Squirty Squirty Sick Sick

No pictures on this one - just words.

I've had the screaming lurgie, the shits, the technicolour yawns. Apparently it's an epidemic at the moment. Our local hospital is on emergency standby - they've had to close down a load of wards. I can't believe people actually go to A&E (the emergency room if your from the USA and reading this) with this affliction.

First my wife had it. I thought I might escape it. I was proudly telling someone at work earlier in the week I couldn't remember the last time I was off sick. The next day I felt slightly fragile when I pulled myself out of bed. I had burnt toast - one slice with margarine and low sugar jam for breakfast. I had a mug of hot sweet tea. I delivered my wife to her place of work and then still feeling slightly grotty delivered myself to mine.

I went to the loo for a number two. I nearly took off like a Saturn 5 rocket. As I walked down the corridor to my office I kind of knew staying at work was not an option. I walked into the main work area and told the girls (all women actually, but I like "girls" - its more casual and I think they like it too) I was going home. They replied that I ought to as I was turning blue. After a quick message to my boss' voice mail, I just about managed to crawl home in my trusty Subaru. I say "just about" because there was a huge great plume of smoke on the horizon which was spreading out over the countryside and into my delicate lungs. I don't know what was burning - but it was terrible. Also, there were traffic jams all over the place, as usual, so I had to divert taking twice as long to get home. Just what you need when you are about to explode!

As soon as I got home I let Sally out into her run to relieve herself (Sally is our lovable Boxer dog), and then went to bed, completed my last will and testament and promptly died. I resurrected shortly after midday to a feeling of nauseating waves going through my abdomen and the knowledge that I had to get my head down the toilet immediately if not sooner. This I did, and with a kind of wailing shouting scream sent jets of what had formerly been my food shooting from both ends - lovely!

I drank lots of water and took no medicines apart from some headache tablets as my eyeballs felt like someone was trying to push them into the back of my head. Apart from coming down - and lying down - in my dressing gown that evening, I had more or less total bed rest until around 9.00 the following morning when I dragged myself out of my coffin, had a shower, got dressed and attempted to do a few things around the house. It was about another 24 hours before I was back to eating anything that resembled a meal.

This morning I thought I would test my recovery by going to the gym. I ran for half an hour on the tread mill, accelerating in stages throughout, until I reached 15 kilometers an hour at the end. I was very happy with this. I now declare myself fully recovered and can't wait to get back to work tomorrow - not.

If you are worried about picking up this sickness, don't be. You only feel as if you are going to die, but probably won't actually die. If you do die, it will probably be because you are a man and as everyone knows men suffer far more than women - whatever the illness. Good luck!

Film Review - Unhistorical Elizabeth.

I went to the cinema the other evening to watch "Elizabeth: The Golden Age." I really like Cate Blanchett; I think she is a great actress. The problem I had was did she realise she was being brought in to star in such a comedic film? I enjoyed the film, but probably for the wrong (or maybe the right) reasons.

First off, I nearly fell out of my seat laughing when they showed what was supposed to be Fotheringhay Castle where Mary Queen of Scots was incarcerated and beheaded. Now I have been to the site of this castle as Fotheringhay is no more than fifteen or so miles up the road from where I live. It seems that since 1685, the countryside immediately to the west of Peterborough has gone through a massive geological transformation which only a collision with an asteroid could have accomplished! What we saw in the film was a very dramatic looking castle set on a loch with mountains in the background. Actually, it looked suspiciously like Eilean Donnan Castle on Loch Duich near the Kyle of Lochalsh - if I'm not mistaken. The actual site of Fotheringhay Castle is atop a mound - the castle is no longer there; only a stone remnant with a plaque on it remains. There are no mountains, no loch - only the gently flowing River Nene to one side which is often populated with people fishing in the season. Although I found this massive inaccuracy amusing, it did rather spoil the film for me in that I knew from that point on the rest of the film was going to be a travesty.

Apart from the Queen herself (Elizabeth I that is), the other main character was Sir Walter Raleigh. His relationship with Elizabeth throughout the film seemed to me far too close, unreal, and made up. Also, he never changed his clothes from the start to the finish of the film, and what role did he really play in defeating the Spanish Armada - if any?

Much was made of the battle with the Armada. Little was made of Sir Francis Drake, apart from him hatching his plan to attack the Spanish galleons with fire ships. Despite the dramatic battle scenes we see in the film, and the overdone but cinematically engaging view of the Armada ablaze while our heroic Queen looked on from a cliff top, the main thing historically, which actually did for the Armada was the rough seas, the winds being in the wrong direction, and the storms which caused much foundering amongst the fleet. The remnants limped around the top of Scotland before heading back towards Spain. When Drake sent in the fire ships, the Armada was anchored - taking shelter - off the French coast. Judging from the view Elizabeth had from her cliff-top, the French coast had suddenly moved an awful lot closer to England as the blazing ships appeared to be only a few hundred yards out to sea! It must have been that pesky asteroid again!

I would say, however in conclusion, that if you like a good costume romp with lots of special effects, then don't be put off from seeing this film. Although a little slow in places, it is quite enjoyable, but don't take it too seriously.

Into the Plateau

Crete is the largest of the Greek islands. This year my wife and I visited it for the first time. I used to think of Crete as being a very boring sun - scorched rocky place where few people in their right minds would want to visit - let alone spend a holiday. If you look at a map of just the outline of Crete, it looks like it should be rocky - it is a rather odd elongated shape with lots of sharp bits jutting off of it. A sea monster would stab itself on it if it got too close. There looks to be much scope for foundered and long-sunken ships. It is apparent that whatever route nature chose to bring to birth this rough honed island - it must have been violent. My negative leanings towards the island changed last year when we vacationed in Rhodes and met people who encouraged us to visit Crete. So we did.

I was stunned by the soaring grandeur of the place. It is a land of high mountains, steep gorges, hair-pin bends, vertigo inducing drops, valleys, canyons, beaches, beautiful towns and villages, friendly people, fantastic weather, ancient ruins, tradition, Greek Orthodoxy and good beer. In other words, I liked it and reprising General Douglas MacArthur - "I shall return" - but for an entirely different reason!

We hired a Jeep committing ourselves to explore deep into the interior and as far away from the tourist infested resorts as possible. We, of course, were not tourists ourselves, but explorers in a strange land! Studying the map, I spotted a winding road pretending to be a snake leading from Malia up into the mountains and finishing at the Lassithi Plateau. This looked like a day's adventure with the promise of "interesting" driving, lots of scenery and a good place to take lots of inspiring photographs. When I travel, I tend to photograph anything in sight that looks in the least bit interesting. Every day in Crete, I found lots of subjects which met this criterion, so my camera was kept busy, and it's going to take an age to sort out all the resulting images.

After driving upwards on the seemingly endless mountain road, becoming more and more mesmerized by the view the higher we got, we stopped off at the Ambelos Pass. The wind was howling around us whipping up dust which stung the eyes. It was reminiscent of the scene in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" where investigators are looking over a squadron of WWII aircraft which turned up in the wind-swept desert having disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle. The wind was like that. The reason for stopping was the line of seemingly giant ruined windmills guarding the entrance to the plateau from the slopes above. To a distant eye they formed a "v". In their former lives before becoming ruins, they were used for grinding wheat and barley to feed the villages of Lassithi. In all, there were 26 of them, only today they stand in a variety of stages of ruination. They stand like remnant sentinels at the entrance to the plateau.

Around the corner there were many tourist coaches pulled up at the gift shop and restaurant. Some people, though not many, had ventured up the adjacent slope to explore the ruins. I ventured up myself to satisfy my curious urgings, especially where ruins and echoes of the past are concerned. My wife decided to stay down and looked around the gift shop in my absence. I half ran and jumped up the rocky shale like one half my age and with the agility of a kri kri goat. I came to a desolate spot at the top windmill, above the hubbub of the crowds below with the breeze, tamed by the expanded space of altitude, my whispering companion.

This was a spot which had been encroached upon by twentieth century technology, there being microwave receiving and transmitting masts with supporting cables and power lines fanning and criss-crossing like the creation of a spider on a bad night. On the ground amongst the rocks, there lay strewn about many modules of redundant electronic hardware. Clearly, it was easier for the visiting technicians to litter the landscape with this high tech junk than to take it away and recycle it.

I surveyed the scene. Looking south I observed the road which spat out its final bends before leveling out into a circular route around the Plateau. The Plateau stretched out ahead of me, enticing in its appeal, and home to 16 villages - its fertile flat landscape a direct contrast to the surrounding barren mountains. But for the moment, it was time to stand in wonder, like Moses on the mountain top peering over into the Promised Land. After a little while, responding to my innate yearnings to take photographs, I explored each windmill in turn as I made my way back to the windy base of the path where my wife was patiently waiting for me. We drove into the Plateau.

We chose to travel anti-clockwise around the plateau, though that is irrelevant as either direction brings you back to the same spot. The plateau is some 860 meters above sea level, though you wouldn't know it, but for the dramatic journey up to it. Years ago there were around 10,000 windmills spread across the plain pumping up water to irrigate the farmland. We never saw one windmill, only the odd one which had been deliberately constructed near various tavernas, their purpose not to pump water, but to attract the tourists and boost the local income. The locals use diesel powered pumps today instead of windmills. Windmills look a lot nicer - but then that’s progress! We passed through a number of villages. They were all unspoiled and traditional rural Greek. Compared to ourselves and our lifestyle, there seemed to be a lot of poverty; we seemed to be stuck in a kind of time warp. In one of the villages I parked up and got out to take some photographs of the local architecture when I spotted an old lady in black, a widow - on a donkey. I snatched the camera to my eye - but deleted the resulting shot - out of focus - snatch shots are always hit and miss, and I missed on this one! The people of the plain have suffered a lot historically. Over the past few hundred years, Lassithi has suffered under two foreign invasions, first from the Venetians from the 13th to the 17th centuries. That was bad enough, but paled into insignificance compared to the utter savagery and brutality they endured under the Turkish occupation during the 19th century. The plateau was unprotected as the resistance fighters were fighting elsewhere on the island. When the Turkish army set foot in the plateau they utterly destroyed and massacred everyone - women, children, cripples and of course, the men. Cutting off the heads from the corpses they constructed a pyramid from them in one of the villages. No doubt they thought they had done a good day's work.

The plain itself had a hypnotic effect upon me. Having just driven through such rugged and steep terrain, the sheer billiard table flatness of the landscape inexorably drew my attention - though not too much, as I didn't want to crash the car! I was particularly interested in visiting the Dictean Cave. This is a cave in the side of the Dikte Mountain above the village of Psychro. According to tradition and legend, it was in this cave that Rea gave birth to Zeus, father of the Gods and men. There are various myths about Zeus, and one asserts that he lived as a man and died, and was buried in Crete. This was anathema and blasphemy to many in the ancient world and this version of the story of Zeus caused much indignation against the Cretans. A Cretan philosopher called Epimenedes lived around 600BC. He wrote a poem in honour of Zeus in which he states:

"They fashioned a tomb for thee, O holy and high one
The Cretans, always liars, evil beasts, idle bellies!
But thou art not dead: thou livest and abidest forever,
For in thee we live and move and have our being."

I have to admit, the last 2 lines of this stanza have definite biblical overtones. Talking of the Bible, in the Apostle Paul's letter to Titus, who he left to lead and nurture the church in Crete, he quoted Epimenedes thus:

"Even one of their own prophets has said, "Cretans are always liars, evil brutes, lazy gluttons." This testimony is true. Therefore, rebuke them sharply…….."

In Paul's case, he was not concerned about the memory of Zeus, but rather a contamination by the "circumcision party" (don't ask!) of the gospel message he was trying to promote. I find it interesting that he should actually quote Epimenedes as the ancient philosopher's concern was for Zeus - whom to Paul would have in any case been a complete falsehood. The parallel here is of course, that they were both trying to protect what they saw as a divine truth and Paul quotes him, in my opinion, because it was convenient to help make his case.

Staying with Epimenedes for a moment, we are presented with a problem of logic. This is because he himself was a Cretan. Therefore, if he states "All Cretans are liars" - and he himself was a Cretan, then the converse must be true in that all Cretans must tell the truth! This is what has become known as the "Epimenedes Paradox." Paul either ignored this, or it had never occurred to him! As for Epimenedes himself, all his writings have disappeared. We only have glimpses of his writings through the writings of others. It's a shame he didn't have the Internet!

We drove into Psychro village and spotted the sign up to the cave. We turned up the steep track until we came to a dead end in the form of a car park with the local tavernas off to one side. Guess what! The cave was shut so we never got to see it! ("I shall return")……… There was no notice at the bottom of the road to warn you that it was shut on this particular day. The logic I guess was that the locals wanted all the tourists to go piling up there and drown their sorrows or comfort-eat when they discovered that the cave was shut. We comfort - ate a couple of really nice, big ice-creams - lovely!

It was easy to find the right turning to leave the plain. The give away was the sighting of the V-shaped pass and it's sentinel windmills. I shall return.

Creative stirrings

Back in 1970, I was living in Singapore. I was then, and still am a very keen photographer - in fact I can't stop doing it! It was here that I bought myself a Pentax Spotmatic, a through-the-lens-metering 35 mm single lens reflex camera. A friend of mine - Gary - had just bought himself an all black model. I tried to buy one but was unfortunate as they'd sold out, so I bought a standard chrome version. Shade aside, it performed the same, and Gary and I had many happy excursions looking for things upon which to exercise our creative photographic urgings.

One of the things I love about the medium is that it is very individual to the person doing it. This is because we are all different and see things in our own unique way. It’s a bit like modern art. I might see something in an avant-garde picture which fires me, but not you. How often have you looked at a picture or image of some sort and thought "that's a load of crap" while others have stood by, entranced by the very thing you find a complete turn off. Sometimes it helps a person's appreciation of an image to know something about it - how it came to be taken, its history, the photographer's intentions. Photographs are human creations. They come from the mind of the photographer. Yes, the subject has to be there in front of the camera to be photographed, but it is the way - the approach- the photographer takes in making the image which makes the final result so unique - so much a part of the photographer's psyche, which is often lost on the second-party beholder. I am being somewhat of a purist here, in that I am talking about photography as a creative, rather than a recording, or snapshot medium. When we go on holiday and take photographs of the kids on the beach, that’s what I mean by a recording medium - it's simply that - a record, snapshot, of the kids at that moment - or the hotel we stayed in - or the pub we drank in etc…. When a photographer is using a camera creatively, he (or she) is trying to view things in a more thoughtful way. He will look at the subject from different angles with a certain "feeling" in mind he is trying to capture. The photographer may spend, therefore, a seemingly large amount of time just peering through the viewfinder from many different angles and perspectives until he finds the framing which comes closest to what he is trying to capture. He might, and probably will, take several different shots from slightly differing views in order to compare the results later at leisure before making the final selection. I am both a creative and snapshot photographer. Both have value and neither is to be decried.

On a certain day in 1970, in Singapore, Gary and I were out looking for subjects to photograph. We made our way down a narrow road, crowded in and darkened by shading palm trees. The road was trying to be a track, and nearly succeeding. We didn't know where it was leading us. To us it was totally unexplored territory. Presently we came out into a very large, wide expanse of agricultural land. It was land in waiting for the farmer to decide what to do with it. It was in a kind of limbo. It wasn't sure what to do with itself or what it wanted to be. There was lots of grassy and pointy starburst like plants eking an existence in the heated landscape. Most of it, however, was lightly tilled, and stretching off from its edge to the far horizon, with just the odd far off hill peering over the distant enclosing fauna as if to remind us that there was more to this land than the flat expanse framing us. I was feeling quite entranced by the place. It was lonely. I like lonely places. There was only Gary and myself around. No one else existed. The place had a bit of a dream like quality about it. I knew I wanted to come away with a memorable photo which enshrined some of my feeling and innermost impression of the nature of the place. I spotted, lying in the soil, an old piece of iron-work, probably part of the sub frame of a long dead vehicle.

It lay like a rusting skeleton, with elements of stag beetle about it. It reared up out of the ground looking as if it had been there since the land was created. It was part of the landscape and belonged to it. Its functioning days were over - but not quite. It had found a new function in that it gave me a sense of focus to capture something of this silent, lonely landscape. I walked around it considering how I should - if I should - make use of it. Eventually I was drawn to a wide angle view looking along the structure into the surrounding countryside. I noticed that nearby there was an abandoned agricultural tilling wheel, or some such implement in the near distance. I felt it important to include this in the frame as an indicator of the past - and probable future use - of the land. I framed this within an aperture of the metal structure. It is small and does not immediately reveal itself, but lurks surreptitiously to reward the enquiring eye. The frame points out to a frozen timelessness which could go on into a distant future unchanging like lunar soil, defying the intuition which knows better.

I processed the film in Ilford ID -11 developer at a higher temperature than the standard 20 degrees centigrade, due to the fact that tap water flowed out of the faucet at a considerably higher temperature. The development time was adjusted downwards accordingly. I liked the final image, but felt it lacked impact as a small print. I blew it up to twenty inches by sixteen and printed it on Kodak Bromesco paper. Bromesco had a certain magical quality about it. I particularly delighted in the way when it was in the developer the image had a slightly lack-lustre appearance, but once the print was placed under the fix, a sort of "fog" seemed to clear from the surface of the image and the photograph sprang to life, like some life-giving force had suddenly been injected into it. I liked the final result and I displayed it on the wall above my bed, along with other images. I still like it, and it still speaks to me. I do sometimes wander if the land on the image has changed much. My suspicion is that it is now all built upon with high-rise flats which have been built since that day in 1970, to house the ever burgeoning population of Singapore which has multiplied itself many times over since the years I lived there. Everything changes, and surely must - but the spirit of the image lingers on.

Colin

I was deeply shocked and troubled by the death of Colin McRae. More than that, I felt a sense of emptiness, as if a sudden dark void had entered somewhere in the depths of my being.

I have never met Colin. I have never seen Colin except on TV. I am someone who while not a fan of rallying, likes rallying. Motor sport to me has always been something pretty boring. That ceased to be the case when my youngest son encouraged me to watch some of the World Rally Championships on the box. I found it both exciting and thrilling. Colin could easily have been one who drove in endless circuits around a Grand Prix track. Instead he chose the varied challenge of hairpin bends on mountain roads, forest roads, driving through snow and ice, taking off and flying from the crests of hills, crashing off sharp bends, rolling over and over, smashing up cars in a gladiatorial struggle to be at the top of the podium, showing no fear but only a steel determination to win through. He was - and is a hero.

It is because of Colin that I drive a Subaru. Let me explain. I used to drive a Rover. That in itself is a good enough reason to change to a Subaru! However, that is not how it came about. My Rover had served me well for some years but was now giving me more trouble than it was worth. On the day I bought the Subaru, I hadn't planned to buy a car - let alone even look at a new car. I took my wife and my youngest son ten pin bowling in St Neots. It's what I do. I bowl. After bowling, we were at a bit of a loose end and it seemed too early to go home. There was a Rover garage nearby and so we found ourselves looking at cars. The bloke in the garage was trying to flog me a series 2 1.4 litre and I wasn't terribly impressed. My son suggested we take a ride out to Marshals in Cambridge, near the airport and look at cars there, so that is what we did. While I was looking at used Rovers, my son and wife were not looking at Rovers. They were looking at an Impreza. It wasn't a turbo model, but an Impreza nonetheless. Encouraged by my son, I took it for a test drive, liked it and bought it. Since then, I have moved onto a moody black Subaru Turbo Forester which is a real mean machine. I love it.

My son would not have pushed me in the Subaru direction were it not for his devotion to Colin who did a lot to enhance Subaru in the public eye by winning the World Championship in one. After that he went on to drive for Ford, but never became as indelibly linked with a brand as he did with Subaru.

My son wants to be a rally driver. He has entered competitions to win a rallying scholarship, and did well to get near the final stages. He is an excellent driver and frightens the living crap out of me when he takes me out for spins around the country lanes of Scotland where he now lives. He covets the dream of being a rally driver himself. I believe he will. He has fleetingly met Colin when he was helping out at a rally and was asked to take something to Colin who was sat in his car at the time. It was a moment he will never forget.

So here's to Colin. An inspiration, role model, sportsman, brave, fearless, determined, champion, hero, "Flower of Scotland". May his memory live for ever.

The Devil Rides In

A long time ago in a land far far away, I lived as one who was deeply religious. On Sunday mornings I went to the C of E Church. In the afternoon I went to a Gospel meeting. In the evening I went to the Free Church service. After that, I went to the prayer meeting. That was only the Sunday! During the week, I went to a different Bible study or prayer meeting just about every night apart from Saturdays; there were no meetings on Saturdays. I would read the Bible on the beach and in bed. I read it on the loo - you can’t beat a good holy shit! I read it from cover to cover and committed much of it to memory. I have very interesting conversations with Jehovah’s Witnesses!

In addition to all this, I listened to preaching tapes featuring people like Willie Mullen who was an Irish fire and brimstone preacher who hated Roman Catholicism because it was of the Devil. He wanted to dance on the grave of the Roman Catholic Church. I particularly liked listening to David Pawson who preached in a much more reasoned and controlled sort of way. As far as I am aware, he is still around and I’ve seen him on television over the past year or so. I actually got to meet him about three years ago when I saw him preach at the local Community Church. It felt weird to actually shake his hand, as he was to me a bit of an enigmatic figure who I kind of worshipped from afar a long time ago. But not any more. I don’t believe a word of it now; it was all a fantasy - I just didn’t realise it at the time, and I hadn’t thought it through in a logical, rational, reasoned, objective way. This was during my time in Cyprus. It was against this background and state of mind that I had a friend called Sid who came to stay with my wife and I for a few days one summer.

To say Sid was a convinced and enthusiastic Born-Again Christian is an understatement. He believed it all - hook, line and sinker! He was in the army, in the Royal Green Jackets. I believe they were called “Green Jackets” because they wore green jackets, as against red, blue or even yellow! Anyway, Sid was keen on the “Gifts of the Spirit”. These are “supernatural” gifts bestowed upon believers by the Holy Spirit which include such items as prophesy, knowledge, healing etc. St Paul writes about them in his letters to the Corinthians. If you are a Biblical illiterate, these letters are found in the New Testament. The “gift” Sid displayed in abundance at prayer meetings and Bible Studies was “Speaking in Tongues” which is speaking in a divinely bestowed language unknown and not understood to the speaker. It was insisted by some that one should not speak in tongues at a meeting unless there was another person present who had the gift of translation to inform everyone present of what had been said. This is interesting in itself, because I went to many meetings where various “gifted” people spoke in tongues, but no one ever asked beforehand if anyone present had the gift of translation! Even so, invariably there always seemed to be someone amongst us so gifted (not me, it was all Double Dutch as far as I was concerned) who would offer an English version of what had been said. I suspect that in actual fact, no one actually did know what had been said, and that when a translation was offered it was done so on the basis of gut feeling rather than knowledge. Very often, someone would speak in “tongues” and only say one or two “words”, often repeated over and over again. The trouble was, that when the translation came, it was more often than not longer and more detailed than the original “tongues” would have suggested it should be. Also, the message tended to be so general, that anyone could take it in pretty much whichever way they wanted. Never once did any translation come up with the winner of the next day’s 4.30 race at York or Cheltenham - or any other race or sporting event for that matter. Oh well, they do say God moves in mysterious ways! Anyway, Sid was of this ilk.

Unfortunately, being a Christian didn’t seem to make Sid very joyful. He always seemed to be sensing and seeing evil everywhere around him . Wherever we went, he was appalled by the “worldliness” of everyone around; everything was dark and bound for Hell and destruction. The Devil lurked on every corner, waiting to jump out and ensnare you. The spiritual world is a very dangerous place! Sid even saw evil in our personal possessions, and offered to rid me and my wife of most of our record collection. Obviously, Chris Barbour and Acker Bilk were satanically inspired and should be consigned to the fires of Hell before they dragged us down with them. Mind you, I’m not sure what The Seekers had done to deserve such a fate! Was “Morning Town Ride” really so evil? You see, evil is insidious - it gets everywhere, and is everywhere. Be careful that the next Mars Bar you eat doesn’t cause you to stumble - you don’t want to get thrown into Hell for the sin of gluttony! I’m not sure if “obesity” is a sin, though we are entreated in the Bible that the body is “the temple of the Holy Spirit”, so I suppose anything which you do to pollute or harm it must be sinful. All joy and purpose was to be found in the Bible. Forget hobbies, holidays, ambition etc - these are all worldly and sinful and the Devil takes delight in all who fall to their enchantments!

One night it happened. What happened???? - I hear you asking. Well IT happened, the big IT!!!! The Devil came to our bungalow. It happened like this:
During the time that Sid was staying with us, we were all (the three of us) sat round having breakfast one morning. We preferred breakfast in the morning, it seemed more appropriate than in the evening or the afternoon! However, on this occasion, there was a bit of a strange atmosphere surrounding Sid. He wasn’t smiling much. He wasn’t saying much either. He looked serious. Very serious.
“This looks serious” I thought to myself. I could sense it was serious.
Presently, Sid spoke in a serious tone.
“Did you hear anything last night?”
“No Sid, why - what happened?” I replied in words to that effect.
“The Devil was in the room with me, and I was doing battle with him.” He then proceeded to tell us how the Devil had been accusing him of all sorts of evil transgressions, trying to make him doubt his faith - amongst other no doubt infernal accusations. I can only assume the Devil was standing at the end of his bed. Maybe Sid had eaten one too many Mars Bars and had a case to answer!
“But I didn’t let him get to me”, continued Sid, “I hit him back with Scripture.”
Now, I don’t think this means that he was throwing Bibles at him, but rather quoting Bible verses at him. He went on to relate to us how the Devil could not withstand this onslaught from the Word of God, and had to flee, no doubt taking all his legions of demons with him!

So there we were, my wife and I peacefully asleep in our love nest, completely unaware that the forces of Satan and God were lined up and ranged against each other in our spare room! The forces of Heaven and Hell had honed in on our dwelling. It’s a wonder flashes of lightning weren’t crashing around the house with giant bats flapping around the garden! Maybe, this was what happened, but we were not meant to witness any of it. We had been kept asleep by divine intervention!

Anyway, there is a serious point here. Sid was a member of the British armed forces; a soldier, trained to kill people. But, he lived in this religious fantasy world which affected his judgement on everything. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to suggest that he was dangerous in any physical sort of way - but he could have been. Having people of like-minded beliefs in such pivotal places does little to help one’s confidence. Given that he and millions - yes millions like him believe everything in the Bible, literally and at face value, this can only spell trouble for our society and the world. People who see demons and devils everywhere, and think they have a direct line to God are dangerous. They are not in touch with reality and never stop to think in a reasoned or rational fashion. People like this are more rife than you might realise, and we just want to hope that one of them doesn’t get into government or come to lead our armed forces. It wouldn’t have taken much for Sid to have been tipped over the edge. His irrational zeal controlled his mind and his judgement. Common sense gave way to fantastical dogma and blind faith. We cannot afford to have such people in positions of responsibility where they affect the lives of others. Religion is dangerous - it has passed its sell-by date. Consider what the outcome might be if our Prime Minister or the President of the United States was a Bible believing Christian, longed for the Second Coming, and nursed the apocalyptic belief that this would only happen at the onset of World War Three. Would you really want that person’s finger on the nuclear trigger?

Walking the West Highland Way - Episode 2: A fateful day.

I had a really good night's sleep at the Oak Tree Inn at Balmaha. This is more than can be said for my son who, sharing the room with me, had to endure my snoring. Being a bit of an early bird, and as we decided we wouldn't be taking breakfast until about 9.30, I got up at around 8.00 and went for a walk looking for some good things to photograph. This had the benefit of allowing my son an extra hour of un-snore interrupted sleep.

I photographed chickens. I also photographed the view across the Loch - but mainly chickens. There were lots of chickens scratching and clucking around the waterfront, and as I have never had such a good opportunity to add chickens to my photo library, I dived in with abandon. That is - dived in to taking photographs - not the Loch - anyway the camera would have got wet! I managed to get some real close eye-ball to eye-ball type shots. It occurred to me that when you look close up at a chicken's head, it really is a sight of supreme ugliness. Mind you, they probably feel the same about us. The last time I got this close to a chicken was when I was a child and my Dad kept chickens, as many people did in the 1950's - people were more self-reliant then. I had a love-hate relationship with my Dad's chickens. I used to pull their heads though the wire mesh. Their relationship with me was one of hate. One day I opened up the hatch to their coop and forgot to close it again. The chickens got out, and all the neighbours were co-opted into hunting them down along the road and in their gardens. We had one chicken called "Baldie" because the others used to attack it and peck the feathers off the poor thing's head. Even so, despite the baldness, it still tasted just as good when we ate it!

We set out from the Inn at around 10.20. On the face of it, the walk should have been fairly easy because according to the map we were simply walking north beside the loch until we got to Inversnaid. What we hadn't bargained for were all the very narrow woodland paths, going steeply up and down, some of it right on the edge of steep drops straight into the Loch or rocks or whatever horrors lay below. Although I was feeling good - I had no blisters - my companions were suffering, mainly with blisters. I guess with me being a runner, my feet are that bit tougher and I wore old well fitting foot attire which fitted my feet like gloves. Even so, at the end of each day, one of the chief pleasures was being able to relax and take off my footwear and let the air get to my feet. An irony of this section of the walk was that the "Way" itself was very close to the smooth tarmacked main road which would have been much faster and easier for us to walk on. However, we were determined not to cheat, so we stuck with the "Way" path come what may.

One of the really good things about the West Highland Way is that it is so well way-signed that it is quite possible to walk the entire length of it without referring to a map, although common sense suggests this is not recommended. After walking about five miles, we came to a touristy parking and refreshment area where we took a rest. We got a bit confused as to where the trail continued and asked a local who, pointing us in the direction, commented that you have to work really hard to lose your bearings on the West Highland Way. Obviously, we were working really hard.

Presently, we made our way into the darkest depths of the Rowardennan Forest. I had a feeling that some evil lay ahead, but I could not be sure what it was. It was like some unspoken fear that grips the back of the mind. Things had been going too well for me. I wasn't suffering enough. Suddenly, we came upon a way-post with an evil death-skull on top of it complete with the horns of Satan. This had to be the sign. I knew from this point on, something awful was bound to befall me. I was cursed. It wasn't long before the evil revealed itself……..

We came upon a wayside Inn and took the opportunity to relax and refresh ourselves. We sat outside in the sunshine. As my feet were starting to feel like they were about to fall off it seemed a good idea to remove my boots and socks and let the air bathe my feet. This was a very bad move. As my feet relaxed in the sunshine, the curse manifested itself. I didn't spot it, but a horsefly landed on my left ankle and bit me. I was completely unaware of this, as well as the pain and suffering which I would experience over the rest of the walk as a result. Shortly after we set out up the road, I began to feel a sharp pain at the bottom of my left shin, just above the joint of my foot. The pain got worse. The pain got a lot worse. When we finished that day's walking and I inspected my foot, my whole ankle was swollen up something awful. As well as the pain of walking on it, the swollen area irritated like hell, felt very sore, and hot. This was to remain the case for the rest of the walk, and it took the best part of two weeks and a course of antibiotics before my ankle was anything like normal again.

Eventually, after what seemed an eternity of walking beside the loch which hardly seemed to change its scenic views at all giving rise to a stilted sense of numbing madness, fatigue and exhaustion, we came upon the Inversnaid Hotel. At first we mistook this for the bunkhouse where we were booked into for the night. We quickly realised this was not the case - it was far too grand, and we had about another mile to walk. My brother who was suffering from some pretty horrendous blisters, asked one of a group of residents who were sat outside if there was a chemist around the vicinity where he could get something to treat them. The arrogant old git he spoke to seemed to harbour a contempt for walkers such as ourselves, and appeared to take pleasure in telling him that there were no chemists around and he should have come prepared for such eventualities anyway. As we walked on up the hill, I was comforted by the belief that the old git and his companions would probably all be dead before me! Looking at the Inversnaid Hotel, I got the impression that they didn't welcome walkers anyway. There was a separate entrance for walkers, around the back. No doubt, the hotel still charged the same exorbitant fees despite treating walkers as second class residents!

The hill up to the bunkhouse seemed steep, long and interminable. The only good thing was that it was on good quality road, so there was no uncomfortable rocky track underfoot. Eventually we came to the bunkhouse. It turned out to be a converted church. It was difficult to see where the worshippers would have come from in it's former life, as apart from the hotel and the church itself, there was virtually nothing else around. At least the building was now serving a useful purpose of genuine benefit to people! We were welcomed by an exrtremely attractive long haired blonde Australian girl from Adelaide who was running things, and looked after us for the evening. After we had settled into our rooms, we went into the communal area which was very spacious and comfortable, serving food, hot drinks, soft drinks and alcoholic drinks. I partook of most of this! My son, being a bit of a computer geek, got playing on the computer, and before long was giving our Australian hostess a lesson in the finer, nerdier, aspects of computing. She seemed really interested and continued to bring us food and drink as needed. This whole bunkhouse experience, was like arriving in walker-heaven. I slept well that night - again.