Walking the West Highland Way - Episode 5 : What the Devil????????

Leaving the King’s House, we continued along the old narrow military road while heavy threatening clouds hung overhead, like banners around the tops of the neighbouring mountains, obscuring any views of their peaks.

My brother and nephew had taken the option of having their rucksacks sent on ahead to the hostel in Kinlochleven, our next resting place. My son and I carried our full rucksacks. Knowing my luck, if I had entrusted it to a company as my brother and nephew had done, that would probably be the last I would see of it.

Anyway, on this part of the walk we had to negotiate an upward gradient called “The Devil’s Staircase”. This apparently scary name held no fears for me, as it clearly couldn’t really be the Devil’s staircase as I do not believe in such medieval entities as devils, demons, angels, goblins, fairies, elves, trolls…………I think you get the picture. Also, I didn’t believe that it could be that torturous a climb as I had taken a look on the map and it was clear that I had been up far steeper hills than this before. Also, I know of at least one person who is much less fit than myself, and managed to get over it, so I just knew it wouldn’t live up to it’s name. I was right. When we finally came upon it, I knew I had definitely made the right decision in hanging on to my rucksack. Ascending the scary “staircase” was a walk in the park. We passed quite a number of fellow walkers, many of whom had just stopped to admire the view.

Once over the “staircase” it was pretty plain sailing down into Kinlochleven. Then my mobile phone rang. It was my wife. She was staying at her sister’s while I was on my adventure and she rang to ask how I was getting on and to wish me well. I really appreciated the call, even though I was coping well with the walk, despite the still intense pain from my horsefly bite, I was nevertheless really tired and looking forward to the finish the following day when we were due to arrive in Fort William. So, hearing my dear wife raised my spirits. I was alone at this point. I had stopped to take a solitary pee, and when I finished and got walking again, my comrades had disappeared ahead, not to be seen again by me until my arrival in Kinlochleven. What the Hell! I was past caring. I decided I would walk slowly, deliberately with indolent ease. There was no rush. Why rush? I wasn’t for rushing.

Presently, I caught sight of a corner of Kinlochleven, in the far distance, and a long way below me. From a purely psychological point of view, this was good. Even though I still had a few miles still to go, the fact that I could see where I was headed made me put a spring in my step. Even so, I had to ensure that my step was not too springy, as the going got very steep – downwards. Any undue stepping springiness at this point was liable to send me falling arse over head, so I held back, leaned back and took very careful, deliberate and decidedly unspringy steps. Anyone who has done any hill walking will know that walking on a stony, rocky track down a steep incline is far harder and more painful than going up. Well, it was painful alright, to the point that I was swearing under my breath for quite a prolonged period. When anybody passed me, I kept the swearing in my head, rather than verbalise it, not wanting to cause offence to anyone, given how easily people are offended these days………if you believe the media.

The phone rang again. It was my son. He had arrived at the hostel and was wondering what was keeping me. I was reassured by the thought that at least one of our group was thinking of me! He asked me what I saw looking around me. I told him what I saw looking around me. It was pipes. Big pipes – lots of pipes. They were water carrying pipes, and ran down the steep slope of the hill. My son was glad I could see the pipes because it meant he was able to tell me I was nearly there! Wonderful – my body screamed out for rest as the soles of my feet felt like they were disintegrating from under me. The stones under my boot soles were starting to feel like they might penetrate through into my feet.

Continuing down, I finally set eyes upon the turbine sheds at the bottom where the electricity was generated. A few hundred yards after leaving the track and setting foot on flat and level concrete at the bottom, I spotted the hostel ahead and off to my right.

The room was small. Very small. And spartan. But then, what do you expect for £15? It was a place to crash out and rest our heads, so it served its purpose. It was also the last stopping point along the way before reaching the relative luxury of the Fort William Premier Inn on the morrow.

The day was about to take on an ironic twist. This was the first occasion where we had arrived at our destination with a decent amount of time before bedibyes to take a stroll around and have a look around. We set out for the local shop for some emergency rations. It was a case of shop or starve. We got nearly to the shop, and it poured down with rain. Damn! Typical. The story of my life.. Soddit.

My brother's rucksack never turned up, but my nephew's was delivered as expected. Fraught words followed down the phone between my brother and the rucksack courier company. Words like “silly cow” or such like ensued in an attempt to lay the blame on the lady in reception at the Kings House who had labelled up the rucksack. However, my brother had carried the rucksack from the reception to the pick up area after it had been labelled. Most people at this stage check the address on the label................ Anyway, the rucksack got duly delivered and he breathed easily again. I was past caring, though somewhat bemused.

The evening came and we settled down to an awkward nights sleep, in closer proximity to each other than we would have liked. There was to be no escape from anyone's snoring tonight. I don't remember hearing any. I must have slept like a brick. It had escaped our notice that we had no bed linen, only rough blankets........... No one was caring. Until the morning.

Train Spotting

I mentioned in a previous posting that I like to photograph steam trains…….sometimes…………when I get the chance…….I’m not an anorak you understand. Well, last Saturday my wife decided to have a day out in London with our youngest son. As we have a dog at home and no one to look after it and as we need to save money at the moment (just bought another car), I decided to stay at home. Except that I didn’t.

A few days previous, as I was sat at my desk in my office at work, a head suddenly appeared around the door and it turned out to be a friend who is particularly keen on steam trains. Being an ex-photographer, like myself, he also likes photographing them. He gave me the details of a train which would be passing through Whittlesea on its way to Peterborough the same Saturday. This, I decided was my mission for the day. My wife would go to London, and I would go to Whittlesea.

I arrived at a level crossing just on the southern outskirts of Whittlesea in plenty of time to see the train which was due at around eight minutes past nine in the morning. I was thinking of going to the station, but seeing other people with cameras loitering with intent at the crossing, I decided this must be a good vantage point, so I swung the car into the “siding” and joined the gaggle. The first thing that hit me was they were all pretty old, or at least middle aged. Actually, from what I have seen of train enthusiasts, most seem to be like that. I then realised that I must have fitted in pretty well, as I am pretty old myself.

I got talking as you do. I went to great pains to let them know that I wasn’t an anorak (because I’m not), but did like to photograph the odd train – when I had the chance. I was careful not to actually use the word “anorak” while explaining myself, in case I ended up with my camera shoved down my throat, or rammed firmly where the sun doesn’t shine! I explained that there was a time – many years ago – when I could be found sat on the railway bank marking off the numbers of passing trains in my Ian Allan book. They seemed really impressed – not! Also, I noticed that they had better photo equipment than me. The guy with the long beard and hair tied back next to me (high train-spotter fashion!) had two single lens reflex digital cameras, both with long telephoto lenses on, and both a higher spec than my timid Canon EOS 350D. His cameras were black. Mine was silver. I asked him if he marketed his photographs. He seemed a little disdainful of the question, rather as if I had asked him if he farted regularly! “No” - he replied, but he does have a web site and proceeded to show me some of his prints from the day before. Nice clear photos. His web site is: http://www.jpsgallery.fotopic.net/.

Other middle aged men gathered – women don’t seem to be interested in trains; it’s a very masculine pursuit! A couple had quite expensive looking video cameras. I wondered what they did with all the footage. Did they edit them all together? Was it an on going process with an ever increasing series of trains, one after the other, going on for hours…..and hours…..and hours……and…..? But then, probably not! As I really hate video, I showed my distaste by not entering into conversation with them. They obliged, by not entering into conversation with me.

As I stood, contemplating the track lines, stretching off into the distance ahead of me, I heard one of my companions saying that the train was running 37 minutes late. He had just got the info after phoning his mate further up the line. Damn and blast I thought, but decided not to be discouraged but to wait it out come what may. I had timed things so that I could get out, take the photograph, and get home without the need for the loo. Unfortunately, the cup of tea I had earlier before setting out was having a disproportionate effect on the inner walls of my bladder, and the pressure was steadily building. Well, a mans gotta do what a mans gotta do – only on this occasion it was an open –air pee. Fortunately, we were next to a bit of a woodland nature reserve, so I was able hide myself away and relieve the pressure. I always find I can concentrate a lot better on things when I’m not busting for a pee…….don’t know about you.

I stood, continuing to monitor the conversations. Talk of engine sheds. Talk of shunting yards. Talk of fabled engines in fabled railways. This was all completely out of my league of course, because I am not an anorak. I continued to stand, stare and listen. The barriers at the crossing kept going down, trains passing, then the barriers rising again. Every time the barriers went down, I switched on my camera in case it was the steam train. Lots of trains passed. All diesels. This was not an electric line, so there were no pylons and no overhead power lines. This was good because without these elements, it would add a touch of authenticity to my photos – when the train finally came.

One of my fellow train spotters phoned his mate again. It was clear that the train was now nearly upon us – at the very gates! I quickly checked my camera settings, not wanting to arse it up after going to so much effort. The brightness had changed. The morning had begun dank and gloomy. However, the weather had now definitely brightened and I settled on 200 ISO at F8 aperture priority mode. This gave me a shutter speed of around one six hundredth of a second. As I wanted the train to be nice and sharp in the picture, I knew that with careful panning, this was well fast enough to stop the motion.

A puff of white smoke appeared on the horizon. Then I saw the engine and carriages appear in the distance. I focussed on it through the viewfinder, and proceeded to fire off shots for as long as I could until the train went past me. It came racing towards me, around the bend, though not racing particularly fast (it was late, after all) – more a steady canter than a fast gallop. Right up until this point I didn’t actually know what the name of the engine was, nor had I bothered to ask. Just the fact that it was steam was good enough for me. When the train had gone, I zoomed in on the camera preview screen to look at the name plate on the engine. It read: Union of South Africa.

Get it Right!

I was watching a religious channel on the TV the other night - as you do. It was a film about evolution and how it isn't true because the world was created by God in a bored moment, or something. Anyway, what made me want to throw a brick through the screen (I didn't 'cos its a new set and cost us a lot of dosh) was that they couldn't even get the most basic fact about the subject right, and that just gets soooooo much under my skin. What was it that annoyed me so much???? It was that they were claiming that the theory of evolution was claiming that man evolved from apes!!!!! NO WE BLOODY DIDN'T. The theory of evolution states that Man and the Apes evolved from a COMMON ANCESTOR. And that my friend, is a whole world of difference. The fact is that these religious types do not understand science. They think they do, and they will try and make you think they do as well. And they've never read a Richard Dawkins book. Pah!

Water Water Everywhere

I was interested to see on the news this morning that there is a new initiative to get old people in care homes to drink more water - up to 10 glasses a day! Well, I can see that there is a problem with people not drinking enough and I agree that dehydration is dangerous and can lead to a whole load of health problems.

However, I do wonder if those advocates of this new scheme have really thought this through. Has it not occurred to them that perhaps one of the causes of dehydration in old people is that they can’t hold their water in the first place! It is a well known fact that incontinence is one of the main symptoms of old age. So - you encourage an old incontinent care home resident to drink 10 glasses of water a day. This person is already peeing himself every 20 minutes or so. The next thing you know, his bed linen has to be changed that much more often and he‘s sinking in a sea of pee. When he’s not peeing the bed he’s wetting the Shackleton’s High Back chair so its all nice and soggy and steamy for the next unfortunate inmate. Now, this is only one person I am talking about here out of a whole care home. Multiply this by 60 or so and it doesn’t take long to see there will soon be a huge urinic tidle wave of a problem sweeping through the hitherto peaceful haven where you could previously relax in the morning to the soothing sounds of geriatric lips sucking on their morning toast! Now no one is in their chairs, because they are all queuing to get into the one loo open to the residents, beating wildly on the door with their walking sticks and Zimmer frames.

So, we now have a situation where the bed sheets have to be changed and washed that much more frequently. The furniture has to be thrown out and changed every couple of weeks or so. Building contractors have to be called in to design and build more loos. More staff have to be employed, including a tripling of the cleaning staff rotas to cope with all the puddles of old person’s pee issued by those who didn’t make it to the loo in time.

Actually, its all a big conspiracy. You see, care home owners don’t actually care at all for their inmates. They are in it for the money and nothing else. When was the last time you saw a poor care home owner?? No, my friends, what is going on here is a cunning plan hatched up by these greedy parasites who feed on other people’s misery, to make loads and loads of even more money, while duping everyone that they are really concerned about their residents health. Behind this smokescreen, they will vastly increase the care home fees, already at the level of utter usury, thus swelling their coffers while their inmates have hosepipes shoved down their throats and water forced at gunpoint into their distended stomachs in the name of healthy living.

The truth is, that it is not in the interests of care home owners to have healthy residents. If they were healthy, then they wouldn’t be there in the first place and the owners would be out of business. All the residents really want is to sit staring at each other with a nice warm insipid cup of (diuretic) tea and Songs of Praise blaring from the box as they await their turn to enter the happy hunting grounds.

Gosh, thirsty work this writing lark - I think I need a glass of water!

Person on the Landscape

When I am out and about with my camera looking for landscape photographs, I often like to include a person in the shot. The reason for this is that a well placed figure can add drama, impact, depth and scale to an otherwise ordinary photograph.

The photo on the mountain features my youngest son looking out over the countryside. On this occasion, he was posed. I asked him to stand in that spot because I was keen to add scale and depth. When taking landscapes, it is easy to end up disappointed with the final print, which, in two dimensions, can look very flat and uninteresting compared to the awesome three dimensional spectacle experienced at the moment of exposure. Adding a well placed person immediately changes the whole dynamic of the image. One is drawn much more into the scene, because the person adds a sense of empathy. You become more aware of size and distance, as well as being invited to ponder the view with figure in the photograph. The man on the mountain adds humanity to what would otherwise be just another nice view for the album.

The photo of the sand dunes was transformed by the addition of the dark rider. This shot was definitely not posed. I was out walking on the dunes – as you do - looking for a “nice shot”. Up until this point I felt I had captured some pretty good images. And then the horseman appeared. Suddenly, I had something starkly different to shoot, but I had to act fast. The rider was not hanging around, and there was not a moment to lose. I quickly fired off three shots before the mystery rider vanished behind a dune, never to re-appear. Again, a much better sense of scale was added to the shot. But more than that, what started out as a group of Scottish sand dunes was immediately transformed to the bad lands of Montana! It was pure luck on my part as I could never have predicted the shot. The lesson here I suppose, is always carry a camera if you want to capture the unexpected. Dark riders do not come to order!

Into the Cave of God

I recently returned to the Lasithi Plateau in Crete. I said I would and I meant it! My main aim in so doing was to revisit the Dictaian Antron, which is a cave set high above the village of Psychro where ancient Greek tradition has it, Zeus the king of the Gods was born. I used the word revisit, because on my previous visit in September last year, the cave was closed. Consequently, I was determined to return [see 'Into the Plateau'].

The car park on this occasion was packed full - unsurprisingly. We finally ['we' meaning myself and my son-in-law] found a small section of tarmac on which to park and were instantly charged two Euros for the privilege by the ever watchful and eager parking attendant.

We made our way up the steeply inclined track in the heat of the noon-day. A donkey man was hopeful we might want a ride up on his beast. The donkey looked forlorn and tired. The idea of sitting on its back seemed cruel. The donkey man was not getting any takers from the many visitors. He was charging 15 Euros which seemed a lot and off putting. He is destined to remain poor.

As we made our way up to the cave entrance, we kept stopping to take in the view of the Lasithi Plateau. This was a wonderful sight, and the best view I had experienced of it. The Plateau is a vast fertile flat plain set high in the Cretan mountains. It is a patchwork of fields farmed by the local village folk. The villages are truly traditional Greek with many old care-worn people passing their time sat outside of coffee shops and old black clad widows riding donkeys. Many of the local shops sport beautiful locally made lace products in the hope of eking a living from the passing bus loads of tourists. There seemed to be few young people around. I can only guess that either they were away at work in the towns, or else they move out to make their fortune seeing little future in the countryside.

On reaching the cave entrance I was taken by how large it was. I don't know why, I had imagined it to be a lot smaller. The Greeks had done a great job of making it accessible through a system of paths, stairs and walkways. However, before negotiating these we had to pay the 4 Euros entry fee at the ticket hut.

Entering the mouth of the cave it became clear that this was no ordinary cave. It was an enormous cavern stretching out into the dark depths below us. The best way I can describe it was that it was like a vast natural cathedral, rich and ornate in natural formations with stalagmites and stalactites in abundance. Some of the formations had been illuminated by colored lights of various hues.

It was clear that this was an experience to be savored and not hurried. The atmosphere was somewhat damp with water dripping and running down different areas of the cave walls, forming intricate and beautiful patterns in their wake. The vastness of the place was truly awe inspiring and it was easy to understand why the ancients had accredited it as the birthplace of the King of the Gods. My closest experience I have had in my travels was the Batu cave in Malaysia, a few miles outside Kuala Lumpur. That cave was also truly impressive and bore a passing resemblance, but in terms of pure grandeur and scale, then the Dictaian Antron was the winner. It is interesting that the Batu Cave, like the Dictaian Antron also shared religious significance, only this cave was in active use by Hindu worshippers with various shrines to Hindu Deities inset around the walls. Actually, many caves I have visited have had alters and suchlike in them and been used as places of worship. Although I am not a God fearing believer myself, I nevertheless feel awe and a reverence for the laws and natural processes of the universe which collude to bring such awesome places into existence.

I doubt that I will ever return as I like to move around and see different places. I am not one for continually going back to the same place as there are just too many fantastic and awesome places around the world crying out for human appreciation. I took many photographs whilst in the cave, and it will remain etched in my memory. Now I must move on.

Big Questions

There is a programme on the TV on Sunday mornings called “The Big Questions”. My wife likes it. My wife watches it. The other Sunday she was unable to watch it as we had to go out. Having recently forgiven Sky TV for their past misdemeanours in the after-service department, we have recently taken out a new contract with them and have Sky Plus. So………we recorded “The Big Questions” for later consumption.

This past weekend, we were away in Scotland. My wife had a falling accident and hurt herself, so much so, she spent a night in hospital before I was able to (very carefully) transport her home the following day. The doctor said she must have 24 hour care so I am not allowed to leave her unattended for the next few days. I am therefore not going to work for the moment at least.

Bored with the mid-week daytime TV, we decided to watch the recording of “The Big Questions”.

This programme is one of the pseudo-religious affairs where they talk about all sorts of social problems and issues with a live audience. There are always a mixture of people from a number of different religions – and no religion. So….you see the odd dog collared vicar, scull-capped Rabbi, bearded Muslim, habited nun or robed monk etc.

One of the big questions which caused a lot of shouting and argument amongst these ambassadors for God was whether there should be a division between Church and State. The conversation turned into an argument about how awful it is that the Heir to the Throne cannot marry a Roman Catholic. This caused much excitement and shouting.

Now, the reason I am writing this little sketch, is to point out that all this argument and expensive air-time is in reality a load of wasted hot air. The big question they should actually be addressing is the existence of God himself (itself). My point is this: there is no evidence whatsoever for the existence of God – any god. Belief in this Being is based upon an irrational unreason which might have seemed reasonable before the Enlightenment, but we know enough about the universe, and our reasoning and logic have advanced to the point where the very idea that there could actually be a god makes as much sense as arguing over how many fairies can dance on the point of a needle. I am not going to waste time writing out the details of why I am totally convinced of the non-existence of God - for the moment at least. It has always been my experience of convinced religionists that their minds are (in the main) closed to reason and logic, and trying to argue your corner with these people is like farting against the wind. Even so, there are a few who make it out of La La Land, I being one of them.

So – returning to the question over whether there should be a division between Church and State. The answer to this is most obviously “yes” because the Church is based upon an erroneous belief in a God which doesn’t actually exist. This renders their bishops valueless in any issues of import to the State because their whole world view is based upon an untenable notion.

Its time the world woke up and stepped into the wonderful light of reason. Think of all the wars which have been waged because of belief in God. Think of all the dead. Think of all the suffering. Think of all the obscene waste of human resources and creativity in promoting a non-existent entity. God is a neurosis which needs eradicating from the human psyche. Imagine what a far better future we could have without a humanity burdened by religion.