Tasmania on Steroids, Part 1

The title of this post is the only way I can accurately describe my recent trip to Scotland. After visiting the North-West Highlands for a week, I was duly impressed and have etched the evocative landscapes into my memory banks for safekeeping.

The trip was, in an official capacity, classified as ‘work’, but I’d wager that most people would struggle to see it that way. I flew into Inverness with a work colleague who is researching angling and young people, Natalie. We were collected from the airport by Adam, one of the Substance directors and head of the angling project. From there we drove to Perth (that’s the original Perth in Scotland, for those of you playing at home) and spent a couple of days pressing the flesh with angling folk at the Scottish Game Fair, held in the grounds of Scone Palace (http://www.scone-palace.co.uk/content/view/2/3/). As far as a spectacle goes, I can’t think of an Aussie equivalent. Try combining an country agricultural show with the sort of crowd who might cheer for The King’s School at a Head of the River regatta, and sprinkle in the odd bogan attired in camouflage gear and wellies (gumboots). Then add the thumping percussion of shotgun noise from a nearby shooting range, and you’re getting close.

The clear favourite for us, though, was the performing troupe of sheep choreographed by Kiwi shepherd who loved hamming (or should it be lambing?) it up for the crowd. Take a look for yourself.

When we pulled ourselves away from the tweed jackets and deer-antler furniture on display at the fair, it was a four-hour drive to our accommodation north of Lochinver, on the North-West coast (http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/lochinver/lochinver/; this website is particularly good if you want to see photos of the landscape and villages in the surrounding area). The car trip took us through some delightfully rugged country; bulging rocky crags swirling with low cloud, rushing streams of Highland water and lonely white cottages that the Scots seem to adore. It was a blissful escape from the social claustrophobia I felt amongst Scone’s genteel crowd.

Adam, Natalie and I bunkered down for 5 days at Culkein, in a holiday-letting version of the ubiquitous white cottage (closest building in the photo at left). Small crofts (farms) and views of the sea at Eddrachillis Bay filled our windows. It was beautiful and accessible only by a single lane road. A great place to write a PhD, I thought, but I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore, do I??

We somehow managed to fit a lot of work and play into each day, an achievement facilitated by the massive amounts of sunlight on offer at this time of the year. We went fishing after dinner most evenings, returning home as the light began to fade around midnight. Adam, pictured below, shows off some mackerel that he caught off rocks about a 30 minute walk from our cottage. I caught plenty of fish too; it’s just that they happened to be either unknown to science (the yet-to-be-named “orange spotty rock fish”), undersized, or a combination of both. In my view I was just keeping the other fish busy so Adam could do his thing, you see...

High Life in the Lanes

I know, I know. It has been a while between posts. I can't think of any legitimate excuses, and I can't blame a lack of material because there's been plenty happening...

Which brings us to this post. As new members of our neighbourhood group, the Didsbury Lanes Association, Kel & I received an invite to the annual Laneway Residents Festival. For the grand sum of £5 a head, we were promised 6 hours of food from local restaurants, wine and beer, music and entertainment. Good deal? You better believe it! As you can see from the photo below, Kel wasted no time securing a glass of vino bianco.

Our fellow festival-goers were a mix of young families, retirees, young professionals and the ubiquitous local Member of Parliament. The 'theme' of the festival was European; but, regrettably, nobody had the foresight to arrange a Eurovision-style song contest. In fact, to my gross disappointment there was very little Euro-kitsch on display anywhere, with the exception of several enterprising young kids who came dressed in their finest Swiss milk-maid and Gerrard Depardieu costumes.

The range of food on offer was astounding, given the meagre entry price. Spanish paella (see accompanying photo), Scottish haggis, Italian fettucini and penne pasta, Irish stew, and...errr...Indian samosas (note to festival organisers: unless I'm horribly mistaken, India is NOT part of the EU).

True to form, I was roped into organising and running an activity - boules (or petanque, or bocce, depending on your euro-perspective). To my complete astonishment the boule tournament, played in the backyard of nearby resident, was a hit with the locals and gobbled up at least 2 hours of festivities. It was a divine miracle that I happened to coordinate semi-intoxicated people hurling heavy metal balls into the air without any property damage or minor flesh wounds occurring.

It stands to reason that next year the theme will be Australian and I will be asked to stage-manage the entire event, write funding applications and convince Peter-Russell Clarke to come out of retirement and whip up a pavlova or two. Watch this space.