit by the fire and listen at the wind howling round the house and down the chimney, sending the sparks up in clouds. At night, I'd watch the bay as the lighthouse flashed, the foam on the waves ghostly in the moonlight.

Eventually, we grew up, and the beach house was closed. We moved on, studied, worked, but always in the back of my mind was the image of the beach, first thing in the morning, the sand fresh from the outgoing tide. The air would be cool, but with the promise of heat as soon as the sun was fully up. We would be the only ones out, except for a man walking his dog over on the far side. Plenty of time to build forts and play pirates, imagining the marauders coming into the bay, their sails gleaming in the sun. I always promised myself that I could go back, and one day, it happened; the beach house was opened again, the rooms aired out and painted, the old things restored or replaced. I'd be able to walk on the beach - can adults build forts and play pirates? - or go sailing, or watch the waves.

Then there was the accident, and everything changed. The darkness had arrived, and with it, the sleepless nights, and the pain that dulled everything else. And now, as I lie here sobbing, my legs so full of pain that I can't feel my toes, I imagine that somewhere, somehow, a little girl and her brother run side by side down to the beach. Slipping off their shoes, they wriggle their toes in the warm sand. As I watch, they gather up the flag on the old iron post, and climb up the side of the dune to where the diggings of the previous day show the beginnings of a proper fort. The girl digs a hole and plants the flag securely. As she stands beside it, surveying her domain, her eyes meet mine. For a long moment we look at each other, and then she smiles, and turns to her brother. "Let's finish the fort; the pirates will be coming round into the bay any moment. Then this afternoon, we can go and play in the swimming pool. They might have the blow-up slide ready by then."
As the image fades, my heart feels full, as though it will break. This world may not be what I dreamed, but at least I know that somewhere in a perpetual summer, part of me will always be playing, down on the beach, or in the pool, or on the island. Part of me will always be happy. And maybe, if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, just maybe I can go back there, and join them, if only for a moment.

I'm sorry, what?! lalala

2011-03-09T17:13:00.002Z

Apparently, we might have severe gales early on Thursday morning.

However, we should consider ourselves lucky. A little further west or north, and we'd be expecting heavy snow, since that's what pretty much the rest of Scotland is getting.

I'm sorry, but someone hasn't got the memo. When it comes to snow, we've been there, and done that. I think most people would rather not get the t-shirt, thank you very much.

And we woke up to a light dusting of snow on the roofs this morning.

It's worth noting that the worst snow weather that Edinburgh received was back in the 1800s, and took place during February and March. So maybe this winter is going to try and top that...

But all the crocuses are in bloom, and the daffodils are starting to come out. We've had several gloriously bright and sunny days, with blue sky and cold, clear weather. It was getting nicely springlike. I love snow, and having so much last year was exciting (and not too much of a pain, since I have rubber grips for my shoes so I don't slip, and I walk everywhere anyway) but I do have mixed feelings about going back to cold grey days and wearing a scarf up to my eyes in order to breathe...even if it does mean having fun walking to work in full wet weather gear through a foot of snow.

Of Firefestivals and red nail varnish.

2011-02-21T22:21:00.001Z

Since the year is ponderously progressing towards my birthday (which is still months away, though is in the first half of the year) I've been speculating a bit on where I've come from, and where I'm going to. I'm not having a midlife crisis; for one thing, I'm too young, and for another, it couldn't be called a crisis. On the other hand, although I have decent well-paying job, it's not remotely in the area I want to work in. (Administration vs Archaeology.) I finished uni with an excellent degree, despite developing Fibromylagia in my second year. Since then, I've started my masters, but have bumbled a bit. Why? I used to say it was money - and to some extent it is - but there's definitely more to it than that. I've always told myself that if I really wanted to get on with finishing it, I could work really hard, maybe do an additional job if I wanted to, then take unpaid leave to finish writing up. Then I use the excuse that I couldn't work that hard even if I wanted to, because of my health.
Some introspection has revealed the real reason: A total lack of confidence in my own intellectual and acadmic abilities, not to mention ability to concentrate.
Currently, attempts to overcome this lack of confidence seem to be revolving around wearing red nail varnish, for some unfathomable female reason. I'm not a red nail varnish kind of girl (although I've always coveted the ability to wear it well.) Red is a difficult colour; get the wrong shade and you end up looking like a harlot, or just plain cheap. Get the right shade and suddenly you become a mysterious and enigmatic woman of elegance.
Since I don't want to look harlot-ish, I've always stuck to pale shades - very natural shades, or slightly shimmery translucent shades. Recently I've also acquired a very pale pastel blue, which has made me happy because I'm able to wear blue nail varnish to work. (Oooh, look at me rebelling!)

The whole nail thing has been made worse by the fact that I sit next to a girl who's only a couple of years older than me, who always, always has her nails manicured. They're fairly short, never fake, but always beautifully painted. Somehow, on some level, my feminine pride has been wounded. (This is probably also due to the fact that being organised enough to put on makeup in the mornings isn't something that happens to me.)

This weekend, however, I found the Perfect Red. It's a deep shade, blood red, but with a slight pearlescent tinge which gives it depth, and thus class. I wore it to work today, and ended up grinning every time I caught sight of my nails. It's funny how such a small thing can have such an effect.

Anyway, enough about nails. Let's make up for it by having some FIRE.

Last Hogmanay (2010), there was a Fire Festival held on the Royal Mile. Giant iron sculptures - spheres, octopods, otherworldly shapes - were covered in pots of wax with wooden wicks, which were then set alight. There were great chimneys which belched flames high into the air, but the crowning glory was the Chandelier, which swung high above the street, next to the (obligingly full) moon.

Here you can see the flames from a chimney, just below the bottom of the chandelier.

The spheres dwarfed the crowd, which was drawn to them rather like moths to a flame. They lit the High Street with an orange, flickering light that made ordinary, everyday things somehow take on a sense of power.

Little knots of people stood around the spheres, mesmerised by the flames. There was a palpable sense of...something almost unnamable. The flames made the world seem raw, powerful, unpredictable and eerie. People moved about in groups. The sense of otherworldlyness was enhanced by the heat given off by the firesculptures.

Behind St Giles monstrous mechanical puppets danced to a recorded polka, their shadows thrown up on the wall like grotesque shadow-puppets.

I found this area very eerie, and it seems I wasn't alone in that; the place was mostly deserted, with only a few stragglers clustered round the Fire Trees.

Compared with the crowds on the Mile itself:

In front of St Giles a sort of mechanical octopod had taken up residence:

The chandelier was definitely the most impressive and awe-inspiring part of the display:

As is typical of Scotland in January, it was really very windy, so the air was filled with sparks flying from the chandelier, which did look rather good on camera:

But it was the full moon which really made the whole lot look fantastic:

Photopost: Moonlight, Archaeology

2011-01-22T23:17:00.000Z

I had to pop down to NB on Wednesday night in order to meet an archaeologist for a stroll along the cliffs early on Thursday morning. The archaeologist was lovely, as was her very friendly and intelligent dog. We had fun, and I was able to get lots of good information about volunteering, and what to do to improve my CV.

I was meant to be having an early night, but the moon was stunning - one day off being full. It was an incredibly clear night, full of stars. The moon was so bright that it cast proper shadows on our balcony, and the whole bay was lit up. The light was silvery, very ethereal looking. I can see why it's often described as having a magical quality; certainly seeing everything lit up that way did make things appear somewhat otherworldly. It wasn't as bright or colourful as the daytime, but it was bright enough to see people walking on the beach, to see the rocks, and water, the waves - even some colours could be made out. Normally all you can see is the occasional flash of murky white as a wave breaks. You wouldn't be able to see the sand or the water, let alone people.

I was in my pyjamas, but I couldn't let the chance go to waste, so out I went onto the balcony, in my dressing gown, with my camera. It was bitterly cold. My dressing gown kept me warm, though my ankles were a little too exposed for my liking.

This is what West Bay looked like:

I set the camera on the table, propped it up, and pointed it at the moon. All things considered, the photo came out pretty well. (Trying to get the camera to focus at that angle was fun, and I was shivering a bit much by that point).

I'm so pleased with this - it's come out amazingly well! Look at those stars - you can see Orion's Belt pretty clearly, just above the reflection on the balcony rail, which is what that black thing across the bottom right hand corner is.

Not a brilliant quality photo because I had to hold the camera (as opposed to propping it on something) and I was rather chilly. It gives the idea of just how bright it was out there, though.

The morning was beautiful too - clear and very frosty. The sun was just rising as I was making my way to the far end of East Bay which is where we were to meet.

This is what it looked like. The colours were beautiful. As I walked, the sun rose high enough to light up Bass Rock. The lighthouse was a bright pinky orange colour, and the glass in the light reflected the sun very brightly, so that it looked almost as if the lighthouse was still on, or at least, on fire. You can see how cold it was the night before; look at the frost.

At the far end of East Bay, looking back towards the harbour. The sun was coming up, spilling red light across the town.

The cliffs were still very dark, and the sea was incredibly blue, reflecting the sky. The clouds were picking up the pink of the sunrise.

As it got brighter, the sea stayed the same amazing blue. Craig turned pink in the light,
though it hasn't really shown up in this photo.

After we'd explored the cliffs and had a walk, the archaeologist left (her brains thoroughly picked by me) and I walked back across the beach. It was only about ten in the morning, on a weekday, so almost no-one was about. I like having the beach to myself. The tide was out, so I explored the rocks near the cliffs.

I took this because I liked the contrasts between the rocks, seaweed and the ripples in the sand. The sea was still almost luminous.

Looking back across the beach - the sun was finally visible. It was still very cold, though out of the wind, the sun was very warm. A little taster that winter is beginning to leave.

It was such a beautiful morning, the colours and the light were stunning. I liked what was going on with the lines of the rock and the ripples of the sand here. Except for the birds, I had the beach to myself.

A couple of very photogenic rockpools.

A boulder, and one of the rockpools. I liked the way they were all so still and reflected the sky.

This one looked like a little blue path through the seaweed.

I took this because the rockpool, the sea in the distance, and the sky were all incredibly blue.

More blue.

The angle of the light was creating interesting colours and shadows on the beach. Here's a close up of the different ripples in the sand. The shadows had a blue-ish tint to them, while the other side was orange in the sunlight.

I like this last one, with the standing water and the contrasting colours of the sand and the water.

The angle of the sun meant it was quite hard not to end up with my shadow in the pictures. I took this one because of the odd look of the sun, water, and shadows on the sand, since the standing water reflected the sky. This is exactly how it looked in person.

A stream running down the beach.

The stream.

I was still the only one on the beach, but tracks of dogs and their humans indicated I wasn't the first here.

Everything that was wet was blue.

Because the sun was still very low, it was picking out all the details in the sand.

This is the dried-up watercourse from a rockpool that dries out slowly as the tide goes out.

Frost-like patterns and little channels created by water running out of the sand.

The patterns are very intricate, but they get washed away as the waves come in.

Looking back along the beach. The light had changed, it wasn't so pink and golden.

Another line of rocks with a gap in it.

In March 2010 there was a huge storm which scoured away great quantities of sand from the beach (the pebbles and water on the right side of the photo would normally be covered by sand). The beach is slowly being built back up, but in the meantime the action of the sea means that things are still emerging from the sand. We think this may have been an addition to the paddling pool, which can be seen in the background of this photo. Alternatively, it may have been something entirely different, as it's much higher up the beach than the other pool.

The old Victorian pool. You can see how much sand has been lost off the beach; the white section of the wall was covered by sand (which is why it's not covered in weed). The sand would have covered everything up to about half way along the wall, and there would have been little shallow pools beyond that.

Wiildlife by the swimming pool.

Looking back at the beach from the pool wall.

Then I noticed the ripples on the water and the patterns made by the sun:

Ripples in the shallow water.

Slightly fewer ripples as the water gets deeper.

Even deeper, fewer ripples.

At the deep end.

Fishing boat.

Reflection looking like a watercolour painting.

The same view, not as close up.

A lone person on the beach, and the sun reflected in the pool. Berwick Law in the background.

The water was incredibly still.

Across the pool.

Victoria Street, with the sun and the early morning haze.

In the afternoon, we went to visit Chesters Hill Fort which was built by a local tribe in the Iron Age. It's actually overlooked by a hill right next door, which suggests the possibility that despite all the ring ditches and earth ramparts, the fort wasn't really defensive. It was in use around the time the Romans were in the area, so possibly defenses weren't necessary. It may have been a religious or ceremonial site, in which case its social significance would be enough of a defence. As well as the earthworks around the fort, many roundhouses can be seen dotted about inside.

We met some sheep. And were scrutinised.

Ramparts, with Berwick Law in the background.

More ramparts, with sheep lurking in the background.

We came round the corner of the hill and started the climb to the top. I looked up, and saw these two looking us over.

I turned to admire the view, then turned around to continue climbing...

...to find that the two sheep had suddenly multiplied.

The sheep were actually really friendly. They belong to Historic Scotland and are known as the Flying Flock. That's because they move around the various Historic Scotland sites - anywhere the grass needs cut, the sheep are moved in to take care of it. Quite a cunning plan! They came over to us to get patted, we were sniffed, then they turned and trotted off in disgust, presumably because we weren't carrying any sheep-treats. Sheep can stalk off in disgust remarkably well for something so woolly.

Roundhouses on the top of the fort. The roundhouses are circular indentations, with raised mounds around them. There's one right in the centre of the picture; if you can't see it, click on the picture to go through to flickr where it's highlighted.

Frost in the valley between the fort and the hill next door. The sun was so low that the light hadn't reached this valley all day, so the frost hadn't melted.

Looking in the other direction.

Entrance to the fort. This wasn't the original entrance, but was made in the second phase of building. It looks like this may have been a ceremonial or processional entrance. There's a stone at the bottom which had characters inscribed on it, which may also support the ceremonial/processional idea.

The slope of the hill next to the fort. I thought the group of trees on the slope had an eerie quality to them, probably related to the fact they'd protected the ground around them from the frost.

It was very clear. This is an airoplane contrail.

The stone at the bottom of the entrance to the fort. The round black marks are from bullets; this was used as a target for shooting practice during World War II by the troops stationed nearby. If you can't see the marks, click through to flickr where I've highlighted them.

There's an inscription here, but it's almost completely lost by weathering now. I can see what I think might be it, but could equally well be just natural marks on the stone.

The view from this end of the fort, with our torso-less shadows. I liked the variety of colour in the wood, and the alternating brown and green of the fields.

Close up of the wood, and the row of trees in the field beyond. There was something very pleasing about the shadows that they cast. Berwick Law is in the background, and the top of Bass Rock can just be seen to the right of it (above the third wood to the right of Berwick Law - click through to flickr if you can't see it).

Fife emerging out of the mist.

The side of the fort, looking along the earlier ramparts. The later set can be seen below. This side of the fort didn't get any sun during the day.

This was part of the wall surrounding the field the fort was in. It looks like it was originally part of a house (or a building of some sort.)

The windows are clearly visible.

We looked across the wall next to the ruined building. We'd originally thought it was just an old labourer's cottage, but it began to look like it had been something more. A rounded gatepost had been incorporated into another part of the wall, and the rest of the gateway could be clearly seen. Not entirely sure what's going on with the left hand side of the gate though.

As we walked to the corner, it turned out that the bit of wall sticking out was actually part of what had been a tower. It doesn't look like it in this picture, but that grey bit of wall is actually curved. If you look at the broken end of the wall (that looks a bit like steps) you can sort of see it beginning to turn.

You can see the curvature more clearly in this one.

Looking at the gateway, with the tower on the far right of the photo, and what may have been part of a wall related to the tower, then drystone wall infill, then a strange rectangular might-have-been-gatepost, then the curved gatepost lurking behind the naughty branch which snuck into my picture.

Looking at the northern side of the fort, with both sets of ramparts clearly visible.

Annoyingly, there was absolutely no information about what was going on with the mysterious wall-building-gateway in the corner of the field. I'll have to start investigating...

Seacliff: More from East Lothian adventures, Part 2.

2011-01-16T23:55:00.002Z

Given the cuts situation, and the fact I've spent the day on the couch unable to move, I have a post on disability brewing. However, while it percolates gently, I'm going to post the rest of the pictures from our exploration of Seacliff. I'd better get it done before they're a whole year out of date (the pics were taken in March of last year)!
So, when we last left our delightful (ahem) heroine (yours truly) and her ~~parents~~ trusty sidekicks, they'd just discovered a hidden harbour that's only accessible from the mainland at low tide. The harbour comes complete with slipway, channel, and a box for keeping live catch in until they were needed for the table. After exploring the harbour, we headed back to the beach. I said in my last post that Seacliff is like something out of an Enid Blyton book; as well as secret harbours and ruins, there are also stories of wreckers. Just beyond the rocks on which St Baldred's cross sits, there are two rocky outcrops, known as the Scoughall Rocks and the Car Rocks. Stories say that the Pagans of Scoughall used to use lights to lure ships onto the rocks, where they would be wrecked, and the cargo plundered. In bad weather, it would have been easy for people on that part of the coast to show lights pretending to be the lighthouses on Bass Rock and Fidra, which ships heading up the Forth would have been looking out for.
Robert Louis Stevenson was related to the Dale family, descendents of the family who owned Seacliff. Supposedly his book The Wreckers is based on stories he heard about the wreckers in this area.

Standing next to the stream that runs across the beach, looking down the coast and out to the North Sea.

The ruins of Auldhame are very conspicuous at this end of the beach.

There's another mysterious ruin to be explored. Warning; if you're on a slow connection, there are quite a lot of pictures:

Reflections on the beach as the tide was going out. The height of the cliffs meant this end of the beach was in shadow, which is why half the breaking wave looks overexposed.

Being all artsy; here's the reflection broken up by the foam. I rather like the way this turned out, with the random patches of foam inside the water as it ran up the beach.

This is in contrast to the apparent gentleness of water in the two photos above. The wave noise on the beach was impressive; there'd been an east wind for a couple of days, so large waves were rolling in from the North Sea. We did need to speak up to hear each other over the noise of the waves. At my parents' house, I can hear the wave noise from the family room which looks over the beach, and when it's stormy I can even hear it in my room, which is the other side of the house (though I need to crack my window open to hear it).

Breaking wave.
I've always been an insomniac. When I was little, I'd wake up late at night, after my parents had gone to bed and the house was in darkness. Unable to sleep, I'd lie and watch the place on the wall in the hallway where the light from the lighthouse flashed through the window (I slept with my door open). Eventually I'd get up and - clutching my bear - I'd walk silently across the dark hallway to the family room, and sit down on the windowseat there. I'd open the window just a crack, and in the dark, I'd sit and listen to the waves, and watch the lighthouse, and the beach. Eventually I'd get cold and go back to my room to sleep.
My parents still gently tease me about my insistence on wearing my favourite brown woolley cardigan to bed. I saw it as common sense: If you're going to lurk on windowseats in the dark, in front of open windows, you're going to need a nice thick woolley cardigan over your pjs. This one was my favourite because it also had a hood.
In my memory, I can always see myself as a little ghostly figure, with pale pyjama trousers and my brown cardigan looking grey in the light from the windows, curled up in the corner of the windowseat.

Here's an accidental arty shot. I looked behind us and our footprints were just filling with water as we'd crossed a damp patch. Lovely! And what made it even better was the white fluffy cloud just reflected in the water.
When I sat in the dark and watched the waves breaking on the beach, highlighted for a moment by the lighthouse, I always used to think that the beach was mine; I was the only one in the whole world, it seemed, and I always wanted to go down and walk through the surf. I never did, of course - I was far too little to do that at first; sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night when you're seven seems like a big thing to do. Later on, although I was old enough, the fear of the seven year old lingered in me.

Behind us there was a slightly lower section of the beach that was covered in water. It was mostly still and reflected the trees and ruins of Auldhame against the sky. When particularly large waves ran up the beach they reached the water and broke up the reflection with swirling patterns, which I liked, hence this photo.

I played with my zoom lens as I followed my parents along the beach. Thus we have photos of waves as they break.

Look at the ripples on the surface of the wave.

The same wave, a second or two later. I'm so pleased I was lucky enough to catch that middle section before it curled over - you can see the spray being caught by the wind and pushed back.

Waves with St Baldred's Boat (and cross) in the background.

More playing with the zoom lens. Can I have too many wave photographs?

Apparently the answer would be no. Although, this one is rather pleasing, I like the water on the top of the wave. We won't go into how many shots I took to get these two good ones…

May Island. This is actually over on the Fife side of the Forth estuary. It can normally be seen on a clear day, but I'm seriously impressed with my zoom lens; the detail it managed to catch is amazing.

And yet more waves.

This might be the last one.

This is what May Island looked like to the naked eye.

Another wave photo? Surely not! But I'm allowed this one because just look what the foam/water is doing!

The sun kept going behind the clouds. St Baldred's Cross and the rocks looked rather more sinister in the shade.

Bass Rock, with the lighthouse and prison being quite visible.

More spray being blown off the waves.

Now we get to the fun part. I'd been so busy looking out to sea that I'd not really paid much attention to the rest of the beach and inland. At this point we're about half way down the beach, just past where it curves. For some reason I looked up and away from my camera and the sea, and looked to my right, inland. Above the tops of the trees I could seem some chimneys, which I'd actually spotted back at the harbour. You can see them here if you look closely at the trees near the centre of this picture.

Here's what was looming up out of the trees on the cliff above us:

Impressive! This is Seacliff House, the residence of the people who built the harbour.

Here’s another view, with slightly fewer trees in the way. I thought there was something terribly romantic and slightly eerie about the smokeless chimneys rising above the bare trees; it reminded me of something out of a Daphne Du Maurier novel.

The feeling of being in a novel was compounded when I turned to look behind me. The ruins of Auldhame glowered across the beach, now that the sun was behind them. The bare trees added to this impression.

Here's the view of the harbour. The cliffs were all in such deep shadow that they appeared to be almost black.

In contrast, the reflections of the clouds were in delicate pastels that made me think of watercolour paintings.

I was busy trying to shake off the I've-wandered-into-a-Du-Maurier-novel feeling, when…horses! Two riders appeared from within the trees and bushes that bordered this end of the beach; there was no visible access to the beach, it seemed as though they'd just materialised.

The spell was broken somewhat when one of the riders took her horse down into the water for a bit of a paddle. The other horse was very evidently not a fan of getting his hooves wet. He tossed his head and made disapproving whickering noises when his rider tried to get him nearer the water.

Here he is, demonstrating disapproval.

Soon the riders headed back up to the trees. Here you can see what the ruins actually looked like from the beach; the previous two photos were taken with the zoom lens, so I didn't see the detail in them until I downloaded them from the camera.

My footprints on the beach, you can see where I was meandering about as I took photos of waves.

As we got closer to the ruins, the sun went behind a cloud again, and the sea changed colour, adding (thanks to my overactive imagination) a slight air of menace to our adventure.

As we got closer to Seacliff, it became apparent that despite the neatly ordered rows of chimney pots, the place was definitely abandoned. I began to insist on finding a way to get up there and investigate.
There was also a mysterious shed - perhaps once a boat house? Now engulfed by the scrub and bushes.

The hoofprints showed us where the path came down to the beach.

I convinced my trusty sidekicks to at least let us follow the horses to the other side of the scrub, to see what we could see. As we were about to disappear up the sandy path over what had once been dunes, the sun came out, so I paused to take a picture. It made such a difference to the colours, and brought such apparent warmth to what had previously looked quite foreboding.

The feeling of being in a novel didn't dissipate as we scrambled up a steep slope, between high walls of scrub. Underfoot the sand was loose, kicked up by the horses. The path curved, and ended suddenly in a clearing, evidently man made. A rough group of stubby trees surrounded the clearing, and in the centre there was one very old and gnarled tree with initials carved on it. The place was so overgrown that the branches met overhead. This place had everything! Two ruined mansions, a secret harbour, and now a mysterious and romantic clearing.
We emerged from the bushes onto a dirt road that ran along and round the side of a field, then up alongside the cliff, atop which was the ruined house. We walked along the road to the bottom of the cliff. There we found an old stone wall with a rusted iron gate hanging open, and a path leading up into the trees.

The path was too irresistible; it was clearly a way up to explore the mansion. It was also incredibly steep and very slippy. The cliff side was composed of dark rich earth out of which grew trees and saplings, each clinging tightly to the slope. The ground was completely covered in ivy, with exposed roots trailing across the paths, just waiting to trip an unwary explorer. I told my parents to wait at the bottom, just in case, as it was so steep.
I picked my way up the slope, following what appeared to be an excellent path. A path which swiftly petered out as soon as it had reached a good height, about half way up the cliff. I paused to take stock.

On my right, a bastion of some sort seemed oddly out of place; it was crenelated and vaguely medieval in style, but what it was doing jutting out of the cliff seemingly miles from habitation, who knew? It was definitely connected to the abandoned mansion above, but (from what I could see through the trees) it hadn't appeared to be very fortified.
I scrambled the remaining few feet up the slope; the cliff at this point suddenly got a lot steeper, and I found myself clutching ivy and scrambling/staggering up onto a narrow ledge that ran round outside a fence.

This is what I saw when I looked up. Seacliff: Totally worth clambering up cliffs for.
A shout from below made me turn: Despite strict instructions, my parents had decided to join me. I prefer to think that curiosity overcame their natural decorum!
The ground floor windows on the left were missing the glass, but the sash and casement were still in place, giving it an eerie half-inhabited look, as if it had only recently been lived in.

I helped my parents up the last few feet, and soon we were all gazing at the ruin.

Despite walking all the way round the top of the cliff, it was difficult to fit the whole building into the photograph, at least without falling backwards down the hill. The architecture was an odd mix; Scottish Baronial and medieval, but with those huge, grand windows towards the right. These were joined by what looked almost like a fort: A long wall with very thin arrow-slit windows in it (you can see one in this photo). That wall fitted better with the bastion than with the rest of the building, which didn't look in the least fortifiable.
Beyond the ruin there seemed to be a stable block, which had subsequently been converted into accommodation.

Close up of what I like to think of as the picture window. There were tantalising glimpses of doorways and rooms beyond it. Note the windows on the left, with the windowframes weathered, but otherwise untouched. Several of the windows were like that, creating an eerie contrast to the destruction of the rest of the building.

The central part of the building had fallen in. I wondered whether there had been only a balcony there, or whether the whole frontage jutted out. In the turret at the top, the window had been boarded over though it looked as though there was some mullioned glass remaining.
The fireplace visible halfway up the wall had a fire-damaged cover. The mantlepiece, grate and tiling had long gone, though if you look at the
large size of this photo, you can still see where they used to be. I can't work out what that is in the fireplace itself though.

This would have been the back part of the house, though it would have had the choicest views. It faces north-west, so would have had afternoon and late afternoon sunshine. The trees growing on the cliff (with the low angle of the sun) meant that only the the topmost gables had any sunlight (or view). Judging by the windows though, the vegetation would have been kept well trimmed. It seemed as though the trees had been allowed to grow up around the building to hide it.
We decided that probably the building had been destroyed by fire; all the roofs and any internal walls that weren't stone had gone, but the rest of the building seemed remarkably undamaged, except for the central section. The fire probably started around there and had spread upwards, because the wooden window frames on the ground floor were almost all undamaged. It made for a very eerie effect.

In the gothic romantic frame of mind that I was in, the ivy climbing up and out of the window seemed to (fittingly) echo the flames which must have once streamed through the broken window.

There was a dead tree in the gap, but behind it we could see right through to the back wall of the house. There were tantalising glimpses of doorways leading elsewhere; this place seemed much larger than it initially appeared.

The ground floor seemed as though it had a very low ceiling height; perhaps it wasn't used by the family? At least in this section - the tall windows in the adjoining wing suggested otherwise.

As we walked round outside the fence, an animated discussion took place. I was all for climbing through the fence and zooming across the lawn to take photos of the inside of the building. The fact that this was someone else's house (the adjoining stable block had been converted and was definitely lived in - not to mention that the grass had been cut) was uppermost in the minds of my cohorts.

The cliff bent round and in towards the wall. The space between the fence and the drop got steadily wider as it did so. As we walked round, the rest of the building began to open up, and became steadily more mysterious. There was what looked almost like a military guard tower, beside which were huge windows that seemed to give on to what looked like a garden. The arrow-slot windows in the wall didn't fit with the huge picture window. And hten there was the boarded up/blocked up window underneath. Very odd! Not to mention that the windowsill was halfway between what would have been the ground and first floors of the rest of the building.
The mystery got more mysterious still. Just out of sight at the edge of this photo the wall turned to follow the line of the cliff.

At the corner there was what looked like a faux guardhouse, and most enticingly: An open doorway. That settled the matter of whether we were going to explore or not; an open doorway was too inviting!
We picked our way over the fallen trees and feral ivy to reach a set of ivy-clad steps that led up to the door.

As we scrambled through the undergrowth I paused to look back through the fallen wall into the heart of the building. A doorway showed another wall covered with ivy.

In the sentry box on the wall, the glass in the window had been broken, but the frame was still intact. In some ways it seemed as though the place hadn't been abandoned for long.

I went first up the steps, and through the doorway. I had expected steps on the other side of the wall, but it turned out that the ground level inside was much higher than the ground level outside. That accounted for the slightly squashed feeling one got when looking at the "ground" floor at the back of the building.

I got such a fright when I stopped looking at my feet and actually looked up and through the doorway. This is what was in front of me! It was as though I'd walked into Narnia. I'm not entirely sure what I'd expected to find, but to walk into a wood (and one which was broadly free of ivy) was not remotely on the list. This seemed almost to be a garden or a "prettyish sort of wilderness" belonging to the main house.

The wood was absolutely silent, except for the cracking of twigs and rustling of leaves under my feet as I made space for my companions to emerge from the doorway in their turn. Then I got such a shock! I caught sight of what seemed to be a body, hanging from a tree over to my right. I jumped and did a double take. It was only a piece of white sack tied to a branch by a rope, and mooving in the breeze. Not entirely sure what it was there for; perhaps target practice of some sort?

The snowbells were very pretty.

We followed the wall to the left, where we found ourselves just inside the picture windows we'd been scutinising from the outside. The ground level was at the bottom of the windows, and the frames were still intact, though all the glass was missing. In places, there was plaster still on the wall.

What was also very odd was that there were two walls missing. Not fallen down, just not there at all in the first place. You follow the curtain wall, turn the corner, and find yourself looking at this window. To my right and behind me as I was taking this picture, there were no walls - this was all open to the garden. The roof, however, was still intact, though ivy had managed to festoon everything.
Through the window you can see the lawn, the Dread Ivy covering the fence and the ground at the top of the cliff, and the trees growing along the slope. Beyond that you can see the beach and the sea. On the far left the is the rock that the harbour is built into.
There were some large trees just behind me, so I couldn't get far enough back to take this picture propwerly, despite the wide angle attachment on my lens. I'm not peering through a peephole here, it's just that proper wide angle lenses are a few hundred pounds, so I use a wide angle attachment, which - if I zoom out all the way - appears around the edge of the picture. Still, it allows me to fit more in than otherwise. Normally I crop it out or zoom in enough that it can't be seen, but in this case I'd lose too much of the picture to do either. So I haven't.

Just beyond the big picture window in what I thought of as the "garden room" was the doorway into a tiny square room, with two long narrow windows. This was the guard post we'd seen from the other side of the wall. It too had a lovely view.
This is looking north, towards fife. I think this is the friendly tree which helped me stagger up the last bit of the slope.

Inside the room, the plaster was still intact on the walls, though suffering badly from damp and graffitti, some of which was rather old (the same age as me!).

Looking out of the other window, towards the harbour, and the fallen tree we had to climb over.

Standing in the "garden room" looking into the guard outpost. The floor of the garden room was dirt, but the guard post had a proper flagstone floor which was about half a foot lower down. If I'd had time, I'd have been tempted to dig down to see whether there was a flagstone floor buried where we were standing. Unfortunately, the sun was going down and it was beginning to get dark, so I didn't have long.

The curtain wall can be seen through the window on the left there. The trees mark the edge of the cliff; beyond is a field with horses in which slopes down to the beach.
The floor levels were fascinating! We'd gone up about four steps to go through the door (which is sort of beyond that pile of wood you can see through the window), and now the ground level is about three foot higher than the lawn outside. That meant that the "ground floor" windows we were looking at at the back of the house must have effectively been underground.

Late afternoon sunlight. This is looking at the front part of the building, now completely festooned with ivy. This is the part of the building that you'd have driven up to when it was in use. You can just make out a window through the ivy.

A charming Scottish Baronial turret festooned in ivy. If you were approaching the building when it was in use, this turret marked the far left hand corner of the frontage.

We followed the curtain wall along to the front of the building, which is where I took the previous two photos. At the side of the building, there was a small stone platform with two steps descending decorously into the garden. It looked as though this had been a small patio or maybe even a conservatory.
There was a door from the platform which led into...this.

This is the room with the very grand long and tall windows, which are just to the left of the picture. The levels are so odd - the floor level that can be seen very clearly here was effectively the ground level on the front of the house, but not at the back.

For some reason I kept thinking of this as the library; something about the room just suggested that it would have been lovely with lots of bookcases, and some nice chairs in the window where one could sit to read and write and admire the view.

This was a fireplace on the opposite wall to where I was standing. It still had the grate and fire surround, which looked sadly out of place now there was no floor.

I'm not sure what the recess to the left of the fireplace would have been. It's a bit large for the side of the floor joists, but the top of it is level with where the floor would have been. Perhaps it was for a very large beam.

The floor joists for the main level were completely charred, but the wooden support for the plaster in the room beneath was untouched. It looks like the fire started on the main floor, which would work with why the ground floor windows at the back seemed to be untouched.

The same fireplace as earlier, but with more context. This would have been the upper floor, where the bedrooms would have been.

Looking up and to the right from where I'm standing. There was another black metal fireplace which matched the one on the opposite wall. This one was hiding beneath a curtain of ivy.

Looking down, the windows have been bricked up at some point, though whether ebfore or after the fire it's hard to tell. Possibly it was after, however, in order to stabilise the building. You can see the charred wood of the floor joist, with the untouched wooden strips for the plaster below it; the wooden beam for the top of the window is also untouched, yet it's at the level of the floor which burned, so it must have been put in later.

The wall and gable end to my left.

It was time to go, as it was nearly dark. We headed back the way we'd come. This is looking up at the side of the building. The ivy covered wall on the left is the curtain wall in which the "garden room" was. It joins the main building at this side, next to the impressive windows. The turret on the right in this picture is the turred I took a photo of earlier, from underneath. The doorway or window below and to the left of it (in the centre of the picture) is just above the doorway we'd gone through to look into the building.

The woods behind the wall, otherwise known as "Narnia". The "garden room" window can just be seen on the right.

The front of the building is just to the left of this picture. Next to that there was a field with ponies and jumps, and the road in to the stables. You can just see the road beyond the trees.

Looking back at the building. This end of it at least is completely overtaken by ivy.

Looking back at the curtain wall and the garden room and guard tower as we walked back round to find a way down the cliff.

The building was almost completely in shadow as we left. Having explored it, and looked down into what had once been a family's home, the building didn't seem as ominous as it had; now I felt that there was an air of sadness and regret about the place. It had evidently been so beautiful, such a lovely place to live - all destroyed in the space of a few hours, and never rebuilt. I thought it was a shame that no-one had had the means to restore it.

We made our way back onto the beach; it was definitely evening. Coming back through the wooded bit near the shore was very dark.

Looking west along the beach towards Auldhame. At this time of day the sea often appears to have a luminous quality as it reflects the pale blue of the sky, and the white foam of the breaking waves seems to have a ghostly quality.

Looking along the beach to the east. At the line of rocks the coast turns southwards.
I like contrast of the colours of the beach and sky to the pale pink and purple of the clouds.

St Baldred's Cross, the rocks, and May Island just visible in the background.

As we walked back, the sun had all but gone, but there was just a teeny pink tinge on the upper slopes of Bass Rock.

It got dark very quickly as we walked back along the beach. Everything took on pastel shades, and the sea turned that odd luminous colour it gets on clear evenings. There was just a teeny bit of red light on the rocks where the cormorants sat earlier. I took this because I liked the colours and the clouds.

Sunlight on the rocks.

Auldhame at sunset.

The cliffs, the Gegan rocks (where the secret harbour is), and Bass Rock.

The beach, taken from up on the road, where we waited for my father to bring the car down from the car park.

While waiting to get picked up, we sat and watched the light turn slowly redder.

The sun disappeared behind the cliffs, and the beacon became a smudge against the darkening sea. We hopped in the car, and headed home.

Here are some satellite images from Google maps. If you click on the photos, it will take you through to flickr, where I've highlighted where things are.

Auldhame, the secret harbour, slipway, and the cave and its channel from above.

Seacliff Harbour; no need to click through to flickr for the features on this one. I like the fact that two boats can be seen in the harbour.

Auldhame castle.

Seacliff from above; this really demonstrates the size of the place. The wiggle in the edge of the lawn is where the fortification is. The trees are hiding a very steep cliff.

Here's what the mansion looked like from the front. The original Seacliff House was built in 1750, by a man named Robert Colt. At that time, it was a long, low, narrow house. Later, it was bought by a man named George Sligo, who in 1841, had the architect David Bryce build a new house in the baronial style. This was built over and around the original building, which remained as the core of the house. It was subsequently purchased by a man named John Watson Laidlay, who had it extended in 1850. It was his descendant who created the harbour.
In 1907 it was gutted by fire. Later, the outbuildings were purchased by the Royal Navy; they established a "top secret" research base there during World War I. The station was known as HMS Scottish Seacliff, and was mainly used for navigation training and U-boat defence. I bet the harbour came in useful for that! This actually wasn't the first time Seacliff beach was used in war time; it was used by troops attacking Tantallon Castle, which is only half a mile away. During the Napoleonic wars, troops were stationed here against the threat of French attack.

More snow in Edinburgh, part 2.

2010-12-18T19:17:00.000Z

Since we've had a thaw (ish), and it's meant to snow again tonight, I thought I'd actually get round to posting the rest of my snowy photos.

On the way to work, this is the Grassmarket at rush hour. People started walking or using public transport (such as there was) instead of trying to dig their cars out.

The Castle.

Close-up. Castle Rock started looking like a black-and-white photo.

Pocket camera has a pretty decent zoom lens for its size! This is a close-up of the Great Hall in the Castle, and the icicles hanging off the edges of the roof.

More icicles, this time on the roof of the building in which the Royal Apartments are. This is one of the older bits of the castle.

Icicles on the edge of a shop. It was about this point that it became necessary to have two pairs of eyes - you needed to watch your step, but you also needed to keep an eye on icicles falling from above. I nearly got clonked on the head by a huge chunk falling from South Bridge. When I say "nearly", I mean, "felt the breeze as it passed me". It landed right next to my foot.

West Port actually got a mention on the BBC for having Icicles of Doom. Although, sadly they didn't actually call them that. (wbaenfarb though!)

Icicles of Doom indeed. That one's about 50cm or so.

As it warmed up (as in, went from -8C to around 1C) the snow began to thaw out a bit, leading to nice overhanging chunks of snow and ice everywhere.

There were lots of broken gutters, and no doubt wires too. The aerial wires and electric wires on our roof were covered with lots of ice, rather like the ones in this picture.

Very pleasing icicles.

I think this building may be one of the reasons that West Port/Tollcross/Grassmarket got a mention on the BBC. Not a bad collection of icicles there.

I liked the regular tracks the icicles made on this lintel. Though it must've been rather dirty up there...

Bendy!

These ones reminded me of shark teeth because there were a double layer.

It was like this all round this building.

Earlier on in the week, this wire was completely encased in ice. The ice and icicles broke off though.

This is one of the chunks which had fallen off - it's about the size of an adult hand. Big enough to do damage if it clonked you on the head - luckily no-one was underneath this one. It did make the walk to work "interesting" though!

More bendy icicles.

Ice and snow. It's not a brilliant photo because it was getting dark as I was on my way home, but the snow build up on the side of the roof here ended up falling onto the roof and causing a mini avalanche. Further along the road, the Standard Life Building ended up having a huge avalanche of snow off the roof - someone managed to video it, and it was on the news. Coincidentally, we saw it on the TV in a pub in London shortly after we'd got off the train. We hadn't expected to trek all teh way down there to see Edinburgh on the TV!

Snowy Edinburgh in the dark.

Close up of the castle. The snow on the castle reflected the sky, which turned purple at night, resulting in a strange colour contrast.

More of the same effect. The rock looks like it could be a black and white drawing, almost looking fake.

A change of white balance. This is more similar to what it looked like to the naked eye. Also note how much snow is on the road below the castle.

That's the last of my snow-pictures, for now at least...

Warm and Cosy

2010-12-11T01:51:00.002Z

Look where I'm currently working:

A Proper Library. It smells really good too - proper old books and wood sort of smell.

Look at the ceiling and the gallery.

From the doorway. I'm sitting in that chair at the table in the window. It's next to the radiator, so I'm really warm, and have a lovely view of a snowy street.

A proper look at the bookcases and gallery. You can see the entrance to the gallery (sort of disguised) in the corner - one of the doors is slightly open.

This isn't the view I'm looking at, it's the view from the room next door.

Close-up of Well Court.

Lucky me!

Edinburgh Snow, yet again.

2010-12-02T01:50:00.000Z

Here's Wednesday's hilarity and frolicking in the snow. Work is being rather entertaining at the moment; we're on the third floor, opposite a street that will never be cleared because it's a dead end. Despite this, there are a group of white van men who seem to have some sort of vendetta going on. They got stuck in the snow on Monday, and since then it seems to have become a matter of Male Pride that they - somehow - get to the Top Of The Road. We've called it the Continuing Saga in the The Story of the Van Men. On Monday and Tuesday's episodes, the Van Men got stuck in the snow, and found shovels. They then cleared the pavements on both sides of the road. They sprinkled grit about, and tried to push one of their vans up the hill. That particular section was cartoonish; four grown men running on the spot (thanks to the ice) trying to push a van up the hill.
On Wednesday, they brought out The Big Guns. Not to be outdone by some piddling snow and a piddling little slope, they came armed with a mini digger. Producing some rope, they tied the digging arm to their trailer, and then backed up the hill, towing the trailer. They repeated the exercise in exactly the same configuration to go back down the hill. Luckily the trailer was now empty, and the snow thick - otherwise the large trailer would have crushed the slow moving teeny digger.

Aside from the Van Men Saga, there have been a selection of people with Silly 1.3 litre cars thinking that they're actually driving landrovers, and getting stuck. Mostly these are Young Poseur Males, who then gesticulate a lot at each other. Or they ruin their engines by sitting and revving them (while driving us crazy), despite getting nowhere.

The silliest thing I've seen so far was a gentleman dressed in a long tweed overcoat (unbuttoned), and very expensive looking tailored suit. He was wearing soft brown leather shoes, long and pointy (fashionable no doubt, though impractical), which had leather soles. Leather soles! When the pavements are wet and slushy! Good grief, they don't even give decent grip in those situations. (Though suede soles on dance shoes are amazing!)

Anyway. Tuesday night we got about 30cm overnight in the city centre. Here are some pictures.

Looking back the way I came.
This photo and the one below are taken standing in the same place, looking in different directions. Snow in one direction, blue sky in the other (just at the right time for walking to work!)

Heading in this direction. The road hadn't been ploughed yet.

Needs to be dug out.

Side road. This is what it looks like when no snow has been shovelled at all. This is nothing though - twenty minutes from here on foot, they have nearly 2 feet of snow.

Morning sunlight, plus castle.

This turrety tenement is one I don't look at twice, normally, but but with a dusting of snow it becomes rather fairy-tale-esque.

Another side road - this one isn't a dead end though.

Approaching snow shower behind the Parliament and Holyrood Palace. Good thing I'll be in work by the time it reaches us!

Holyrood Road. This one's been treated for snow - this is the general condition of roads in the city centre.

Blizzard!

More blizzard!

Someone stole the outside.

Traffic Lights

Sunset: the clouds that were high enough to pick up the sun turned a lovely shade of pinkish.

Pretty.

I like the way the snow is sliding down this roof.

It's usually been cold overnight, then warmed up enough during the day to make things get a bit drippy, then it freezes again. This results in lots of nice looking icicles:

Drippy traffic lights.

Pretty drippy lights, at twilight.

Drippy lights with Calton Hill and a snowstorm in the background.

Looking up at the icicles on my kitchen window. The snow slipped down the roof, and they ended up pointing in the window.

From inside - they're pretty sizeable. The biggest one is about 40cm.

More icicles on my roof.

Arty shot, icicles on the bedroom window.

I caught a drip! I'm SO pleased with this one, it's just good luck, I didn't try and take a photo of the drip. It's so spherical!

Not dripping.

All the houses have icicles.

I'm pleased with this one - icicles lit by a streetlight.

This building has plenty of icicles.

Lots of the icicles seem to be curved, it makes the houses look like they've grown teeth.

My window again. This required a bit of contortion to get, since the sink is right in front of the window.

This is what happens when you use the flash and have the white balance set to cloudy. I rather like the effect though.

These are the icicles that are trying to come and join me. It's not a trick of perspective - they are actually touching the wood on the window.

From inside.

Now I am off to recline on my couch under a couple of blankets, and crochet. It's currently -8.5C in Edinburgh, and still dropping. We're supposed to have a low of -9 tonight, but I suspect we may reach double figures. Time to put the heating on...

More snow in Edinburgh

2010-12-01T01:49:00.000Z

Snooooow.

Monday:

Pootling about underneath the castle.

Pretty.

Castle from Princes Street. More snow coming across, which is why the sky is that odd colour. This was about 3ish.

Snow coming in from the left.

Close up, and about to disappear in a blizzard.

These are from this evening.

A selection of hail stone sizes. Teeny tiny ones and ones that were about 6mm across.

Closer. They look like polystyrene balls.

Snow on the roof with craters from Giant Hailstones.

And again.

Attack of the polystyrene! This is out my kitchen window.

It looked like this, though with a teensy bit more snow.

Then it blizzarded.

Then it looked like this.

And this.

Anndd this.

Then it cleared up, having left us with an inch or so of snow in about 20 minutes.

The street next to us.

Wiggly! Watched a large white van failing to make it up the hill. He kept slipping sideways.

Incidentally, I don't know what it is, but whenever it snows at night, there are always packs of young men out and about in the street, howling like werewolves. Could it be that they're secretly Twilight fans? "Aaaawwwooooooooooo!" I do wish they'd shut up...

Snow in Edinburgh, November 2010

2010-11-28T01:48:00.001Z

Frolicking around in the snow...

Old Fire Station

Old Fire Station

Old Fire Station

Close, Old Town

Rare blue sky - it's been snowing since 8ish the previous evening.

The castle, looking snowy.

Princes Street Gardens, with ice rink. Snow-covered ice rink.

Blue sky, sun, castle!

Dramatic castle.

The next few are taken from Melvin House Hotel. These are the views from the bedrooms at the back and at the front of the hotel.

These are of Dean Village and Fife:

Bird prints on a roof.

These are from the front of the hotel, St Mary's Cathedral, Pentland Hills, and the Castle. Also Drumsheugh Gardens, in front of the hotel.

Out the back of the hotel. It had been lovely and sunny, then suddenly...Mist!

I left the hotel, and headed back to Princes Street. The mist and the sunset made for some very odd light effects.

Strange light, mist, and...did that plane do a u-turn?!

Taking a shortcut through the graveyard. It turned out to be quite picturesque, so it was more of a long-cut.

Sunset light on the clouds.

Castle Rock looking very black and white.

Looking at Princes Street Gardens, completely empty. (They're shut and locked at sundown.)

There was something eerie about the footprints leading out into the deserted gardens.

Back into the graveyard:

Not sure what these red flowers/fruiting bodies are called, but they looked like little paper lanterns. They were very pretty.

There were some kids building a snowman, in the deserted graveyard.

Bunny or squirrel prints:

The roads were a bit snowy:

I just liked the shape of them. Also, I had to scamper (ahem) up here:

More snowy roads, in the centre of town:

Someone built a large snowman. There's a door on the left of the picture for size comparison. That thing must be getting on for seven foot.

Seacliff: More from my East Lothian adventures.

2010-11-28T01:46:00.002Z

...Or, more evidence that when I'm lurking in North Berwick my life turns into some sort of Enid Blyton type adventure book. In this installment, we have a secret, hidden harbour with a channel that you can't see (so you have to know where it is). There's a ruined castle (two, technically), and a ruined and mysterious mansion. And a beach. And also a cave. Well, technically two caves.

Seacliff beach is not far from North Berwick, so we visited one afternoon in March as part of our gadding-about-the-countryside explorations. To reach the carpark on the cliffs above the beach, you drive down a very very rutted muddy lane, enclosed by trees. On a cold March day, it wasn't particularly inviting, indeed, it had a touch of spookyness about it.
We left the car and followed the path down through a sparse wood towards the beach.

Near the beach, we looked up to see this lurking on the cliff above us: the ruins of Auldhame Castle. Look at the size of the central window.

A stream ran down from somewhere near the castle. The village of Auldhame used to be on the the headland, but the castle is now all that remains of it. Seacliff beach and the surrounding area was used as a base for troops attacking Tantallon castle (which is only about half a mile from Seacliff), so quite possibly the disappearance of the village is linked.

Another shot of the stream, and the ruin brooding mysteriously on the cliff top.

A few steps farther on, and we had our first sight of Seacliff Beach.

The rocky outcrop that you can see to the right of the picture hides St Baldred's Cave. This is much touted in the area, but is really quite small, little more than a rock overhang. Not a proper cave at all, really. St Baldred was an 8th Century Christian missionary who was based just a little way down the coast from here, so there are many St Baldred's [whatevers] scattered about.

Looking out to sea across the beach. There are a line of rocks jutting out to sea at the far end of the beach. These are known as St Baldred's Boat, presumably because he came ashore near here. I haven't found anything about him being wrecked, although if he had been wrecked it would fit nicely with him having to shelter in the cave named after him.

There were lovely big rollers coming in off the North Sea.

We crossed the stream and headed to our left, to explore around the headland at the near end of the beach. Walking under the cliffs, we saw this:

Someone really didn't want anyone getting on their land! I thought there was something utterly ridiculous about the attempt to put such a large fence all the way to the edge of a sandstone cliff that's constantly eroding. Further round the coast, there's concrete fencing like this enclosing the land that an MOD radar station/look out occupies. That's fair enough; but here, the cliffs are just occupied by fields.

Crossing the beach towards the sandstone outcrop which is known as the Gegan ("Churchman's Haven" - another reference to our friend Baldred. Unfortunately, whenever I read about St Baldred, my mental image defaults to Blackadder...) The blocks lying around are all man made, evidence of storm damage by the looks of it.

First glimpse of a man made structure: a slipway cut into the natural rock. The secret harbour is just beyond this; in fact, you're looking right at it, and you can see it if you know what you're looking at - otherwise, it's just rock. If you click on this photo it will take you through to the photo on flickr. If you hover your mouse over it you can see the notes I've made to indicate the harbour.

As you approach the slipway you come out beyond the headland, and get your first view up the coast towards Tantallon.

We climbed up over the rocks onto the Gegan, and came face to face with this:

The secret harbour! M and D expressed as much surprise as I did; apparently they didn't know about it either. Well, M didn't, D knew of its existance, but didn't know this is where it was. He used to sail out of North Berwick with a friend who knew about the harbour and was looking for it, though they never did find it. That's Tantallon lurking imposingly in the background.

Here's the harbour in colour. The water hasn't been photoshopped, it was that amazing blue-green colour.
The harbour and slipway were built in 1890, by order of Andrew Laidlay, who was the Laird of Seacliff at the time. A steam engine and compressed air were used to cut the sandstone; I think that's what's responsible for the horizontal lines across the rock face (though at least some of them are natural).

The pool in the foreground was excavated specially. The fishermen landed their catch here, and in order to ensure that the lobsters, crabs and fish were kept at their freshest, they were kept in this basin. The basin would have had a wooden lid to prevent the catch escaping - as you can see from the weed, this is all under water at high tide. The pool is pretty deep - much deeper than it looks like it would be from this angle. The left side is about two feet deep, and the right is about a foot.
The channel for the slipway runs along behind the pool.

Looking across the harbour, with a human for scale. The stone block debris in an earlier photo might be from the harbour wall on the left of this picture, which has been built up as the natural level of the rock wasn't high enough.

The basin for the catch again. The square holes at the back are for the hinges for the lid, and the slot nearest the bottom edge would have been for lifting the lid.

Looking out to sea across the harbour mouth. You can see some of the horizontal lines better now; some of them look like gouges rather than naturally occurring fault lines.
The ropes are new because the harbour is still used regularly by a small crab boat. He lands his catch at low tide, carrying the catch across the rocks and down to his truck which he drives across the beach. In some ways, things haven't changed very much.

These stairs are just to the left of where I was standing when I took the photo above. If you click through to flickr, I've marked what are stairs and what is not. They're the smallest, narrowest stairs I've ever come across. They're not even a foot deep, and very very narrow, and also very high. I couldn't imagine running up these with crates full of fish and crustaceans. If you notice, one step near the top is curved, it's not even an actual proper step!

Taken just to the left of the photo above; the stairs run down the wall of the channel to the right of the photo, running right past the notch. The notch cut into the rock was probably to make landing the catch easier. It was probably to ensure that when there was enough water for the boats to tie up in the channel, they weren't so low down that it was impossible to lift the catch onto the rocks. Probably this made coming up and down the stairs easier as well.

Another shot of the harbour. It's really very small. There's just enough room to moor two smallish boats, with space for them to manoever in and out.

Looking out to sea, an artsy shot.

Looking back across the beach. This is where the crab fisherman brings his truck to pick up his catch.

This is taken looking in the opposite direction to the previous photo. The stone is quite soft, so a combination of rain and spray have carved out a channel between the rocks next to the harbour. Bass Rock is visible through the gap.

Another "artsy" shot. I turned some of these into black and white, if the colour versions weren't good enough. I was struggling a bit with the light here - the sun was weak, and very low, so the shadows were very dark. In this picture I was also shooting towards the sun. It's amazing how desaturating it can make such a difference.
Look at that crack in the north wall of the harbour! The ladder is a wooden one, it's tied on because the old metal one was twisted off at some point, possibly during the storm earlier in the month. (There was a once-in-30-years storm in March.) The storm is also responsible for the amount of rubbish floating about in the harbour.

A view over the harbour to the cliffs. See how tiny it is?!

Slightly a vanity shot! I took this because I liked the contrast of the red rock against the blue of the sea. But bonus photographer too!

Another view over the harbour. There are only a couple of places where the walls have been built up with stone, the rest is cut out of the natural rock.

The channel entrance, with a sneaky bit of wiggle. The colours of the sea, rocks, foam/spray, and sky were at least as lovely as they came out in the photo.

The same thing, but black and white.

The rocks and Tantallon, but with less spray.

Looking straight across to Fife, from the rocks behind the harbour. The contrast of the lichen, rocks, and sea was stunning! And then there was just a little bit of spray at the right moment.

Heading for Norway! Look at the lines in the rock on the right hand side of the photo.
The white blob on the line of rocks in the distance is St Baldred's Cross, and the line of rocks is called St Baldred's Boat.

We wondered whether all the odd pools on this rocky ledge are natural - or not. We thought they looked a little suspicious.

Another spray, lichen and Bass Rock picture.

Another shot looking back towards the beach, this time from the rocks above the harbour. This shows how well the harbour is hidden from the mainland and from the sea (the sea is behind me in this picture).

Playing with my zoom lens:

Tantallon Castle, from the sea. Looking at the back and the inner courtyard. When the castle was in use, there would have been wooden buildings running along the walls of the building. The lower section on the right of the photo was an extension with kitchens, cellars, a bakehouse, a brewery, and the great hall, which was above the cellars and kitchens.

This is the lighthouse on Bass Rock. There's also an old prison (the darker building below to the left of the lighthouse. There's also a chapel - see if you can spot it. (I've noted where it is if you click through to flickr). At the top of the rock there's a very large foghorn.
All the white dots are birds, mostly gannets: Bass Rock is one of the largest gannet colonies in the world.

Closer - the chapel is much easier to spot now. It just looks like a roofless cottage, but when viewed from the side, one gable has what looks like a rounded window - reminiscent of a very small scale rose window (like in York Cathedral).

Fife, and cliffs on Bass Rock. Also gannets diving.

A couple of artsy shots of waves, foam and seaweed on the rocks. Totally accidental, but I'm very pleased with the way they turned out.

St Baldred's Cross. Baldred was an 8th Century Christian missionery who was based just a little way down the coast from Seacliff. He's given his name to lots of things in the area; there's the marker, the rocks (St Baldred's Boat), a cave with his name, and finally the rock outcrop/island which the harbour is cut out of is called the Geghan, or "Churchman's Haven".

This is the remains of a pulley system. It was probably used for closing the harbour off in bad weather.

The water was a lovely colour, and amazing clear considering it was March!

This was probably part of the equipment for closing off the harbour in stormy weather, although it was possibly also used for mooring lines.

There was quite a swell, creating a good current into and out of the harbour. The metal groove was for closing the harbour off - long beams would have been dropped into it (there's a matching one on this side of the harbour). That way the water in the harbour would be prevented from moving about too much if there were large waves coming down the channel.
It's very important to do this in stormy weather. The crane at North Berwick was broken over the winter (the council spent money putting up fences so that people don't have to use their common sense about going near the edge of the harbour, instead of fixing the crane). There was a good few hundred pounds worth of damage from boats smashed against each other as the waves came into the harbour. The harbour can look like a washing machine.

Winch system with chains.

Old metal ladder. This was replaced with a temporary one which was tied on to the wall. The metal one was probably broken during the storm earlier in the month.

The tide is about half way out; the harbour is very deep.

Looking up the gully between two lumps of weathered sandstone behind the harbour.

Right, that's quite enough for one post! Next, we head along the beach...

At the market: a snippet

2010-11-20T11:40:00.000Z

Standing next to Jock's Tattie Stall.

Expansive woman wearing expensive fur trimmed coat, in a very plummy voice: "I bought some of your potatoes. They're no good: they disintegrated when I cooked them!"

Jock, in an utterly matter-of-fact tone of voice: "Aye, well they do that when you over cook them."

Perfect.

Cove, Part 2: More smugglers, Caves and Tunnels.

2010-11-06T18:45:00.001Z

Ages ago I posted about our visit to Cove, a teeny village on the edge of the cliffs, complete with a harbour, tunnels, and caves; an isolate smugglers paradise. Here's the first part of the visit. And now, for the second part.

When I left off last time, we'd explored the harbour and the abandoned cottages. These days, there are only two left, but there used to be four. The other two have presumably succumbed to the elements. It would be amazing to be here in a storm. This is looking out to sea through what used to be someone's bedroom or kitchen window:

It was time to explore the tunnel! (Not that I'd been looking forward to this bit or anything...) This is the entrance in the cliff. I imagine it probably hasn't changed much.

The tunnel immediately inside the entrance is pretty large, and you can see the bare rock has been reinforced with masonry and probably then covered with lime. A short way in, the roof rises suddenly and abruptly. It looks like probably there was a rockfall at some point. In the photo below you can see the edge of the arched tunnel towards the left of the picture. That's where the roof suddenly rises. The tunnel in this bit becomes basically like a square room, with a much rougher and lower tunnel leading off it into the cliff...

The "proper" tunnel. This is looking down the tunnel, with the room with the high roof just behind me. The tunnel is pretty long, and curves in the middle, following the line of the headland so you can't see daylight all the way through unless you stand in just the right place. Most of the way through the tunnel is this rough sandstone; this was all carved by hand.

Looking back to the entrance. You can see where the walls have been reinforced with brick. The tunnel slopes quite a lot too. Imagine walking back up here in the dark with a creel full of fish on your back.

The headland used to be riddled with cellars and caves. The villagers had carved cellars off the tunnel, on both sides. The information board at the top of the cliff had a diagram; there were cellars (connected to the main tunnel by small entrance tunnels) at regular intervals all the way along the tunnel. Unfortunately, they're all now boarded up for safety reasons - most of them had collapsed. The wording on the board was also amusing. It said that the cellars were officially used for storage for the fishermen, but that the sheer size and number of them, coupled with the remote location of Cove, made it hard to say that they definitively weren't used for smuggling. It reminded me that while I think of smuggling as something exciting and romantic, the people beating the evil government, the reality is that it was and still is very illegal. Just because it happened in the 1700s and 1800s doesn't mean that it's any less illegal.
Anyway, the positioning and shape of the bricks here suggest that they're more likely to be covering entrances to the cellars rather than supporting the roof.

Not all the cellars are bricked up though! Some of them were covered by heavy metal doors. My curiosity is boundless, I really want to see inside these. Not because I think there will be anything exciting in there, but because it's history. It's very personal history - people who lived and died in this area carved out the caves and would have been in and out of them often. It seems much more immediate than - for instance - walking through a stately house and seeing where the family lived. It's hard to explain why I feel that way though, but I do. Maybe I'm just nosy about people; that's probably why I'm an archaeologist!
Here you can see the edge of one of the metal doors. (This is looking back the way we came.) If you look at the rock wall on the left of the picture, you can see the pick marks from when the tunnel was made.

Towards the end of the tunnel, there are more cellar doors, metal ones this time. As the path exits the tunnel, it's covered by a corrugated iron roof for a short distance. The cliff here is made of quite loose sandstone, so it's to protect people from rock falls. Along the edge of the path, old railway sleepers have been used to prop up the earth and sand of the cliff, to stop it falling onto the path and blocking it. There are two places where there are little notches in the earth wall, where wooden cellar doors are. Both of the doors have fairly modern padlocks on them. Intriguing.
This is looking back across to the harbour wall with the cottages. You can see the headland through which we've just walked.

Looking back at the tunnel entrance. Here's one of the wooden cellar doors I mentioned; they reminded me a bit of hobbit holes, because they're only about 4 foot high. You'd have to bend over quite far to get in. You can also see the metal covering the path.

This is looking back across the bay. You can see the tunnel headland sloping down (it's a good indication of why the tunnel was necessary; they couldn't use the bay otherwise). The path up to the tunnel itself is in the top left of the photo; it's quite well camouflaged.

Standing in the same spot, but looking towards the harbour entrance.

At the foot of the cliff the beach is very rocky, but further round there are no rocks, just soft white sand. Here we are looking up at the the houses. The red one can be seen in photos of Cove in the 1900s; it was used for fish processing. The blue cottage is actually a rental cottage. It's fantastic on the inside; one day I am totally going to rent it and stay there for a week. Imagine having the whole bay to yourself! It would be quite remote, but I rather like that.

A closer look at the blue cottage. That's a very elderly decaying little dinghy in the foreground.

More pictures of the cottages on the harbour wall! This one demonstrates rather well how much of the harbour is actually built out of the natural rock.

This house was right on the beach; we reckoned that their ground floor must be flooded when the weather is bad; in the March 2010 storm at least, if not more often. To the left of the house, you can see they've blocked off a cave for storage. I like the fact that their washing line is just in front of it! This place was quite interesting though; it's evidently shut up, but in the glass window you can see a telescope, so it's definitely used and not empty. I imagined that it's maybe someone's holiday house and they come down here at the weekends. If it was me, I'd be lurking behind the telescope watching the weather.

Just beyond the red house the harbour wall meets the cliff. We scrambled up onto it, then climbed down the other side. The sandstone at this point had interesting purple flakes in it, so I took a picture.

While footering with pictures of purple sandstone, I noticed these strange holes in the rock. We couldn't work out what they were for. Maybe they dated to the time before the harbour had been built, when ships came up the channel alongside the cliffs here.

Beyond the harbour wall the ground underfoot was not so nice. We were walking in the bed of an old channel that looked like it had been carved out of the rock. There were seaweed covered rockpools just waiting for an unwary foot. The pools were accompanied by loose stones - also covered with seaweed. Progress was made by slipping and sliding from one foot to another, arms out on either side. We must have appeared like two drunken scarecrows.

Why were we doing this? Because legend told of a cave in the headland just beyond...
This large lump of rock sits at the end of the headland.

Standing beside the rocky lump (which had a natural arch in it), we could see across to Cathedral Rock. It looks rather more like a squat Norman church from this angle; I wouldn't really call it a Cathedral though.

The arch in the rocky lump:

Looking down the coast towards Eyemouth:

We rounded the end of the headland, and found ourselves face to face with the cave.

It may not look very impressive, but that's because there's no sense of scale. The roof was about twice as tall as me at the entrance. It's a sizeable cave, and it goes very far back into the cliff. It's one of the few that has been left in a natural state; presumably because it's so exposed, remote, and tidal.

Our desire to explore dank, dark, seaweedy places having been satiated, we headed back to dry land. From the top of the cliffs, I took a photo of Cove harbour. You can see the channel on the far right, running along beside the cliffs.

Back at home, it was a fantastic sunset:

Candlelight

2010-10-31T20:31:00.001Z

When I woke this morning, I was still lying in the position I'd gone to sleep in. For someone who spends most of every night physically acting her dreams, technically this should be a good thing. Unfortunately, although I'd not moved, I'd spent the night tensed up; I'd been trying to fit in amongst a group of my peers in the most forsaken college campus I've ever had the displeasure of staying in. (This place exists; it's just outside Blackpool and I stayed there when I studied first year Geography at Durham University.) I'd had to take a group of sulky teenagers through a wood infested by bears and wolves. We crouched on the top of a mossy cliff about a pool through which a river ran. In the pool below us, a white otter was playing. On the opposite bank, a group of wolves came down to the beach to drink. Their pawprints in the sand showed the marks of their claws. On the upside, they were very fuzzy.

I curled up on the couch, acutely aware of every muscle in my body complaining, particularly those around my hips and lower back. The pain became more intense, such that I began not to be able to feel my feet. "Why me?" I thought. "Why does this have to happen to me? What I have done to deserve being tortured like this?" It's Sunday, and I have so mych to do, so many things to create, so much to write and draw. I have an Adventure Story, and the Ultimate Answer to Anne Rice to write.
Instead, I'm curled up and whimpering to myself, sobbing quietly.
"Dammit. Stop being an idiot." I tell myself. I know exactly how to deal with being in this much pain. It's not the end of the world. I potter next door to P and ask for a cuddle. Cuddles make everything better. Also, not feeling sorry for oneself is the answer. Life sucks, and concentrating on how much you hurt is not going to improve matters in the least.

Later, I walk P to work. Fresh air is good, and I'm bloody well not going to let a bad pain day get the best of me. I'm walking back after dropping him off; I have several errands to run, including obtaining the relevant items to ensure that when P writes "hot red-head", he's telling the truth. (At least, about the red-headedness.) I can feel every muscle in my legs; it's a sort of acute all-over ache, as though I've just run a long distance. At the same time, pain is radiating down my legs from my lower back. I feel like the girl in The Red Shoes, when her feet and legs felt as though they were hot pins. Every step hurts, and it seems a very, very long way home.

The way to deal with this is to avoid thinking about it. Instead, I look about me, actually trying to see the world. Today is a beautiful golden Autumn day. The trees in the garden are varying shades from green to a deep blood red. The rowan berries have all been eaten by the birds though. Above, the sky is blue, with long whisps of cloud. Each of those clouds is composed of a flutter of dainty ice crystals, so far up that they're almost above the plane which crosses their path. At the end of the road, the Cathedral towers above the georgian terraces, a sudden flurry of ornate spires, so different from the austerity of the terrace. As I cross, blue sky shows for a moment through the windows in the highest spires.
On this side of the road, the townhouses have been taken over by offices, each with a big polished plaque ostentatiously indicating the firm within. As I walk by, I don't really notice the names of the firms. Instead, I watch the skewed reflections of the houses opposite, as they warp and wiggle when I walk. They look awfully like the opening credits to Doctor Who.

I pass Paper Tiger, and hesitate. There are really lovely notebooks within. I can hear them calling to me. "No." I tell myself. "A girl can have too many notebooks." That girl is undoubtedly me. "Besides," says the evil inner voice. "It's not like you can really write much any more. Your hand and wrist hurts to often." I scowl, and head determinedly towards the shop. I shall have a notebook!
I browse for a while, ogling the various notebooks. I have a terrible weakness for Moleskine notebooks. I fiddle with a pocket size book, perfect for carrying about and scribbling ideas. I put it back though; I already have such a Little Black Book, full of notes and sketches.
I manage to escape with my wallet untouched, having browsed happily. Success; standing still or walking slowly are more painful than actually making progress.

I cross the main road, thinking about walking down here yesterday with my best friend from university. We went to Murrayfield to watch the ice hockey. If you have to watch a bunch of blokes chase something around, then you should pick ice hockey above football. It's extremely fast, often violent (in which other sport are you actually allowed - within the rules of the game - to beat up your opponents?!). I grin. Yesterday one of our mutual friends joined us, with her husband and her three year old. "Han! Look! I got a dog!" He exclaimed when he saw me. (Jehane is too difficult to say at that age.) He waved a very fluffy husky at me. "Awww," I said. "He's so cute! Do you have a name for him?" He looked at me with all the utter disdain that a three year old can muster for an adult that is being silly (an awful lot, by the way). "His name is Dog." "That's a good name." I say. I receive another withering look. He deposits Dog in my lap, and turns to his mother for a peice of hot apple cake. She came prepared for sitting in a cold ice rink!
The game was very exciting. At one point, two players tried to hit the puck at the same time from opposite sides. They hit it with such force that it flew up between their sticks, high enough that it hit one of the spotlights, shattering the bulb and setting it swinging wildly. Our three year old friend waved Dog excitedly and bounced about. This is proper entertainment. It was even better when they brought out the zamboni to clear the ice of glass fragments.
I laugh. Yesterday was fun, and it was good to spend proper time with my friends; I've not seen them for a while.

Children shouting bring me out of my reverie, and I realise I'm more than halfway home. Passing the Usher Hall, there's some sort of kiddy halloween event on; there are hordes of four foot high witches and wizards brandishing staffs bigger than they are. I cause some bother; my authentic wool cloak reminds them of Harry Potter, and there are a chorus of children telling their mothers that they want a cloak like that. A gust of wind conveniently makes my cloak billow dramatically at the right moment, and I grin. It's wonderful when things work like that!

Further up the road, I remember what my physiotherapist said about posture, and I make a point of straigtening my back, and sucking my stomach in to pull my pelvis into the right position. I feel suddenly quite skinny! Three minutes later I pass the shoe shop, and forget all about posture as I fall in love with The Perfect Boots. Sadly, they're £130 and way out of my price range. It doesn't stop me ogling them for a few minutes though.

In this way, I get home without thinking about how sore I am. Success, which is rewarded with Mackies ice cream and a bottle of rose (not to be all consumed this evening).

Living with P is lovely. I have my own room, set out just how I want it. Everyone who's seen it has said that it's very Me. I have bookshelves on two of the walls, and my desk fits perfectly in the corner. Tonight, I've even tied one of my candle lanterns to the velux window, so its suspended in the middle of the room. But, I don't need to describe it. Photos are much more interesting; see for yourselves:

If you click on the photos, they'll take you through to Flickr, where I've annotated them, so you can be nosy and see what's on my bookshelves and around my room.

Very Me, indeed. Now I'm curled up on the couch, under the blankets. I'm fiddling with photos, and writing while sipping wine and avoiding the open packet of marshmallows which are threatening the slimness of my waistline. Pain can be damned: I'm very, very lucky in spite of it.

Photopost: Festival Fireworks

2010-09-13T23:54:00.003+01:00

I had to work from home today because I was sore enough that moving and eating made me feel queasy. At lunchtime I had to go into work to sort out a problem with access (totally accidental). I was using my stick, and bumped into a colleague who asked why I was working at home. "Because I woke up this morning in too much pain to walk anywhere." Ten minutes later, we had a conversation that ended up with me describing how I was off home to lie on my front on the couch because sitting up was getting too painful.
"Oh, I really envy you on your couch." says she.

I just ignored it, but it's now really bugging me that I didn't make reference to how she could enjoy the excrutiating pain too. Or similar put-down. I really hate esprit d'escalier. Dammit!

There is always tomorrow, but it would be too late, and anyway, I'm pretty sure it was thoughtless or badly put - she really meant she'd prefer to be working on the couch at home, rather than suggesting that I wasn't working, or that I wasn't in pain/didn't have a good reason to work from home.

Anyway, on a far more entertaining note, have some fireworks photos. These are all taken from the comfort of my bedroom window, while wearing my jammies. There's an advantage to living in such a noisy place!
Also, the only processing has been the watermark and resizing. All the weird effects are due to long exposures and in some cases, the high winds.

A good example - no photoshoppery, even though it looks like someone scribbled on the sky with a pencil.

I'll stick the rest under a cut; have a look:

The final burst of fireworks:

Another thing that seriously improved my day was having P at home. I was provided with a roast dinner - chilli marinaded rolled pork belly, with the most fantastic crackling I have ever had, and glazed roasted potatoes, sunburst squash and carrots, and fantastic gravy. Not only that, but I have just finished munching a piece of soft, homemade, white bread. The flat has been suffused with the heady feel-good scents of roasting meat and veg, and homemade bread. I think I shall be dreaming about food allll night.
My main contribution to all this was to float about performing paparazzi duties, when not stuffing my face with excellent food. Once I get them off my camera there will no doubt be a blog post.

Photo Post: Adventures on the east coast - smugglers, caves and tunnels!

2010-09-09T21:52:00.000+01:00

My explorations and adventures along the east coast continue. This time, we explored Cove, which is a teeny tiny hamlet of about ten or fifteen houses perched on the cliff edge. This part of the coast consists of very high sandstone and mudstone cliffs which drop sheer down to the rocks and sea below. In places, rivers have cut down through the sandstone, creating a valley which opens up to the sea. Pease Bay is one such place, with a beautiful strip of white sand. Once a small village, it's now overrun with caravans, and is frightfully Butlins-esque, complete with the "Recreation Hall", where they have shows, songs and dances every night, with a disco for the kids and karaoke for the teenagers. I admit, I was a bit intimidated when we stopped there for a bathroom break before heading home.

In contrast to places like Pease Bay (which is still very beautiful and you should still visit it), there are places like Cove. At Cove, there's no river to cut down through the sandstone. Instead, part of the cliff has slumped down, leaving a half-moon bay, bounded on one side by the continuing line of cliffs, while on the other a line of harder sandstone extends into the sea, parallel with the cliffs. The whole bay has been enclosed by walls, creating a very secluded harbour:

Cove is not the sort of place one could possibly find caravans.

We parked in a gravelly area between two houses. We'd brought a picnic, and since it was lunchtime, we decided to munch it next to the car, rather than carting it about. We got out the rolls, sliced cold meat, salad, and boiled eggs, and carefully balanced them on the edge of a yacht trailer nearby. To the weather, this was the equivalent of a red flag to a bull. The puny humans should know better than to picnic in the open air in the summertime! While we were spreading our sandwiches, a large and ominous looking cloud appeared in the previously blue and cloudless sky. The sun grew cold, and the hills underneath the cloud disappeared in a fog of rain.
The weather hadn't bet on there being two sailors in the family, both of whom had (necessarily) developed a fair ability to work out how far away rain was, and how long it would be until it hit. The sandwiches were spread and filled, eggs were shelled, and the picnic stuff was packed into the boot of the car. We then leapt into the car with our plastic plates of sandwiches and eggs, and a poke of salt, just as the first drops hit the windows.
The shower was short and sharp, and ceased as soon as the last morsel had been devoured. As if a switch had been flicked, the sun came out, the clouds disappeared over the horizon, and it was as though the shower had never been. After all, there was no more picnic.

The way down to Cove harbour is via a track down the side of the cliffs, accessed by a set of stairs. This is the view from the top of the cliffs near where the track started. Looking North:

Looking north from further round. You can see the layering in the cliff, and how unstable the sandstone is:

And looking towards Cove harbour. The track can be seen running down the side of the cliff:

From further down the track:

The coast looks unforgiving, there's no evidence to show that you're very near what was once a pretty hospitable harbour, with a good fish trade. Here's a photo of the harbour which fishing boats in the 1920s:

The rocks just off the cliffs continue both north to Dunbar, and South to Berwick, creating a formidable coastline.
On the 14th of October, 1881, tragedy struck right along the East coast. Shortly after the fleets had left to fish, "the sky took on an inky blackness..., and within a few minutes, a hurricane raged". The skippers of the open fishing boats had to choose: run out to sea before the wind, or make for shore through the rapidly growing waves. Most of the men chose to run for shelter - after all, they were not far off shore.

All along the coast, the women, children, and old men gathered at the harbours, watching their men who struggled against waves which threatened to dash their boats on the rocks, and against the wind which tore their sails.

The wind was too fierce, and swell too great; the boats were dashed to pieces on the rocks along the shore, or foundered out at sea. There was nothing those on shore could do, but watch, and wait.

Of the five boats and 21 men who put to sea from Cove that day, only one boat - ten men - returned. All along the coast the story was the same. The only ones to survive were those who had run before the storm. Altogether, 189 men were lost, leaving behind 93 widows and 267 children. Eyemouth, -a town just south of Cove - lost 129 men and one third of the fishing fleet. Even Musselburgh and Newhaven (Edinburgh) lost men; 7 in Musselburgh and 15 in Newhaven.
It was the communities on the Berwickshire coast which were proportionally hardest hit though; in a community of only 3 or 4 families, all of which survived on the fishing trade, the loss of more than half the working men seriously jeapordised those left behind. It was - and still is - the East Coast's worst maritime disaster.

The memorial sculpture was designed by Jill Watson, a resident of Cove, who was commissioned to make scultures for Eyemouth, Cove, and St Abbs, commemorating the disaster.

Sobered, and shivering slightly despite the hot sun, we continued down the cliff to the harbour. As the track takes you round the end of the headland, this is the view that opens up:

A little closer, and the track splits...

At the junction, this is what you see on your right:

Amazingly, we didn't head straight for the tunnel, despite both my brother and I having a familial affinity for caves, tunnels, cellars and the like.

The tunnel runs through a promontory which forms one side of the bay. Beyond the cliff, this is the first view of Cove beach that you get:

People used to live in the cottages, but now they're half derelict, though there are signs that they're being renovated. They are - or were - used for fishing things:

Most of the fishing from Cove nowadays is for lobster and crab:

Looking out to sea:

I had a brief melancholy moment, thinking how calm and blue the sea was, in comparison to the day of the storm.

There are two working boats in Cove today:

Look at the cliffs stretching out down the coast!

This is the other side of the harbour, complete with ~~an engine in a tin box~~ a motorboat.
That large grey outcrop (not the one with a hole in it) behind the harbour wall is known as Cathedral Rock, because of the shape.

Standing outside the cottages, looking back the way we'd come. This is the headland the tunnel runs through; it's the only way to get to the beach at high tide, or without scrambling about on rocks. You can see why they carved it out:

Much of the northern (main) wall of the harbour is formed by a natural rock outcrop, built up, or with stairs cut into it:

The cottages themselves are very photogenic:

Look at the weathering on the door! It would be amazing to be snuggled away inside here during a winter storm.

I liked the look of this vessel:

She was moored near the steps cut into the harbour wall, above, so I scrambled down and took some pictures.

This is what's on the other side of the steps. It really shows how much of the harbour isn't man-made:

Looking at the harbour mouth from the steps:

On the way back up (they're pretty steep!). I think this is one of my favourites:

There were originally four cottages on the harbour wall, though only two are now standing; this is all that remains of the upper cottage:

These cellar doors used to open into the cellar of the last cottage. They weren't locked, so my father and I peered in (like I said, family fascination with caves, tunnels, cellars...). It was supported by scaffolding, was really wet, and was full of all sorts of fishing and boating paraphernalia, from chunks of fiberglass from damaged boats, to nets dating from the turn of the century. It didn't look particularly safe, and we were aware that we were peering into someone else's property, so we left...

Next to the cottage there are these steps cut into the outer wall:

I scrambled up and had a look out to sea, of course.

The harbour wall on this side has always been the "working" side of the harbour. Nowadays most of the boats are moored by ropes, but there are still chains which go over the edge and down to trot lines below the sand:

They're very photogenic:

We then headed right the way out to the very end of the harbour wall. This is looking back at the cottages, with some very pleasingly dramatic clouds:

Behind the working fishing boats, there was quite a pungent smell. They deal with the catch once they're moored, throwing all the waste over the side, so through the water we could see bits of crab and fish heads. It was still very photogenic:

At the end, the harbour wall is about 12 foot high, a testament to the sort of storms they get here. On the inside, it's composed of about 7 or 8 big steps, which are good for sitting on. I climbed up to the top and looked over. This is the channel into the harbour:

The rocks right next to the channel; you'd have to steer very carefully coming in, there's not much room for error:

Looking across at the houses in the bay, and the other half of the harbour wall:

Looking across the harbour at the tunnel headland. You can see the end of the tunnel, protected from rock falls by a tin roof. The headland's riddled with caves too - we didn't get the chance to explore that one that is tantalisingly almost - but not quite - blocked up:

We saw these cut into the cliffs beyond the other half of the harbour wall:

It took a long time for a proper harbour to be built at Cove, due to the terrain. In the meantime, boats did still fish here, and dock here. We think probably the steps and foot holds were cut into the rock so that at high tide the catch could be brought back to the beach. The steps stop at the tide mark, and there's a channel between the rocks up which the boats could have been brought.

We headed back round to explore the tunnel and the rest of the bay. On the way back, I noticed these oilskins hanging on a hook:

I really liked this touch, it was so human! The fishermen weren't around, which made it even nicer. I like the idea that once the catch has been landed, they hop off the boats, hang their fishy oilskins up, and then head home.

This entry has got quite long enough, so I'll stop there.

If you're interested in the 1881 disaster, here are some links for more pictures and further reading:
Wikipedia entry
World of Boats writeup. This gives a good idea of the scale of the disaster.
Resources for Learning - some photos here.
More about the effect on the coast
A good article with lots of information
A news article
A picture and a short account
BBC News article about a ceremony to mark the loss of life. I think this demonstrates how deeply Eyemouth and the Berwickshire coastal communities were affected; 100 years later the loss is still very real to people.

Photopost: Food and Sunsets

2010-09-09T21:43:00.002+01:00

The other night P and I made the First Pasta to be created since flatsharing started to happen. This is significant because it was brought into being after P got home from work at 10.30pm; under non-flat-sharing circumstances, this wouldn't ever have happened, partly due to not wanting to disturb my flatmate, and partly because I have to get up at 7.30am, and so like to be heading for bed by 11pm.

However! The joys of flatsharing are that all flat inhabitants are awake and involved in the cooking, and so can't be disturbed. Even better, instead of having to send pajh home so I can go to bed, I can be floating about in my pyjamas (and getting in the way). This time, however, I was allowed to help! This is mostly because P was Cruelly Savaged by a Very Sharp Knife. There's something endearing about a grown man sucking his thumb (to prevent bleeding) and directing chopping operations by gesticulating.

The resulting pasta - created by combined effort - is a thing of exceeding yummyness. In order to mark the occasion, this evening I made my plate of pasta pose for me (for a total of one minute before I fell upon it, ravenous). So, have some arty-pasta shots:

Tomato-y goodness:

Cheese meltinnggg:

Tomato sauce AND melting cheese:

Hungry yet? Just one more:

On a completely unrelated note, there was a nice sunset this evening, and since I was pootling about with my camera anyway, I photographed it:

A little later:

And a bonus shot; a red sunset taken much earlier this year:

Have some pretty (photopost)

2010-09-07T01:45:00.002+01:00

There was a lovely double rainbow the other day. 'Twas pretty, indeed.

All-in-one shot. Bother that new building...

A close up. Isn't it amazing when you look at it closely?

All is well in the world of the Jehane. I have a more interesting post to do, involving tunnels, caves, abandoned cottages, and a seafaring tragedy. However, it must wait until I have time to fiddle with Many Photos...

Tech Support: the Admin version.

2010-08-21T00:09:00.000+01:00

Today I was sitting happily subjugating spreadsheets when one of our researchers came in, to provide me with an interesting example of a dichotomy in technical knowledge.
"Hello! I have a difficult IT question for you. The external mouse for my laptop isn't working, and I was hoping you could come along and fix it."

So, I trotted along to her room, to find that what she was waving around was... not remotely a mouse. It was, instead, a receiver for a wireless mouse which she'd dug up from the depths of the stationery cupboard. (Where I'd hidden it for exactly this reason. There's no mouse to accompany it.) Now, it was round, but it had one teeny little button, and a huge dip in the middle, and wasn't hand-sized at all. In short, it didn't really look like a mouse.

I didn't have the fortitude to explain, so I ran off with it, and returned with a shiny new mouse.

What makes this interesting to me, is that this same researcher is completely fluent in statistics programmes and GPS and mapping programmes, all of which are so complex that they make my toes curl* just looking at them.

People are so interesting!

*not in a good way.

Picture post: More from East Lothian in May

2010-08-11T23:41:00.001+01:00

While I was in North Berwick, some people I am in chaoots with came down for a visit and a picnic. We stopped off at the butcher for Serious Sausage Rolls (they're HUGE and taste good and are very filling. Just what's needed when going exploring), and then went to explore Dirleton Castle, stopping off at the very pleasingly round doocot first:

We then walked round to the castle entrance, which is still very imposing:

The castle was attacked by cannon; the damage wasn't ever repaired:

The entrance reminded us all of the castle in Knightmare:

We had a good poke about round the castle. This is the passage to my favourite room:

(The doors are as small as they look - people were shorter then.)

This is the room itself:

It's haxagonal, with a giant medieval fireplace on one side. All the other sides have these deeply recessed windows with seats. I can imagine one of the Lady Ruthvens (the Ruthvens built this section) sitting at the window with her needlework. The room itself has rather a good view inland.

The rest of the casle is in various states of ruin. And for some reason I kept taking pictures of staircases:

Or ex-staircases, in the case of this spiral stair:

The same stair, looking down:

We left this section of the castle and went into the courtyard. This is looking back across the courtyard:

Then! We went...to the Cellars. Which are very impressive:

They had a section for storing foodstuffs and drinkstuffs, they had a section for storing non-food things, and they also had a bakehouse and a brewhouse in here.

A possible entrance to the cellars. The window through which you can see the electric light was the priest's room. I'm not sure why the priest could look over the cellars. (The poor man was all the way across the castle from the family's living quarters. He was right out on his own behind the Great Hall. With a view of the cellars.)

The priest's room itself was rather nice though. It had an alcove for Religious Paraphernalia, the aforementioned cellar view, and two windows with a view across to the sea.

Our stomachs then got the better of us, so we went in search of a picnic table. Instead of a picnic table, we found some very shot-at targets, and a replica cannon, which was rather nice. We did find a picnic table as well as some squirrels and a security person who was slinking about in a suspicious manner.
After scoffing the sausage rolls, we took a gentle perambulation back through the gardens. Dirleton has the longest herbacious border in Britain, apparently. It had some very pretty flowers:

The irises were stunning:

They were also furry:

Instead of getting the bus back to North Berwick, we walked back along the beach (the better to create an appetite).

This is the view of Fidra as you come out on Yellowcraigs beach. Robert Louis Stevenson lived in North Berwick for a while, and Fidra was his inspiration for the island in Treasure Island:

If you click through and then click on the picture to see it full size, you'll be able to see the rock arch which is known as the Grey Lady.

Here's what she looks like close up:

The lighthouse:

The beach is very nice:

The walk back to North Berwick is a deceptively long one. We rounded the corner, and looked back to Fidra. The waves from the North Sea were good.

Looking out to sea. In this direction, we're looking right down the Forth, out beyond the estuary to the North Sea, and Norway.

We're going in this direction. It doesn't look too far...but it's deceptive. There are two more beaches the length of this one before we reach our destination.

The islands off North Berwick are all in a nice neat line. They look so different from this angle!

We walked. And walked. And walked. We rounded a small rocky outcrop, and walked along another sandy beach, much like the first, but without the huge dunes. This is looking back the way we've come:

We're so much farther round that Fidra is beginning to take on its usual shape:

We came to another rocky outcrop. Hard to believe this is part of the same long sandy beach as in previous photos:

At this rocky outcrop, we met a family of Eider ducks, with ducklings. Eeeee!

The ducklings braved the waves very well, popping up through the surf like corks. (Rather indignant corks with roman noses, that is.)

Looking back the way we came. The rocks in the earlier photo can be seen in the middle ground.

The sun came out again, and the waves broke more gently on the beach, creating a reflection of the clouds in the calm water.

I love the way this photo turned out:

This is at Point Garry, where there is a cave. Once round this headland, we're on West Bay, and nearly at our destination: The Chip Shop. Nothing better than fresh fish and chips after a sizeable saunter along the shore.

Round the point, and heading for home. Half the town was in sunlight.

Looking at my back garden:

At this point, we headed straight for the chip shop, acquired the requisite foods, and sat at the harbour to snarf them down. We were somewhat pestered by seagulls, but some stern words (and stomping) dealth with them.

Later on, at the house, the sunset shaped up to be spectacular:

So we beetled back down to the beach, cameras in hand. At the top of the steps down to the beach (the lane ends in a platform that's about ten feet above the beach itself), there's a triangular platform formed by the space between the boundary wall of the lane, and the house next door. You have to climb a small wall to get onto it, but it makes an excellent sheltered place to sit and survey the beach. In childhood, it made an excellent and easily defended fort.
I got cosy with my back against the wall, and settled down to watch the sunset. It was spectactular.

The sun seemed to pause for a moment above the hills in Fife.

The colours on the beach changed as it slipped below the horizon:

Once the sun had gone down, a little girl appeared from one of the houses that the tourists rent for the summer. She ran down the beach, jumping and playing, evidently enjoying the last of the twilight and the space and freedom of the beach before it was bedtime. She ran down to the rocks and peered into the rockpools, splashing about. All of a sudden, it was time to go. A parent was calling her back up the beach. She skipped back up the beach, jumping high in the air each time.

Then, it was just us, sitting in our little nook, watching the empty beach. Fingers of cloud appeared over in the west, and began to snake towards us. They were high enough to reflect the gold light of the sun below the horizon. Fidra lighthouse turned, the light sweeping across the twilit empty beach, as it would all night. Time to go home.

We had a few more dramatic sunsets. Here's a red and pink stormy looking one:

Red at night, sailors' delight.

North Berwick has a varied selection of sunsets. No two are the same, and the colours are always wonderful. Here's a sample of some classic sunsets:

(Convenient seagull, there.)

Once the sun goes down, everything eventually turns blue. But sometimes the red and orange can be seen lingering over Fife, even when it's getting really dark:

This is the best sort of morning to wake up to:

On a day that promises to be hot and sunny, you can eat breakfast and watch the fishermen at work in the bay, before you put on your swimsuit and head for the beach, to go swimming in the nice cool water...

In which my father has a sense of humour.

2010-08-05T20:00:00.003+01:00

There's a major dinghy sailing competition in North Berwick* this week, with sailors from all over the UK. Most of them are adults, and many of them usually sail on lakes.

One bloke (an adult) wandered up to my dad, who is performing cat-herding duties on the beach. He looked across the beach - where the tide was half way out, and said, "Is this place tidal?"

My father replied, "Oh, only twice a day."

This bloke had driven himself and his boat up from England. Apparently he managed to do so without looking at a map.

*North Berwick is a seaside town, which - if you look at a map - is very obviously next to the North Sea.

Picture post: North Berwick at the end of May.

2010-07-02T16:49:00.002+01:00

At the end of May, I went down to North Berwick a few times, taking lots of pictures of course. All of the pictures below link back to my flickr album, where you'll find more pics that I haven't posted here.

The apple trees had bloomed with lovely delicate pink flowers since I was there last (nice weather has been a long time coming this year). We've got two apple trees: one that produces enormous cooking apples, and once that produces lovely crunchy cox's pippin type apples. The sort that make wonderful apple pie.

We went for a walk down to the harbour, where I had a pang of jealousy:

My boat is in storage at the moment, and I have to get club membership before I can borrow their boats. Hopefully I'll get dinghy sailing soon: there's nothing so exhilarating as the feeling when you catch the wind and take off, flying over the waves.

We wandered back along the beach, where we met a rather friendly collie and his owner, who was someone my father knew in the sailing club. The collie sized us all up, then deposited his stick at my feet. After having me throw it along the beach numerous times, he decided he wanted a swim. I tried to resist his attempts to take me paddling with him:

But ultimately, who can resist an enthusiastic (if somewhat damp) collie bouncing about and grinning at you? Certainly not I. He was successful:

More pictures under the cut:

I had lots of practice throwing.

And got fairly wet myself. it was a warm day though, and the water was lovely and refreshing on my feet:

Sometimes I wasn't quick enough picking up the stick.

If I got tired, he certainly didn't! We were doing this for almost an hour:

It began to get dark, and the yachts which had been out sailing came in to the harbour, silhouetted against the sun.

The following weekend, there was an amazing sunset. The clouds moving overhead were impressive:

The sun was pretty behind the boats moored in the bay:

But it was as the sun got lower that it really became breathtakingly beautiful:

I took plenty of pictures.

It didn't lose any beauty as it got darker:

The following day we went for a walk. On the way I spotted this rather nice pleasure yacht pootling up the Forth:

That thing could go anywhere round the world. Want!

We had a picnic on one of my favourite beaches:

There's a nice view of Bass Rock, and out to sea. Norway's out in that direction.

I like this beach because usually there's no-one around.

Connections: Things I did today.

2010-06-24T23:30:00.000+01:00

My job involves administrating a research department with an interest in health. We have a working relationship with the Scottish health system.

Today I got information from the CIA, which I then passed on to a part of the Scottish health service.

It's the connection between the two, facilitated by the internet, which fascinates me, because they are such disparate entities. Somewhere in America, there's a little person who did the inputting of the data, which was then uploaded to the internet, which was then found by someone in Scotland, which was then downloaded, which I then passed on to a member of the health service to use[0].

Amazing. When you look at it like that, the world is a small place. But if I wanted to say thanks to the little person in America, the world suddenly expands again - being too low on the totem pole, their name won't be recorded anywhere. They'll never know how much their data improved my day.

[0] I know, it's an atrocious sentence. My inner English Teacher is cringing.

Darkness in Edinburgh.

2008-11-23T17:59:00.001Z

I've just finished transcribing 100+ Presargonic inscriptions into my Excel Spreadsheet O' Doom, so have rewarded myself by playing with some photos. Here are the results - partly inspired by 's complaint about stolen snow. (Thank you, my dear!)

It snowed last night, at about 3am.

From Edinburgh at night.

It was lying on the roof outside my window:

From Edinburgh at night.

It got up to about 1.5cm by the time I went to bed, so everything began to look magical, the way ordinary objects begin to when they are covered in a dusting of snow. Sadly, it had melted by this morning.

~~~

The moon has been interesting recently:

From Edinburgh at night.

During the festival, it was rising over the Royal Mile:

From Edinburgh at night.

~~~

And finally, the Castle looks brooding and ominous in the mist:

From Edinburgh at night.

I hope you liked them.

Leith Photographs.

2008-09-11T18:05:00.003+01:00

Since it's heading for Autumn now (although I'm still holding out hope for an indian summer), I thought I'd post some pictures from what little summer we had.

Back in August, P and I went for a little meander along The Shore in Leith.

Click on any of these to see them full size.

From Leith

Shortly after we arrived, we spotted some tell-tale masts. Cue my declaring that "We must see it!", followed by a mad dash across a road, cloaks[0] streaming behind us. When we got nearer, P noted that it was the Jean de la Lune, as featured in Nick Thorpe's Adrift in Caledonia.

From Leith

Even more coincidentally, the previous evening we had been randomly looking at a Yacht-Sale website, whereupon I came across the Jean de la Lune, which was for sale. At the time, I didn't notice that it was moored in Leith.
Now, we just need five hundred thousand pounds, and we can have a tall ship of our own. (I need a Sugar Daddy, dammit.)

From Leith

At the end of one of the docks, the old Victorian building has been converted into offices for the Harbour Master's department. You can see some of the old paraphernalia in the foreground; this particular dock was possibly able to be closed off, and turned into a dry-dock. That was maybe part of the machinery for pumping the water out, or letting it back in.

From Leith

Some parts of the dock (see above) have been renovated, painted, and are in a nice state of repair. This is a little farther up the same basin, and is a good example of Leith nowadays. Some bits are polished and shiny, while other bits are decaying and falling to bits. Usually these conflicting states are found next to each other.

From Leith

This basin isn't used very much any more, but it gives you an idea of the size of Leith Docks: This is huge. That teeny dark line far away on the horizon is the far end of the basin. Various docks and quays go off on either side of this basin. Can you imagine what it would have been like when the whole place was full of ships? (Not too different to what it was like when we had the Tall Ships Race here in the 1990s, actually.)

From Leith

We headed back towards The Shore. This is the far end of the Water of Leith, which is now mostly blocked off from the sea and the docks, so it's very still. You can see some of the original harbour buildings and the lighthouse tower next to this new block of flats.

From Leith

More pretty reflections, this time of the trees on the opposite bank. I wasn't standing on the water to take this, the previous shot, and the following shots; we were on an old swing bridge.

From Leith

Looking back up the Water of Leith, along The Shore. All those barges there are now moored permanently, and have been turned into either offices, or restaurants. The big wooden thing nearest us is the offices of a nifty PR company. Peering through the windows showed you very modern desks with enormous Apple monitors and nifty little Macs everywhere. Just like in a modern office, except, it was on a barge with a sun terrace. Nice if you can get it.

From Leith

Reflections! I loved what the clouds in the sky were doing here, it looked like they're trying to escape the photo.

From Leith

The old grey steamer in the background has been in Leith for years. It was derelict for a long time when I was little, then it was turned into a restaurant. A friend worked as cook there for a while, until the restaurant closed. Apparently it closed because the hull of the ship had rusted through and the whole thing was sitting on the bottom of the river. The lower decks and engine compartments were completely flooded. Since then, apparently she's been patched up (though she's still sitting on the river bed) and is now quite a swanky eatery/bar type establishment.

From Leith

I think this area is very pretty, it could be a nice place to live. Very green and open and watery, bits of it. There was a lovely reflection here, except that a slight breeze conspired with some ducks to ripple the water. I like the gradation of blue in the sky, from left to right.

From Leith

Picture-postcard perfect.

From Leith

Water of Leith, docks, and a guest appearance by some ducks, seagulls, and a swallow. This is taken from the round amphitheatre shape into which the swing bridge used to swing.

That's it, for now, until I get the next batch edited. Hope you like them.

[0] Yes, it was hot and sunny. But a cloak can be worn over a vest top or t-shirt, and there's no other item of clothing that lets you get a nice cold breeze down your back, if you're wearing a skimpy top.

Another ramble along the water of Leith.

2008-08-11T17:54:00.003+01:00

These photos were taken recently, after we had some ridiculous quantities of rain (3 weeks worth in a day). Since they were taken in August, technically they're out of seasonal order (I do have pictures from Spring to post), but I'm posting them next because they show the river flooding properly. Ish. (I've seen it higher, but not much.)

Teaser:

Click on the photos twice to see them full size.

Looking downriver again. The arches which are visible in the first photo of the previous post are just out of sight, but they were almost completely covered.

Taken on the other side of the bridge, looking upstream.

The footbridge. In the previous post, I told you to look at the trees beyond the bridge; here is why. One of them was undermined and has toppled over.
The path is significantly flooded now; no way of walking underneath the bridge at all, the flow is too fast.

The tree is rather large...

Looking downriver. The quayside visible here:is round the corner, under about 2 foot of water.

The tree is very happy; the pedestrians are less so.

As you can see, it's just toppled over. The terrible thing is, the council notice posted at the end of the bridge talks about chopping the tree up. That would be a shame; surely it might be possible to haul it upright again.

Tree from above. This is taken the next day, which is why the water is lower.

Anything standing upright in the river collects detritus.

There are plenty of rapids making the water break in waves that appear to be going upstream against the current.

Lots of water coming round the far side of Telford Bridge.

A close-up.

This does not look like a summertime river.

It's beyond the banks further down.

More shots of it having broken the banks.

Arty shot. There will be a few of them.

The water is moving very fast.

I like the way a long exposure shows the shapes on the surface of the water.

More lumpy water. The white streaks almost make it look hand-drawn.

Another arty shot.

At this exposure you can see how the water was really billowing.

It was very noisy.

When not covered with bits of deceased bridges, this is usually a lovely bronze sculpture of a swan taking off upriver. It sits on a shelf of rock that you can wander out to and even sit on.

These steps take you down to where the swan is. The river has swallowed the bottom of them.

More lumpy water.

A slightly different angle. I couldn't decide which of the two I liked best.

More water textures. It was going so fast that when it hit an obstacle it folded back on itself.

Again, I couldn't decide which I preferred.

These rocks are usually quite high on the bank.

Next: The river in Springtime - in which it actually looks more summery than it does here.

Water of Leith Photos - Winter Time.

2008-08-11T14:56:00.002+01:00

As I never seem to have much to say here, but I do have oodles of photos, I've decided to share some. Once my brain ceases to be stolen by Writing in Mesopotamia from 4000-2000 BC, I'll maybe have the ability to actually write something!

Teaser:

As ever, click on any of the photos to see them full-size.

Taken from Dean Village, looking in a north-easterly direction, down-river. There's a weir at the end, there, which is why the water just seems to stop. The building on the left is an old mill, now converted into flats.

Looking upriver from the same spot. The tudor-style buildings (to my mind) match the name of the path they stand on: Hawthornbank Lane.

We walked upriver. This is by the pedestrian footbridge over to the end of Hawthornbank Lane. The path goes under the bridge; as you can see, the water is rather high. No problem for us though; we were wearing walking boots. For the next post, take note of the position of those trees beyond the bridge.

Looking in the other direction. The cobbled quayside just peters out, there's no path all the way along. I suspect it was used for transporting goods when the valley was full of mills.

Having navigated the bridge, you come to another weir. Sometimes in the spring there is a heron who fishes here.

I was intrigued by the way the water folded back on itself at the edges of the weir.

The water was pretty, but very loud.

Belford Bridge, and the end of the "nice" bit of the path; up to this point, the path winds along the side of the river through a pleasantly-wooded dell. After this, it all gets rather industrial and significantly less scenic. There's also a dastardly Travelodge the other side of the bridge.

We head back downstream again. This is taken downstream from the first photo in the set, under Telford Bridge.

This came out horribly blurry, so has been photoshopped. It's important for the next post, so I've kept it in; look at how high the water is.

Adventure Time - Briefly. (Dunkeld)

2008-07-18T18:02:00.002+01:00

P and I went Adventuring on Sunday, to Dunkeld and Birnam. There was no declaiming from the hills, sadly, although we weren't really up high enough. But the views were spectacular, the weather was lovely, there was excellent fish and chips, and there was wildlife.
My animal count for the day included wild rabbits, black wild rabbits, seals, cormorants, ducks, deer (2 of), a very self-assured cat, wading birds, black faced gulls, and ducks. Paul will shortly write about the ducks. They were... very forward.
There will be a proper entry shortly with pictures, but in the meantime, here's a teaser:

I met a cat. It was probably a stray, but very friendly. I knelt down to pet it, and it walked round behind me, and... well, you can see for yourself:

It would seem that a black wool cloak makes an excellent blanket; he/she is pretty blissed out in that second photo.

It must also be noted that P's ability to use my camera at short notice is most impressive (it's a DSLR).

Ghost Story II

2007-12-28T00:08:00.000Z

Part Two

... Anne stared at the rock for a long time, as the beam from the lighthouse swept repeatedly over the bay, and the waves made gentle swooshing noises against the beach. Although the moonlight cast the side of the rock into shadow, no figure seemed to appear. The rock sat there innocently, in the manner of rocks everywhere. It had been a dream. Anne sighed, and rubbed her eyes.

"You’re looking for her, aren’t you?" A girl’s voice said softly next to her. Anne’s eyes flew open. Sitting next to her on the window seat was a girl, about Anne’s age, dressed in ragged blue cut-off jeans, a scruffy red t-shirt, and bare feet. The face looked like the face from Anne’s dream, but it was a little older, a little rounder, and the hair was dry and fluffy, not hanging wet and lank.
"You dreamed about her, didn’t you?" Repeated the girl. "Someone who looked like me?" she prompted.
Anne nodded.
The girl sighed, and looked sadly down to the beach.
"How do you know about her?" Anne asked, "And who are you? For that matter, what are you? What’s happening, why am I seeing ghosts, if that’s what you are?"

The girl settled back against the cushions, tucking her legs up under her. "We are ghosts, if that’s what you want to call us. I’m Ruth, and the girl in your dream, that’s my sister Mary. We used to live here, with our parents. The bedroom you’re sleeping in is my old room." She smiled, "You’ll like it when the sun comes in during the day. It smells good, and you can hear the waves, and the day seems full of promise..."

The smile faded, and she looked sad again. "Mary and I loved sailing. Our father had taught us. We had a little dinghy called Havoc, that we sailed together, although we could both sail it on our own. One summer holiday, I caught chickenpox, and was stuck inside. It was a beautiful sunny day, and Mary wanted to take Havoc out. My father said she’d better not, it was due to get windy later on, but Mary said she’d be back long before the storm came in.
"She would have been back on the beach, but the kicking strap broke, so she moored out in the bay while she tried to fix it. It got windier and windier, Havoc was bouncing about on the mooring. She gave up trying to fix it, and instead cast off, meaning to sail back to the beach. My parents were down on the beach by this time, I was watching from the window here. We’d sailed in windy weather before, as long as Mary was careful, she’d be fine. But she was halfway back to the beach when a strong gust came in round the harbour wall, and flipped Havoc over. Mary didn’t have a chance to react, she was thrown into the water. We think she must have hit her head, or maybe been trapped under the sail… but she didn’t come back up."

A tear rolled down Ruth’s cheek, as she looked at the beach and saw the scene played out again. Anne too could see it in her mind, as she looked at the water, so calm and innocent now.

"We waited for so long. Too long. Havoc tossed on her side in the waves, but there was no sign of Mary. They got the lifeboat out, but it was too late.
"They found the body next day, and brought her in. She looked so peaceful… You’d never know she’d been battered about by the storm.

"My father never forgave himself. He felt he should have forbidden her to go sailing that day. This house, which had been full of laughter and sunlight, cozy winter evenings round the fire, high adventure and fun… it was all gone with Mary. I’d never been so alone.
"And then they wanted to leave. My parents couldn’t stand to look out every day, to where it happened. They’d see it playing before their eyes… But I didn’t want to leave. I loved this house, this town, this place. The sky, the sea… And Mary was still here. She’d come to me about two weeks after she drowned, her hair was still wet, and she was wearing the clothes she’d gone sailing in that hot day. She said she was lonely, and she asked me to convince them not to leave. Even though they couldn’t see her, she could see them. She said sometimes she’d come in and kiss my mother on the forehead, and hold my father’s hand. He had big, worn hands, that always made us feel safe. She said she felt safe when she held his hand, and not alone. I promised her that we’d stay, that I’d stay. I promised I’d never leave her...

"But I couldn’t tell my parents why we shouldn’t go. And they couldn’t live with the hurt. So one day, one awful day, we left. I promised Mary that I’d come back for her. I promised myself, too. I loved this place. It was home."

"I did eventually come back, but it was too late. Too long. My parents have moved on, they’re happy now, I think. There was a car crash, you see, seven years after we left. It was fatal. They went on, but I came back. I had to see this place again, I had to see Mary. We could be together again, play on the beach, wander the streets, swim in the pool, laugh at the day-trippers. An eternal childhood.

"But Mary had changed. She never forgave me for letting them leave. She said she had found other ways of preventing herself from feeling lonely in the seven long years that we were away.

"So I sit up here, and look out over the bay, and think of the nights that she and I used to sit here and talk. We’d imagine walking out along the moon’s silver path to a land of enchantment and adventure. We’d plan our holidays here, camping on the island, sailing, exploring. I try and stop Mary taking more people away with her, when I can. That’s why I sent you that dream. One day, I hope she’ll change back to the Mary I knew.

"They say, in the town, that if you stay here at night, you can see a little girl sitting on that rock on the beach. And they say, that if you walk along the beach at night, and look up at this window, you’ll see a little girl looking out to sea. Even if the house is empty.”

Ruth turned to look at Anne.

"And they’re right," said Anne softly. "And that’s why my father was able to get this house for so little. No-one wants to stay here."

Ruth nodded.

"What can I do?" said Anne suddenly. "Isn’t there something we can do? Something to help Mary, so you and she can be friends again, so you can both walk out along the Moon’s path together, and find your land of adventure?"

"I can go any time," said Ruth, "But I won’t go without Mary. And she won’t talk to me."

Both girls stared down at the beach. As they did so, a cloud passed over the moon. When it had gone, they saw Mary, the girl from Anne’s dream sitting on the rock, her arms around her knees, her pale face, expressionless, looking up at them.

Anne woke late the next morning. The sun was streaming in through the open curtains, and as Ruth had promised, the room smelt good, a combination of sunlight, warmth, the smell of the sea, and… breakfast.

Over breakfast, plans for the day were discussed. As her family debated the merits of the open-air pool versus the beach, Anne tucked into toast, and tried to put the events of the night from her mind, at least for now. When questioned, she put her vote in for a day spent at the pool. She wasn’t too keen on spending more time near that rock, even though – a cursory glance through the window showed – it was sitting there rather innocently.

A day spent at the pool soon put the night’s story from Anne’s mind. She and Philip went on the slides, tried out the blow-up obstacle course (and succeeded in completing it on about their twentieth try; there was a certain trick to getting round the palm trees without falling off), and when they had commandeered a float each, they played pirates. By the end of the day they were tired, happy, and had even turned slightly brown from all the sun. They met their Aunt Jane on the way back from the pool. She was invited back to the house for tea, and the all walked back along the road together, Philip (his computer games forgotten), talking excitedly about plans for tomorrow.

"Oh," said Aunt Jane, as Anne’s father unlocked the front door, "You’re staying in the Haunted House." She smiled.
"Haunted house?" Anne’s father laughed, "Well, that would explain why it was so cheap to rent it. You must tell us the story over tea. I’m sure the children would love to hear it."

After tea, they settled in the sitting room overlooking the bay, and Aunt Jane started her story.

"The family that used to live here had two little girls, only a year apart in age. The father taught at the school, and the mother kept a sweetshop in the town. The girls seem to have been very popular here, they were active at the sailing club, and had their own little boat, they could often be seen sailing in the bay there. One day, the father punished a rather rowdy boy from a difficult family; he made the boy stay in school and miss a sailing race that was on that evening. It seems that in revenge, the boy came and vandalised the family’s dinghy. He boasted about it to his friends, and various people at school. Until, two days later, the youngest girl of the family drowned. It seems she’d taken the boat out, a storm had come up, and the damage caused by the boy made the boat unsafe. When it capsized, the little girl, Mary, was hit on the head and drowned."

"How awful!" Philip exclaimed. "Did they catch the boy?"

"No," Aunt Jane said. "Although it was common knowledge that he had damaged the boat, causing the accident, his father lied to protect him. There was not enough proof, so the police could do nothing. Mary’s father had to go to school, and teach the class, and see that boy grinning at him, every day. Of course, he couldn’t stand it.
"At the time of the accident, their older daughter, Ruth, had chickenpox. She was infectious, so hadn’t been to the school, and didn’t know about the boy who had vandalised the boat. In order to protect her, and so that the father shouldn’t go mad from grief and anger, the family moved away. It was terribly sad; they were all killed in a car crash seven years later. They say that the older girl, Ruth, never got over the loss of her sister."

"My goodness, Anne, are you alright?" Anne’s mother looked at her in concern. "You’ve gone very white."
"Oh, I’m fine Mummy, I think I’m just very tired."

Anne sat on the windowseat, her mind going over what her aunt had said, joining the details with those of Ruth’s story. She’d said she would go to bed, but her mind was too busy for her to sleep. If Ruth didn’t know about the other reasons her parents had left, then she couldn’t have told Mary. Perhaps if Mary knew, she would understand that all the blame for her loneliness couldn’t lie with her sister, or with her parents.

Once the house was quiet, Anne put on her shoes and a jacket, and crept down the stairs. She left the latch off on the front door, and closed it quietly behind her. Once over the wall and on the beach, she headed for the rock. Close to, it was about half her height, and she could see the foot and handholds that would let one clamber up and sit on top. She did so, the rock under her fingers still feeling warm from the sun although it was nearly midnight. She sat with her legs drawn up under her, the way she had seen Mary sitting.

The beach was quiet. Anne could hear a lone seagull somewhere out at sea, and the gentle rhythmic whispering of the waves. It was another clear night, and from where she was sitting, there was a moonlit path going across the wet sand, and out over the waves, out to sea, beyond the point of the bay. She turned, and looked up to her bedroom window. A pale face, filled with longing, looked down at her. She looked away, turning to look back at the moon.

Mary stood between the rock and the sea, in the middle of the moon’s reflection. Dressed as she had been in Anne’s dream, she looked small and forlorn. She held out her hand to Anne.

Slipping down off the rock, Anne took Mary’s hand, and followed her. The moonlight on the waves seemed to create a glittering, magical path. Mary said nothing, her eyes dark in her face, her wet hair hanging down her back. When they reached the entrance to the bay, Anne stopped. "Mary."
"What?" Despite being a menacing ghost, she sounded like a petulant small girl.
"I have something to tell you."
Mary turned to face Anne, stepping between her and the moon, so all that Anne could see was the dark eyes in a pale face, expressionless.
"Well?"

"Ruth told me about what happened..." Anne began. She hurried on as she saw Mary’s features begin to twist in hatred at the mention of her sister’s name. "But Ruth was ill with chickenpox at the time. Your parents didn’t tell her everything."

For a long time, the two girls stood in the moonlight. Anne talked, telling Mary the whole story, everything her Aunt Jane had told her. As Mary listened, the hate drained out of her features. As Anne talked about Mary visiting her parents, a tear rolled down Mary’s cheek. "Mummy..." she whispered. "Daddy..."

"You can see them again." Anne said gently. "Don’t stay here. Go with Ruth. Go to the enchanted land of adventure, at the end of moon’s path, out at sea. Your parents will be waiting for you. They’ve waited a long, long time. Why don’t you go to them, tell them you love them? Your mother has waited a long time to hold you again."

Two tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks. She looked at Anne, then at last, turned and led the way back to the beach. When they reached the rock, Ruth was waiting for them, sitting on top of it. She slid down to join them, landing softly on the sand.

Mary said nothing, but held her arms out. Ruth went to her, and put her arms round her. The sisters said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. Then, holding hands, with Ruth leading the way, they walked down the beach and out to sea, along the glittering silver path. Ruth looked back, just once. Anne waved.

As they approached the mouth of the bay, Anne thought she saw two figures, a man and a woman, standing on the path, holding out their arms to the children. Ruth and Mary seemed to see them too, as they ran forward, still holding hands. The little family was complete. As they faded from view Ruth seemed to look round at Anne once more. "Thank you..." The waves seemed to say.

For a long time, Anne sat on the rock, and looked out at the horizon. When she went back to her room, she sat on the windowseat, and looked out at the bay. The lighthouse beam flashed over the bay, a long path of yellow light in brief, bright competition to the moonlight. Somewhere over the bay, a seagull called. Anne fell asleep, listening to sound of the waves.

~~~~Fin~~~~

I think it will need some editing, but that's for another night. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Ghost Story

2007-12-28T00:05:00.000Z

Part One

The journey down in the car had been long, hot and cramped, and was not improved by Anne’s younger brother Philip periodically asking whether they had reached their destination yet. The destination in question was the town to which Anne’s aunt had recently moved. It was a typical sleepy sea-side village, with old Victorian sandstone buildings overlooking the promenade and the beach. Anne’s parents had managed to rent one of these for, as her father had observed, "a ridiculously cheap price", for the duration of the holidays. Philip had been vocal about his doubts as to whether the place would be any good for a holiday, but Anne was less certain. There were two beaches, and a park, and plenty of countryside, and even a swimming pool. She thought that she might get a chance to do some writing and painting, and plenty of reading, and maybe a little walking. Philip, a true child of the technological age, had bemoaned the apparent lack of internet access (her parents refused to set up an account for just a couple of months, and Philip thought this quite unfair), and had instead brought his games machine and entire collection of games.

They had arrived, finally, and were standing outside the house. It appeared a little foreboding, Anne thought, with its dark empty windows. Anne’s mother was cooing over it, however, and Anne had to concede that she did have a point. Windows aside, it was a typical Victorian three story house, in red sandstone, looking somewhat the worse for wear, mostly thanks to the salt in the sea wind. It was, as the advert had said, almost right on the beach; separated only by a one way street and the promenade bounded by a short little sea-wall.

Inside, the house was cold and dark, the heating having been turned off for a while. Anne’s father, following the directions that came with the lease, soon had the heating turned on, and the gas-fired boiler started with a roar. While the house heated up, they had a look around, Philip eagerly running on ahead, despite his earlier protestations that he should "thoroughly hate the place." The lowest floor was not much but a glorified cellar and storage space; there was a large drying-room next to the boiler room, and another room that was locked.

"Probably has the landlord’s personal goods in it." Anne’s father observed.

At the front of the house there was a small sitting room, and small room lined with bookshelves full of books.

"A library for you, Anne." Her father smiled.

Upstairs were the lived-on floors. There was a master bedroom, a bathroom, and the dining room at the back, and at the front there was a formal sitting room, and a large kitchen. The top floor was reserved for the children – two bedrooms, one at the front and a larger one at the back (which was immediately claimed by Philip), and a big playroom which ran the length of the house. Philip was overjoyed to find that it had a large television.

Much later on, after they had unpacked, and had had tea (fish and chips as a treat, since neither of Anne’s parents felt like cooking after the drive), Anne excused herself from the family gathering in the sitting room, and went upstairs to unpack her room. Her feelings for the house had changed from her first impression; inside, with the heating on, the house was warm and homely. Her room was lovely; she was rather glad that Philip had claimed the larger one. This room had yellow-painted walls, with a few paintings on them. Being an attic room, it had a sloping ceiling on either side of the large dormer window. Best of all, however, in Anne’s opinion, was the windowseat. She could sit with her legs drawn up and look out over the beach, over the water, to where the sea and the sky met; no land in sight, except for the lighthouse island at the far end of the bay.

Anne made her bed, and unpacked her things, thinking about how bare the little bookshelf looked with her few books propped up untidily on it. Perhaps she’d retrieve a few books from the "library", to make it look better. She’d even read them, if there were any good books down there. As she pottered about, it got dark outside, and the room felt very comfortable, with the light on, and the sound of the waves on the beach. She thought it must be lovely in winter, when the storms came, and the wind howled round the house, salt in the air misting the windows. She noticed that the lighthouse light actually shone into her room, making a triangular patch on one wall. She sighed. This would be a good holiday, she thought.

Later that night, she woke up. The lighthouse light was still shining in through the open curtains, four flashes and then a break, four flashes and then a break. She got up, and went to sit on the window seat. There was no sound except for the endless waves, murmuring against the sand. The tide was out, and the lower part of the beach was wet, reflecting the track of the full moon, just rising, a silver-gold road leading out to sea. There was a big rock, in the middle of the beach, and Anne reflected that had they been younger, she and Philip would probably have played on and around it, making it into a fort, or an island as the tide came in.

Gradually she became aware of a small figure, sitting on top of the rock, with it’s legs drawn up. As she watched, the figure looked up, straight at her window. It seemed to be a small girl, with long dark hair hanging in strands about her face. As Anne watched, the girl beckoned to her eagerly, almost pleadingly. Anne nodded, and without thinking about it, she slipped on her shoes, and pulled a jacket on, on top of her pyjamas. She was aware only of a sense of urgency, a need to go and walk on the beach, a need to go and talk to the girl who was sitting on the rock. She hurried out of the house, not stopping to pick up the keys which were lying on the hall table. She crossed the road and stepped up onto the sea wall. She jumped off, feeling the soft dry sand filling her trainers, and crossed over to the harder part of the beach below the tideline, to where the girl was still sitting on the rock.

Now Anne could see that the girl was about her own age, but so pale that she almost seemed luminous in the moonlight. She stood in front of the rock, as the girl held out her hand. Anne took it. It was cold, very cold, and Anne realised that the girl wasn’t wearing a jacket; only a skirt and a vest, and her feet were bare. The girl slid off the rock, still holding Anne’s hand, and led her down the beach, following the gleaming path where the moon was reflected in the wet sand, that dried out around their feet as the stood on it.

At the edge of the water they stopped, looking out to sea.
"Don’t you wish you could walk out there, following the moon’s path?" The girl said, her voice soft and melodic.
Anne nodded.
The girl tugged her hand, and led her forward.
"We’ll get wet." Anne said, her own voice sounding flat and dull in comparison.
"No..." whispered the girl. "Not tonight... tonight it’s a full moon."

Anne didn’t have time to say anything, as the girl tugged her forward. She expected her foot to feel the cold water as it seeped into her shoe, but.. there was nothing. She looked down, and found that they were standing on the reflection of the moon’s light, a few inches above the water. The girl ran forward, laughing, pulling the astonished Anne after her. As they ran, a sense of delight filled Anne, and she laughed out loud too.

Suddenly the girl stopped. "We can’t go any further."

Anne looked around. They had come to the end of the bay; they were even with the headlands of two arms of land that formed the bay. Beyond lay the open sea. She looked at the girl, a sense of unease filling her.

"Perhaps we should go back now." She said.

The girl just looked at her, and shook her head. The big dark eyes in the pale face, that had looked so innocent and lost before, now seemed to be menacing. The smile too, made Anne uneasy.

Suddenly she was falling, being sucked downwards, the cold of the water shocking her as it closed over her. She tried to move her arms to propel herself up again, towards the surface, but her arms seemed to be stuck to her sides. Her legs seemed to be held together, and still she was being sucked down. The water around her seemed to be filled with light, as if it was daytime, and she could see the sand below her, rippled from the motion of the waves as they rolled in. There were rocks below as well, and it was to those that she seemed to be being pulled.

Panic was filling her mind, as she felt the rocks beneath her. She tried to kick herself up again, to the surface, her breath was beginning to run out, and her lungs felt as though they were burning. As she bent her knees to push off, a hand grabbed her wrist, and suddenly she felt she could move again. The grip was strong. It was the girl again, her hair floating around her head, the big eyes dark and bottomless.

"Join me..." The words seemed to be breathed straight into Anne’s mind, as the girl moved towards her. She came closer, until she was close enough to stroke Anne’s cheek with a finger. The girl leaned in, sucking the last of Anne’s breath away. The water was pushing in on her, and the grip on her wrist was like steel. She gasped, and sea water filled her lungs. Choking, she breathed in more sea water...

...Anne woke up, gasping for breath. She was in bed, the covers tangled round her legs. She lay still for a moment, watching the lighthouse light shining in through the open curtains, four flashes and then a break, four flashes and then a break. She got up, and went to sit at the open window, trying to push the dream from her mind. Down on the beach there was a big rock, just beyond the tideline...

Stormsearch's Adventures

Tall Ships Festival: Dunoon, day 2, part 1

Tall Ships Festival: Dunoon, day 1

This, that, and the next.

Edinburgh's Wild West

Blackford Pond (and a thought-provoking experience)

A story

I'm sorry, what?! *lalala*

Of Firefestivals and red nail varnish.

Photopost: Moonlight, Archaeology

Seacliff: More from East Lothian adventures, Part 2.

More snow in Edinburgh, part 2.

Warm and Cosy

Edinburgh Snow, yet again.

More snow in Edinburgh

Snow in Edinburgh, November 2010

Seacliff: More from my East Lothian adventures.

At the market: a snippet

Cove, Part 2: More smugglers, Caves and Tunnels.

Candlelight

Photopost: Festival Fireworks

Photo Post: Adventures on the east coast - smugglers, caves and tunnels!

Photopost: Food and Sunsets

Have some pretty (photopost)

Tech Support: the Admin version.

Picture post: More from East Lothian in May

In which my father has a sense of humour.

Picture post: North Berwick at the end of May.

Connections: Things I did today.

Darkness in Edinburgh.

Leith Photographs.

Another ramble along the water of Leith.

Water of Leith Photos - Winter Time.

Adventure Time - Briefly. (Dunkeld)

Ghost Story II

Ghost Story

I'm sorry, what?! lalala