60 Going On 16

"I came so far for beauty . . . "

But it was worth every single one of the 670 miles it took to get to Scotland's Applecross Peninsula.

 

No television, no mobile phone, no WiFi. Just landscape that takes the breath away. 

The Edinburgh Boy was in paradise.

 

Now we're heading home. Far too soon . . . 

An empty space at the Ambridge mic

 

Jill and Phil 

I've grown up and grown old listening to the man in the photo above: Norman Painting, who has played Phil Archer since the BBC radio serial, The Archers, began in 1950. To listen to The Archers is like wrapping oneself in a large, warm, comfort blanket.  I was just three in 1950 and now I'm . . . well, you can work it out for yourselves. So, hearing the news just a few minutes ago that Norman has died did give me considerable pause for thought.

Thanks for the memories Mr Painting; like millions of others, I'll miss that reassuring voice. Things will be rather quiet in Ambridge this evening, I imagine. And a glass or two raised in tribute at The Bull.

The length and breadth

I love maps; not quite as much, perhaps, as I love books but very much, nevertheless. I can pore over them for hours, tracing and planning journeys real and imagined. And now that most of the unpacking from the move back to Devon has been done, I'm sitting down with maps to chart a journey from England's South West to Cuaig on Scotland's Applecross Peninsula; not quite as far north as John O'Groats but still pretty far north. From one end of the country to the other, more or less.

The Edinburgh Boy and I are booked into a variety of dog-friendly B&Bs, timber lodges and pubs on the outward and return journeys and we're taking our time each way so that we can simply stand and stare at the landscape or respond to a nudging camera.

I love maps because I love travelling, preferably not in a direct line; it's what lies off the beaten track (or the motorway . . .) that holds the attraction. For example, in the Lake District, we're staying at a village pub with a special connection to Withnail and I. And, once across the border, we'll not be a million miles from Dumfries. Should we make time for a diversion to the Globe Inn? The Complete Poems and Songs of Robert Burns will be coming with me, so there's every chance.

Our journey will take us along Loch Lomond and on to Glencoe and Fort William, passing through towns and villages with evocative Gaelic names. And nowhere, perhaps, will hold quite as much excitement for me as the sight of this - Eilean Donan Castle, the home of Clan Macrae on Loch Duich. I've wanted to see this magical place since I was a child. Now I will and I am just a tiny bit thrilled at the prospect.

"I AM SALTY DOG . . . "

Me again . . .

at super surfing Croyde Bay in North Devon, which we were visiting with Madame 60's good friend, Random DIstractions.

This, I pointed out to Madame 60, is a sure sign. After all, we both love the sea; it's good to be near it. It's also good to be near friends.

Now that she's had a rest, Madame is insisting that I hand back the blog to her, so thank you from both of us for all your kind and reassuring comments. (But I'll be back, one way or another. Watch this space.)

The Edinburgh Boy

"I AM DOG . . . "

I have persuaded my slave Madame 60 to lend me her blog. Just for today. There is something I need to explain. There we were, during the summer, settling into life in the Chilterns and then, and then . . . and then term started. The house where we were staying, while we waited for someone to come along and fall in love with our old house in Devon, backed onto the playing fields of the local grammar school. This meant that all day, from Monday to Friday, there were bells and whistles and there was a lot of shouting. I think the bright young things were trying to kill each other.

I am afraid that I am averse to bells and whistles and shouting, not to mention gunfire (yes, I know I'm a Labrador) and fireworks. I cannot even bear the sound of the bells and whistles on BBC R4 panel games. I shake, I shiver, and I get very distressed indeed. 

So, we went to see our vet, the homeopathic one. Yes, he could give me some remedies but, ultimately, he advised, there was only one real solution to the problem.  And that explains why, at the end of last week, we (as in Madame 60, the cat and I) climbed into the trusty Subaru and drove westwards.

We are back. In Devon. In the old house. No bells, no whistles, no bangers in the run-up to 5 November, and no guns (well, not in the immediate vicinity).

I lost no time in revisiting my old haunts. 

 

In the meantime, Madame 60 has been reading me extracts from Marina Lewycka's Two Caravans. She says that she doesn't think it's nearly as good as A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian but I am impressed because, in this book, a Dog  plays a very, very important part. A speaking part, or at least a thinking part. This Ms Lewycka understands a thing or two about dogs; for example, she knows that we think in capital letters:

"I AM DOG I RUN . . . I SIT NOSE ON GROUND WOOF . . . I COME CLOSER WOOF WOOF . . . I RUN I AM DOG"

Yesterday, we went up to the moor - where I ran and ran and ran, past the ponies, and on and on. Until I 'd come full circle and my tongue was hanging out.

 

What is more, Madame 60 has promised me a very big treat indeed. At the end of next week, we are taking the high road  to the far north of the Land of My Forehounds. We are going to stay with our friends, the Gauchos, and their dog, Miss T, in a cottage by the sea. There will be walks on the beach. I will, of course, be running. Because that is what I do. "I AM DOG"

The Edinburgh Boy