"...what other ways can you sell me on joining Twitter?"

War!

What is it good for?

Absolutely nothin', say it again...

But what about Twitter? Ah, now that is a different story.

I was, I admit very reluctant to join Twitter. I had no idea what I was going to do with it, or indeed use it for. It was pointed out to me that I could find things out. 

Well, surely I could do that with Google?

Okay, maybe I could, but would I get it directly from the horses mouth so to speak? Well, no.

So I asked my friend, who goes by the name of Kemocs on Twitter, what other ways can you sell me on joining Twitter?

"Well, you like science don't you?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to see tweets directly from astronauts on-board the international space station? Or what Professor Brian Cox is up to?"

"You like stuff like Spaced and Star Trek and things with Stephen Fry, right?"

"I am intrigued. Sell me more."

So he did.

Not only did I see information and stories from people in science, the public eye and everywhere else, I also got in touch with and communicated with people I would probably never meet in 'real-life'.

I will name names.  Helen from France, Dr Watsonette, Judy, Jamie Mahoney, Claire Hammond, Nancy Scott, Elaine Wedgewood, Hope (you know who you are), Mrs Robinson (Here's to you Mrs Robinson...), the wonderful Wendy who has taught me more about autism than could possibly ever imagine, Tracey B (cupcake), SadieX with her extremely interesting  and incredibly complicated life, Sharon J, Seaside Sophist and many many more.

I have 'spoken' to friends I know and friends I hope I have made on Twitter. I have responded to and chatted with people like Robin Ince (if you don't know who he is, shame on you. Have you never listened to The Infinite Monkey Cage on BBC Radio 4? He has done lots of other stuff, but as the ranting science novice. he is tremendous).

Others I have been luckily enough to converse with are Barnaby Edwards, the utterly brilliant Clive Merrison (the greatest radio Sherlock Holmes ever), Reece Shearsmith (The League of Gentlemen) as well as Geek Gods Jason Bradbury and Jon Bentley from the Gadget Show, as well as many others.

I try not to bore people too much with my tweets. I try to be supportive and funny and kind. I try to reply as honestly as I can with my tweets and I hope that comes across.

I did not join a social network to be abusive and anti-social. That's not the point. I cannot understand why people do that, do not be anti-social on a social network, it's not nice.

Something else that has happened to me since joining Twitter, and I am so glad it did, was finding and old and very dear friend. I cannot believe I have found her again, and I am so pleased that I have. Hello again Jinty. May we never go that length of time again without talking.

Okay, enough of my ranting. As I say, I try not to bore, but I just wanted to say, I'm glad I made the 'step' and joined. To all my fellow Tweeters, thanks.

There's somethin' happenin' here...

There's something happening here,

What it is ain't exactly clear,

There's a man with a bun over there,

Telling me I got to beware,

I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound...

Woah! "There's a man with a bun over there?" A BUN?

Yes I mean a bun. A cake, a pastry, the small, usually sweet, breaded hand-sized or smaller, domed in shape, with a flat bottom tempting edible object found in bakers.


Why do I mention this? Well because over the last year or so these little but delicious items have been creeping into my system like sugar and dough based ninjas and making my waist size increase.

It has taken me a bit of time to notice, but they have done it. How do I know? Well the trousers/jeans that I wear are a bit tighter than usual and the holes in my belt are steadily getting wider apart. 


If I don't get to grips with these delightful little fat inducers, they may take over my body.


If I am successful, I will let you know. If I am not, I will float above you like a Graf Zepplin.


Have bun... erm, I mean fun.

Boom... bang... a bang

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away...

Well, all my troubles were in the same place but smothered in a cloud of shotgun smoke. Yes, it was Cluny Clays time again.

The weather was excellent. The drive to Fife was excellent. The food and service at Cluny Clays were excellent. And as for the shooting... well, as I said, The weather was excellent. The drive to Fife was excellent... As you have probably gathered by that last statement we didn't have the greatest day destroying small saucer shaped objects fired at high and low velocity, low and high into the air and across the ground.

As always we start off with 50 rounds and one shotgun. 

Sometimes it's just three of us, sometimes more. In this case there were four of us, my friend Phill, Raymond and his son William.

The sun was shinning and the wind was pretty decent, meaning that it wouldn't blow the clays or shot about causing us to look like we had no idea what we were doing. We actually manage that one quite well on our own.

At Cluny Clays there are 8 shooting ranges and Olympic skeet and an English skeet range. We started of at the first of the ranges, which is , logically, range one. We have previously started of at one of the skeet ranges and regretted it. If you start of badly, it can only go one way. Okay, it could go two ways, the other way being 'better'.

So, we started shooting. Boom... bang... a bang. It went well. We hit stuff... the rest of the ranges went well... we hit stuff again... we hit even more stuff... and them we missed stuff... a few clays were missed... and then hit again. And missed again.

To cut a very long story short the results were as follows:

Phill: 27 hits

Raymond: 31 hits

me: 34

William: 38

So not a great day, but not too bad either. The day improved somewhat with the purchasing of food and drink from the excellent restaurant. The food is always good and the service is second to none. 

If you ever get the chance to go to Cluny Clays I would really recommend it.

So before I bore you with more details, I will bid you adieu and wish all a happy day.

The plan for the weekend

All going well, if the weather hold out and we don't get wiped out in an asteroid strike or alien invasion, my mates Phill, Raymond and myself should be going to Cluny Clays in Fife for some clay pigeon culling.

We go to Cluny Clays every once in a while and have a good time. 

Nah, we have a great time. 

Cluny is about 20 miles from the glorious city of Edinburgh, and approximately 13 miles north east of the engineering marvel (and Golden gate look-a-like) Forth Road Bridge. 

If you have never been to Cluny before I would really recommend it. Not only will you have a good time on the activity of your choice whether it be golf, clay pigeon shooting, or archer, but you can get a flipping good meal as well. 

Cluny isn't just for gun tootin' wanna be James Bond types (neither my mates nor myself resemble in any way Pierce Brosnan nor Daniel Craig), it is for everybody. I will now quote from the official website 

"The minimum age to join the fun at Cluny Shooting is 10 years. For children under 10 there is lots to do in the Cluny Kids 'Play Naturally park'."

So you see, fun for all the family.  If you want to check it out and see if there is anything for you have a look at http://www.clunyclays.co.uk/index.php

I will take some photographs and, if the scores are good, let you know how we get on. If we merely pepper the air with shot, I will not mention it. Hey, we have our pride to think about.

Have fun.

The Game's afoot!

My first real memory of Sherlock Holmes comes from the dark and distant past of 1978.

As a young school boy I would wait with anticipation on a Sunday afternoon to hear one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories dramatised in 30 minutes plays on BBC Radio 4.

The one that sticks in my mind the most was Silver Blaze. I often wonder why it sticks in my head so clearly. I can still hear Barry Foster (he played Holmes in 13 episodes of the Holmes canon, with David Buck as Dr Watson) reciting dialogue. But why? I wonder if it was because this was one of the first successful audio recording I ever did. I have no idea what happened to the recording, but I know I would have played it to death taking in the atmosphere of the story. I would have placed the 'plug-in' microphone, placing it near, but not against the speaker of the radio, with it's volume at a suitable level to avoid 'rumble'. I know that I would have done that.

Even though Barry Foster was my first radio ‘Holmes’, my all time favourite radio ‘Sherlock Holmes’ has to be Mr Clive Merrison. He has made the radio Holmes his own and totally encompasses the part. When I listen to the performances, I ‘see’ every aspect of the story. The late Michael Williams followed in the footsteps of the David Burke and Edward Hardwicke portrayals of John Watson and made him credible and human. Sadly, Michael Williams passed away and I was not sure who could replace him. Then I heard Andrew Sachs and felt he slipped into the role perfectly. However, when I read any Sherlock Holmes story, whether by Sir Arthur or a pastiche I still hear Clive Merrison and Michael Williams.

As for my first recollection of Sherlock on the screen, well it has to be the classic black and white adventures of Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. I am sure I must have seen other actors play the part, but they were not Sherlock Holmes, Rathbone was. My favourite film? Well, that would be The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939), with Ida Lupino and the wonderfully menacing George Zucco.

Rathbone seemed perfect for the part and Bruce’s Watson was a great foil for Holmes intellect at least that was the way I saw it then. It was not until many years later and the arrival of late Jeremy Brett and (to me) the late Edward Hardwicke that I saw the real Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H Watson, MD.

Jeremy Brett was cultured.

Jeremy Brett was manic.

Jeremy Brett was overly dramatic.

Jeremy Brett was subtle.

Jeremy Brett was Holmes.

Edward Hardwicke was not Jeremy Brett’s first Watson but he was the best. David Burke set a standard that Edward Hardwicke not only reached but also exceeded. He was not the bumbling oaf as portrayed by Nigel Bruce, and many other who saw his performance as definitive, but a sophisticated and truly believable human being. I would have trusted this man to treat my ailments in the same way I would have asked ‘Holmes’ to solve my mystery.

That is my first memory of Sherlock Holmes, a memory that will never go away. I still adore the stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and some of the imitators and I am sure I always will.

Forgive me, the fog is swirling around the gas lit streets, the wheels of a Hansom cab are rattling over the cobbles and the steady clump of a client’s boots are climbing the stairs. The game’s afoot!

The Scottish Korean War Memorial

On the 25^th of June 1950, North Korean troops supported and supplied by the Soviet Union and the Peoples Republic of China attacked the South Korean positions to the south of the 38^th parallel, the border between north and south.

On the 1^st of July 1950, troops from the United States of America arrived in South Korea to support the forces against the communist attacks, three days after that, General Douglas MacArthur was named Supreme Commander of ground, air and naval forces by the United Nations Security Council.

On the 29^th of August 1950, the British 27^th Brigade arrived from Hong Kong in order to strengthen the United Nations forces. Less than a month later United Nations Forces breakout of the Korean coastal city of Pusan and make their way towards the 38^th Parallel and with South Korean troops in the lead, cross the border to engage with the Communist forces from the North.

This conflict, though largely forgotten by the majority of the British public these days, was crucial in world politics. When you think about it, the United States, Great Britain and the Commonwealth, as well as Belgium, Columbia, Ethiopia, France, Greece, Luxemburg, Netherlands, Philippines, Thailand, Turkey and the Union of South Africa were technically at war with the ground and air forces of the North Korea, China and to a lesser extent the Soviet Union.

I must not forget that even the medical units, although not technically combatant were also in the front line. Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals (MASH) came from Denmark, Italy, India, Norway and Sweden.

Another fact that passes many people by is that this ‘conflict’ technically has not yet ended. No peace treaty was signed, merely an armistice. What is the difference? There was never any declaration of an end to hostilities just a cease-fire. This document was signed on the 27th July 1953 in the Korean city of Panmunjom.

Why the history lesson? Well, recently I visited the Scottish Korean War Memorial. This memorial was officially opened on the 27^th June 2000 to mark the 50^th anniversary of the start of the conflict. It is the only one of its kind in Britain and that adds to the pride that I felt as I went in to the pan tile roofed wooden pagoda that houses the names of the 1090 British service personnel who laid down their lives. 

Another thing that is probably not that well known is that 88% of them were National Servicemen aged between 18 and 20.

When my father went out as a member of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, he was 21 years old. His friends were about the same age. I have a photograph of five of them in battledress and ‘tam ‘o shanters’, it’s like a very large beret with a pommel on top worn by Scottish Regiments of the line.

Of the five young men in the photograph, only three came back. Of the three, my father spent time in a military hospital after being wounded in combat, I have photograph of him during his recovery in the joint services hospital. The second was captured, held by the North Korean and Chinese until repatriation in the middle of 1953. As for the third, he returned home and no doubt lives a happy and fulfilled life.

I am proud that this monument stands to commemorate the fallen and I am glad that my fathers name isn’t one of them. I am also sad for the families who come along to look at the names of their loved ones. No matter when or where our forces served or are serving, we should never forget them and always support them.

Okay, I have finished ‘banging the drum’; you can go about your normal business now. Thank you for your time.

Monday 27th July 2011... Boots, boots, boots, boots, marching up and down again...

Monday 27th July 2011

On the 27th July, my friend Alan and I decided to go walking. When I say we decided to go walking on the 27th, we actually decided about two weeks before that, but the 27th was the actual day we went walking. Now that’s been cleared up, I’ll get on with the blog.

On the 27th of July, my friend Alan I went for a walk, so it was boots, boots, boots, boots, marching up and down again. We headed towards Beecraigs Country Park, a 913 acre (370 hectare) area of land owned and maintained by West Lothian Council.

We had a map and a rough plan of what we were going to do. The plan, of course, was flexible and would change depending on what we saw or what we felt like doing.

We began our slightly less than epic trek at the rather nice visitors centre car park. From there we to  the viewing platform that allows you to see the spectacular views of the surrounding landscape and fields of deer and cattle that are bred and are taken care of by the Park Rangers.

Some of these deer are beautiful creatures, sleek and elegant, and some stand proud with their antlers high showing their superiority, an absolute joy to behold.

Other occupants of other fields are the shaggy highland cattle. I have to see these are less elegant but oh my, they are powerful looking beasts. I would not like to infringe on their territory.

We took our time walking and soaking in the views. Part of the walk takes you into a largely wooded area with trees that seem to reach to the sky. Through these trees, a view of a small loch starts to appear and once clear of the trees you are greeted by a wonderful sight of water and wilderness. On the loch were a number of small rowboats, each occupied by two anglers. We stood and watched them quietly waiting for a movement in and on the water, poised ready to reel in the catch of the day. I have to say, whilst we stood there, they did not meet with success.

We continued around the loch occasionally looking back to see if we had missed a massive fish being pulled from the water, but we hadn't, so we kept moving. 

The views are really lovely. The trees are full and thick and tall, it reminds me of images I have seen of Canada. I am sure that there are areas of Scandinavia that would look identical to what we walked through. The great thing about that day was the weather. It was bright and clear but also not too hot. There was a slight wind that kept us from boiling and kept us happy.

We continued to walk, following the route through the trees and across the landscape to the top of Cockleroy Hill. Oh my, what a view. As you stand at the summit and if you slowly turn 360 degrees, you have some of the best scenery you can possibly imagine. The hill itself rises to a height of 912 feet (that's 278m). We looked towards the east and could clearly see Arthur's Seat, some 20 miles away. We also took in the views of the Forth Road and Forth Rail Bridges. 

Closer to home are the views over the town of Linlithgow. The views from the top of Cockleroy Hill are wonderful and well worth the climb. It offers a great view of the Goat Fell on the Isle of Arran, the Bass Rock of the coast of North Berwick and Ben More and Ben Vorlich to the north. If you ever get the chance to visit this area, do so, if nothing else for these fantastic views.

The great thing about any walk that we go on is, it isn’t a forced march. We take our time. We take in the views and we enjoy the day. We certainly enjoyed this day and were slightly saddened when we had to return to the car park and leave the marvellous nature of Beecraigs Country Park.

We have another couple of things lined up and if I can find the time and motivate myself enough I most certainly write them up. However, until then, I say farewell.

16th July 2011... better late than never

Over the last few weeks, I have seriously neglected my blog. Blog, I am so sorry. Really I am. I’m not just saying it. I mean it. I have told you nothing. However, little bloggy, that is about to change. Better late than never.

Well? What have I been doing?

Saturday 16^th July 2011

Well, on the 16^th of July my wife, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and I went to Blackness Boat Club Open Day. This is a chance for the public to get an insight into sailing, rowing and the joys of the sea. To be honest it was not heavily attended, but those of us who did attend had a really good time.

There were many stalls set out, some selling sailing and boating merchandise and some informing you of the wonderful work that the United Kingdom Coastguard and The Royal National Lifeboat Institute carry out.

There was a demonstration on what to take if you go sailing, and how to check your life jacket if you decide to go bobbing along on the beautiful shiny sea. This was particularly useful, as I knew I would be heading out onto the water at some stage.

So after resolutely fortifying myself with a burger or two and a cup of tea (just for the energy you understand), I tagged onto the Queensferry Boat Club and managed to get myself onto their 4 man rowing ‘skiff’ (forgive the technical jargon) ‘The Ferry Lass’.

I have been out in the water before. On a decent sized boat out into the River Forth, on a reasonably sized boat on a loch in Scotland and the most memorable occasion on a small fishing boat off the coast of Cornwall on a bit of a rough day. That one didn’t not end well, in fact I should I say I ended up very un-well.

But I knew it wouldn’t be like that today. On my first trip out that day, I sat in the third slot and listen attentively to the coxswain barking out orders to the really tall guy in the No. 1 seat, the short woman in the No. 2 seat and the medium sized girl behind me in the No. 4 slot.

What we should have done was compare heights. When you have 4 people, all of differing heights, all trying to row in unison, it doesn’t always work. It almost did, but not quite. In addition, the short woman in front of me didn’t always get the oar (never, ever call it a ‘paddle’) out of the water in time. When this happens, it is referred to as ‘catching a crab’ and results in the rower being smacked in the chest by the handle of the oar because the sea forces the oar back the way at high speed. When you ‘catch a crab’ a couple of times, you try to make damn sure it never happens again.

We did quite well though and Mark and the guys were happy enough with the performance. We rowed for a good bit, managed to miss all the other small craft tied up or anchored at the pier or in the small harbour and made it back with no casualties.

Mark asked if I wanted to stay on, but I thought I better give someone else a chance to have some fun. So, after another cup of tea, a sit down on a slightly drier surface than ‘The Ferry Lass’, I headed back down to the slip-way, got my lifejacket back on and took up the No. 3 slot again.

This trip out was much better due to the fact we were all the same size. We rowed like a team. We pushed our way out towards the middle of the water, concentrating on ever stroke of the oar and every word from the coxswain. After 10 minutes, we stopped and surveyed the distant shore and the dark water all around us. When we were ready, we began again to make our way back to the slipway of the boat club.

I’m sorry to say that I didn’t get a chance to help take the ‘ Ferry Lass’ back to Queensferry, but if the opportunity arises I will be there.

As the day drew to a close and the dull white clouds turned to grey, we gathered our belongings, loaded the car back up with our thermos flasks of tea and bottles of water and drove home.

A fine day and an enjoyable day was had by all.

"...boat-trips on the often cold, but always-picturesque River Forth..."

This weekend we have plans to visit Blackness Boat Club for their Open Day. Once again, we will hope for good weather, pack the picnic basket with goodies and head off towards the coast.

There will be a barbecue as always, there will be drink (both alcoholic and soft) and there will entertainment for all the family. I believe the younger attendees have a ‘bouncy-castle’ amongst other things to keep them occupied.

There will also be boat-trips on the often cold, but always-picturesque River Forth for those whose heart is filled with adventure, or who just want to be thrown about in a small craft and possibly hit by flailing mast and some canvas sheeting. If it’s anything to do with my neighbour two doors up who is a member of the boat club, I will probably be one of the ones hit by the aforementioned items. We do get on well, but he likes the idea of me turning green whilst bobbing about in the open sea.

At some point next week, I will write it up, if I am able.

The weekend after that, my friend Alan and I are planning a series of small but scenic walks through one of the local country parks. There are about six lovely trails through greenery and past a small loch; there is also a nice hill climb that gives you a great view of the landscape for miles around.

Once again the walking boots will have to be looked out, the double sock layer put into effect (double socks usually prevent chaffing and blisters) and the small rucksack filled with a couple of fresh bread rolls, a flask of tea, bottles of water, nut based chocolate bars (chocolate provides energy and nuts provide protein) and some wet-wipes. Wet-wipes are so useful for so many things. I won’t go into detail but I’m sure you can use your imagination.

Anyway, if I get around to it, I will type it up. Until then I bid you goodbye.

Blackness Castle is often referred to as ‘the ship that never sailed’.

Last week and a bit of this week, we had summer. It was nice and I hope we have another one next year too.

The main part of the summer took place from Friday 1^st July to Monday 4^th July. Each one of these days was start to finish heat and sunshine.

Rather than waste the opportunity my wife and I packed a picnic yes, a real one in a wicker basket with cold meat and tomato bread rolls, potato crisps, thermos flasks of tea and lashing of soft drinks. We put a couple of folding chairs into the back of the car, collected my mother-in-law and sister-in-law and headed a mere 5 miles from home to the little village of Blackness.

Now don’t get me wrong, if our town had a decent beach we would have stayed here, we are after all on the same coast line, but it doesn’t have a beach, so we had to travel a little further.

Blackness is a small village. It has a small population. It has a school with a very small number of pupils. It has post office and an inn for the weary traveller to rest their head, but it also has a rather nice beach. It also has a very friendly feel about it.

When we arrived, we had two options about where to park. We chose the usual one (we have been here several times before). This particular place is close to the low wall that borders the narrow grass and sand, nor far from the stone jetty. The sand isn’t brilliant, but it gives you the chance to enjoy the cool, salty waters of the River Forth.

When the tide is low, the humps of the salt marches become visible. Harbour milkwort and sea arrow grass cover a lot of this area. Across the rocks, there is a green tinge to the mud flats. This is known as eelgrass. It looks green and it’s slimy, like an eel.

We unloaded the car, admired the view and began walking the five-minute journey (my mother-in-law and sister-in-law do not sprint under any circumstances) to one of the nicest examples of 15^th, 16^th and 17^th century architecture in this area. The castle juts out into the River Forth, like the prow of a ship on a base of basalt rock. Blackness Castle is often referred to as ‘the ship that never sailed’. The ‘nose’ or ‘ness’  of the basalt rock also gave it it’s name.

We headed towards a large expanse of grass area where wooden tables are set out for the public to enjoy a sit down and a meal. We opened our wicker basket, removed the cold meat and tomato bread rolls and began to eat. The potato crisps were passed around, and the thermos flasks of tea and lashing of soft drinks were consumed. After this, we sat in the sun listening to nature and other families going about their business.

We sat for a few hours. I wandered about and took some photos as my mother-in-law, sister-in-law wife and wife rested in the heat and then the shade. Rather than take up space the used the folding chairs.

As the day began to cool, we decided it was time to pack up and go. We knew that if the weather stayed like this we would return. During that weekend, we also watched the Blackness Boat Club small boat regatta where barbequed sausages, burgers, and bottles of beer were the order of the day.

The weather has not been that great since then, but when the weather improves, we shall return.

“a local village, for local people”.

Recently I have been having some odd dreams. Maybe I should stop watching some very odd, dark but brilliant comedies.  Maybe I should stop listening to or reading the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 

But then again... maybe not. Here is an example of what I have been dreaming... in the style of Dr John H Watson.

"It was in the summer of eighteen hundred and ninety-five, that I once again visited my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. It had been some time since my last visit, but I had read of Holmes exploits in a number of newspapers.

My practice had kept me busy and I took this lull in my affairs to drop in on my friend and enjoy some pleasant conversation and in the hope that Mrs Hudson had been preparing some of her wonderful scones.

As we sat and chatted about the events of my friends recent cases, I began to note everything down in a small book to turn them into more adventures for the readers of The Strand Magazine. Such tales as “The Adventure of the Female Bridegroom” and the “The Adventure of the Wandering Cow” would, I know enthral the readers, but in the middle of “The Adventure of the Reluctant Danish Traveller”, the ringing of the doorbell interrupted us. A few moments later, a ponderous step ascended and the door opened to reveal Mr Mycroft Holmes.

To some in Whitehall Mycroft Holmes merely worked for the government, but those who were knowledgeable he was the government.

Mycroft’s did not leave his office very often, so this particular visit must be one of extreme importance. His task for his brother was to visit the tiny hamlet of Royston Vasey and investigate the disappearance of travellers to those parts.

The next morning we boarded the train from St Pancras Station, to begin our journey. As we reclined in the carriage, I was able to complete some of my notes on “The Adventure of the Reluctant Danish Traveller”. I would occasionally extract from Holmes some piece of the story that I did not understand, and in this way, the journey passed amiably.

As we sat and watched the empty blue sky and the brilliant sunshine that bathed the countryside, it seemed to darken as we approached what our Bradshaw described as Royston Vasey Halt, a note below the name of the station described it as “a local village, for local people”.

I had a feeling that with the weather turning against us, the location of the village far from civilisation and this last piece of information, things did not bode well…"

If the weather is good, we will pack the picnic ‘basket’ with goodies...

On any given Sunday, my wife and I usually go to my dads for a bit of chat and some Sunday dinner, but this Sunday will be different. My dad and my sister will be heading out to Spain for a few weeks, so we will be at a bit of a loose end. However, I have a plan.

Whenever I say, “I have a plan!” my wife usually rolls her eyes and says “Go on then, tell me.” Whilst preparing to shoot it down in flames. My plan is that we go and see the sailing regatta in the village about 5 miles from where we live and have a picnic. I am also suggesting that we take my mother-in-law, as she does not get out much.

If the weather is good, we will pack the picnic ‘basket’ with goodies and fill a couple of thermos flasks with hot, sweet tea.

The sailing regatta begins about 4pm, so my plan is… (I can see rolling of eyes) my plan is that we should get there about 1pm, have some lunch, enjoy the view, maybe walk to the local castle which as a few hundred yards away and then sit and wait for the sailing to begin. If the weather is going to be anything like what we have had recently it should be a great day.

The other night my wife and I drove to the boat club holding the regatta just because it seemed like a good idea at the time. We sat watching the long grass that bordered the sand and shingle beach, weave and almost dance in the warm gentle breeze that came of the water. The leaves in the trees nearby hissed as the air passed through them and the seabirds circled overhead, sometimes landing on the damp sand to feed or to rest.

Out on the water about a dozen small sailboats bobbed in a low tide, their ropes slapping against their masts. A yellow glow settled on the undulating River Forth as the sun shone below sparse white cloud that drifted across the sky.

Now if the weather is going to be anything like that on Sunday, we should be more than content.

I am not alone in grief, I know this...

I was at another funeral this week.

This is my third funeral in 3 months.

When I turned 40 a few years back a work colleague said that time would pass quicker, weeks would seem like weekends, weekends like a day and I would go to more funerals that I had ever gone to before I turned 40. He was right.

Most recently, it was one of my wife’s uncles. Before that it was one of my uncles, before that it was another of my wife’s aunts. They had all had good lives and that is what counts. My wife’s aunt and uncle were husband and wife and they were in their 80’s. He passed away 4 weeks after she did. My uncle was in his late 70’s. His wife and daughter survive him.

When my mother died in 2003, she was 72. When her youngest sister died, she was 50. My uncle George died when he was 33; he was my mother’s brother. I was 10 years old when he died and that was my first real experience of grief.

A couple of years ago my fathers auntie died, she was 98, and when my grandfather, my fathers-father died, he was 91.

Since I turned 40, along with other members of my family, I have lost three uncles and three aunts, as well as family from my wife’s side. The majority of the relatives I have lost have been to a disease that medical science cannot yet cure, although a cure, it seems, is ‘around the corner’.

I am not alone in grief, I know this, but I just needed to say the things I have said.

History is important, never forget.

Approximately 5 miles from where I live is a very large-scale industrial area. Its ‘foot-print’ is big and it supplies work for many people in the local and not so local area.

I drive past certain bits of it on the way to and from various places and never really give it a second thought. However, something that catches the eye is, for want of a better description, a red brick wall. On this wall, there is a plaque with a number of flags and a number of names etched upon it.

If you take the time to look at it what you see might come as a bit of a surprise, because this fairly nondescript ‘wall’ commemorates the lives and actions of the Royal Air Force pilots of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Commonwealth (Anzacs) and those of Poland, The Czech Republic (formerly Czechoslovakia) and Hungary.

This large industrial area has a bit of history about it that I am about to share with you, and I hope you find it interesting and maybe gives you the incentive to have a bit of a look around where you live.

Grangemouth Central Scotland Airport (yes really), was opened in July 1939. The idea was to use this airfield for Volunteer Reserve Training Centre and as a main airport for central Scotland. To the west there was Abbotsinch Airport (now Glasgow International) and to the east Turnhouse (now Edinburgh International).

North Eastern Airways started a passenger service between London, Newcastle, Grangemouth, Aberdeen and Orkney using Dragon Rapides, but when war was declared in September 1939, the Air Ministry (now the Ministry of Defence) commandeered it and all civil flights stopped.

The military quickly changed the site to camouflage colours (greens & browns), from the original white in an attempt to hinder Luftwaffe reconnaissance flights. It was also at this time that the Grangemouth Airport came under the control of No. 13 Command, and Grangemouth was designated one of the Fighter Stations to protect Central Scotland from the Luftwaffe. This role would continue until late autumn of 1940, when the danger of attack was deemed remote, and R.A.F. Grangemouth was removed from Fighter Command.

The largest contingent of aircraft stationed at the site were Supermarine Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes, both of which would go on to play a major role in what would become the Battle of Britain. The Squadron based there was No. 58 Operational Unit and its role was to teach fighter pilots to fly Spitfires. Many pilots from all over the world trained at Grangemouth and it became the primary base for Polish pilots before joining the R.A.F. Free Polish Spitfire Squadrons.

Many of these pilots would return to Grangemouth as instructors after their operational tours of duty, and Grangemouth would continue to train pilots up until 1944 at which point a Gliding School was introduced to train Air Corps Cadets.

Sadly, the Grangemouth Central Scotland Airport closed in 1955 when Grangemouth Council, who used it for industrial development, acquired the site.

It seems mind boggling to think that approximately 60 years ago, Luftwaffe aircraft where flying over Grangemouth on bombing missions.

I have no idea what it would have been like when the air raid sirens sounded and the low murmur of the inward bound bombers could be heard overhead, and we must admire what our grand parents and great grand parents had to put up with.

Go on, get yourself out and about and see what is hidden around you and maybe let others know. History is important, never forget.

Who can resist the charms of Irene Adler in “A Scandal in Bohemia…?”

With all the important business done for the day, I decided to settle down in the sun and fresh air and contemplate my neat and tidy garden. My wife was visiting her sister and I would have joined her if it were not for my slightly ailing foot.

I sat taking in the lovely view and listening to the sounds of nature all around me, and opened my collected volume of Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Okay, maybe the above statements are not quite the memoirs of Dr John H Watson, MD but I thought it started well. I have indeed spent quite a bit of this afternoon in the garden and with the words or Conan Doyle not before my eyes but streaming from my MP3 player and pouring into my ears.

In my mind, the figure of Holmes is and always will be the late great Jeremy Brett. In my opinion he gave the definitive portrait of the character, as for Dr John Watson, he is personified by the late, and just as great Edward Hardwicke, to some he will always be Major Pat Grant (in reality Major P.R. Reid) in Colditz, but to me always Watson.

I suppose everyone is different, as they read or hear the stories they will have their own images, but Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke are mine. A very, very close second would be the 21^st Century versions portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, but I would never ever have Roger Moore or even Matt Frewer fill the roll. When you think of all the actors who have taken on the roll, Peter Cushing, Ronald Howard, Douglas Wilmer, et al, why did they pick these two? What were they thinking?

I began with “A Study in Scarlet” in a complete and unabridged form and thoroughly enjoyed it. I have to say this re-igniting of my interest in the works of Conan Doyle and in particular, the Sherlock Holmes stories come from recent opening of The Diogenes Club (I would recommend the site http://thenewdiogenesclub.blogspot.com/ to anyone who is ‘into’ Sherlock Holmes). You can also follow them on Twitter. (I should point out that I am in no way connected to or with the site, its just pretty cool that's all).

Today has been the beginning of the Holmes legend, tomorrow if I get the chance I will continue with “The Sign of (the) Four”, after that The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Who can resist the charms of Irene Adler in A Scandal in Bohemia or the redheaded mystery of Mr Jabez Wilson, or the somewhat sad story of Miss Mary Sutherland?

If you don’t have the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes stories on MP3, or the paper version, BBC Radio 4 Extra are currently broadcasting the Bert Coules adapted stories with the inspired casting of Clive Merrison and the late Michael Williams.

Anyway, must get on with real life, dull and depressing as it is.

Now if they gave me a tank or armoured car to play with...

I was hoping to get out and go shooting this weekend with a couple of ‘buddies’ but, even though I am taking medication my foot is starting to play up. In case you have no idea what I mean by this please refer back to "...may-return more often than a badly digested onion ring."
The pain will not be as intense, but will make walking about for any real length of time extremely uncomfortable. I am saddened by the fact I won’t be going. Now if they gave me a tank or armoured car to play with, that might make a difference, well, as long I didn’t have to put my right foot down.

For the next few days I will be ‘up-ing’ my dose and taking anti-inflammatory tablets, as suggested by my doctor. It should make necessary walking less painful, but all ‘fun’ walking is really a no-no.

Jimbo, signing-off.

Something for the weekend

If all goes to plan, we (The Three Musketeers) should be going out clay pigeon shooting this weekend, and I have to say I am looking forward to it.

When I say looking forward to it, I don't mean in a "vive l'amour vive la guerre et vive le sacre mercenaire" Dogs of War, Wild Geese, lets blast everything in sight kind of a way, but in a 'looking forward to meeting up with friends' kind of a way.

We also have a plan to have a go at (our usual) Clay pigeon shooting, (not so usual) target rifles with telescopic sights and (really out of the ordinary) archery.

If anything exciting happens I will be sure to let you know.

Does anyone out there remember the "Commando" comics?

The reason I ask is, recently I was in the local library and what did I see but a volume entitled “The Dirty Dozen – The Best 12 Commando Comic Books Ever!”

The memories starting flooding back of these pocket sized pieces of action and adventure and how much fun they were to read. And before you ask, yes I did book it out.

For anybody who is not familiar with this particular piece of graphic literature (I’m sure nowadays it would be called a “graphic novel”, but it will always be a comic to me), the thing itself was about 5 or 6 inches in height, about 4 or 5 inches wide and about a ¼ of an inch thick. The reason for the rough estimate is I am not convinced that the collected volume is an accurate, in size anyway, of the original issues.

Another thing about the Commando comic was its striking covers. There was always at least one action picture on the front. The covers would have the word Commando and a graphic of a Royal Marine Commando dagger. It would then say something like War Stories in Pictures. It would feature a soldier or a number of soldiers in a pitched battle with an enemy, an aircraft dogfight, or some ship or submarine engaged in action, so you see, as a young boy, these kinds of things grabbed the attention. The back cover was also in colour and would feature a synopsis of the story, and on the side of the cover, a much larger version of the dagger would feature.

The stories themselves were, to best of my knowledge, all in black and white. I don’t remember any of the artwork being duff in anyway, but there must have been the odd thing that wasn’t up to scratch. Although, I am sure that the editors made sure that it was of the best quality that they could get. After all, they had an avid audience to please.

As I look through the collected volume, I see titles like “Aces Wild”, “Trouble Spot”, “Death Patrol”, “Battle Wagon” and “Man of Iron”. I mean, c’mon, that really grabs your attention, doesn’t it? These comics were also pocket money priced, so I could get one when the notion took me. That is to say, when the cover grabbed me by the throat and I wanted to see the heroics of the British Army (my dad and some of my uncles did their national service in the army), the Royal Air Force or the Royal Navy.

I’m not sure if the slightly politically incorrect references to German, Japanese and Italian nationals would be allowed now, and I cringe at the thought of some of the slang terms used, I am sure that these fictional remembrances of wars past would still enthral the youth of today, even with Xbox and PS3 computer generated imagery.

I just thought I would share that with you, now if you don’t mind, I am about to settle down to “Death Patrol”… lets see “The night sky over the central Mediterranean erupted into flaming death. The allied invasion of Scilly had begun – Codename Operation Husky”…. Ahhh… bliss.

Although we were RAF civilian staff, as members of the ROC we were permitted to wear their uniform.

Recently I have been thinking of something I did in the past. Some of these memories were re-ignited by the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight during the recent Royal Wedding, and regularly seeing tweets from @RAFBBMF on Twitter.

When I was young, I wanted to join the Royal Air Force. I had just left school and wanted a career, not just a job, but a career. The Royal Air Force seemed exciting and interesting and I hoped it would give me the emotional guidance and strength that I sorely needed after school. I did not want to be adrift; I wanted a purpose in life.

I had been brought up on Saturday afternoon films such as The First of the Few; Reach for the Sky, 633 Squadron, The Dambusters and many, many more. The list is long and distinguished.

I knew I was not good enough to be a pilot but there were other options. I went to recruitment events, got the literature and after a few weeks of soul searching deciding whether I should volunteer for the Air Force or go for the apprenticeship that could take up with the local council, I made a decision. I was going to do it.

One Saturday morning I made my way to the recruitment office in Glasgow. I had tests to sit and a medical to undergo. I had made a choice for my future career path; I was applying for the position of RAF Regiment Gunner. I liked the sound of it. I would be responsible for airfield security, trained to defend instillations and aircraft. I would be a first line of defence. I could go anywhere, the UK, Germany, Hong Kong, anywhere.

To cut a long story short, I passed the paperwork and was pleased to learn the next step was the medical. It was here that the decision of the Air Force, or the apprenticeship was made for me. I failed the medical. I was disappointed. It was not something that was really going to go away, so the decision was final.

I left the recruitment office and headed home. I think I may have tried to alleviate my disappointment by walking about the city taking in the scenery. A nice soothing walk along the riverside always helps.

My mother and father were disappointed for me, but also relieved. My father had served in the army and had fought in the Korean War. At the time the ‘troubles’ were still happening in Northern Ireland and knowing my luck I would have ended up serving at RAF Aldergrove in Belfast, or on facing the Eastern Bloc across the Berlin Wall. The apprenticeship it was then.

I still took a great interest in aircraft and Royal Air Force related events. My parents and I regularly went to air shows and I would still look forward to The First of the Few; Reach for the Sky, 633 Squadron and The Dambusters whenever they came on TV.

One day, after work, watching the television I saw an advert that featured a man in Royal Air Force uniform apparently plotting where bombs were dropping on the population of the UK. Obviously, it was not happening, it was a simulation, but it looked interesting. I got the details of how to contact the organisation and sent away for brochure.

The rest, as they say his history. I volunteered to join the Royal Observer Corps. It wasn’t exactly frontline battlefield, but it seemed like fun. The ROC Group locations were not a secret as almost all were listed in the local phone book under Royal Observer Corp giving the phone number and its address. It wasn’t secret as you can see but the majority of the public knew nothing about the existence of the Royal Observer Corps or its ‘parent’ organisation the United Kingdom Warning and Monitoring Organisation. Those of in it felt a certain excitement and thrill about being in this secret yet not so secret organisation. Although we were RAF civilian staff, as members of the ROC we were permitted to wear their uniform.

The major difference was the cap badge. We had our own. The badge, in a stay-bright material, depicted a ‘beacon lighter’ from the times of Queen Elizabeth the First. These ‘beacon lighter’ were the first warning that the enemy was invading, they did this by lighting warning fires along the coast and when the Observer Corps was formed in the early years of 20^th Century it seemed appropriate to make it the badge.

The UKWMO broke the ROC down into divisions, or ‘Sectors’, each ‘Sector’ had a number of ‘Groups’, and each group a number of ‘Observer Posts’.

The ‘post’ was self-contained unit that worked as part of a cluster of posts, with one post in particular being a ‘master’ post. All Observer Posts were linked by a landline connection; the ‘master’ post had a radio. I had to learn this as well as all the other pieces of kit that we used.

I was part of one of those ‘post’. In fact, in the 9 years I was in the ROC I was part of three posts. I peaked by achieving the rank of Leading Observer, equivalent to the rank of Corporal in the real world. I was also the Instructor and that I really enjoyed.

We wore Royal Air Force uniforms, we ate in the airmen’s mess, we abided by the rules and regulations of the Royal Air Force and we all felt we were part of the bigger picture.

One of the things I really liked about it was the fact that we went to annual training camps on Royal Air Force Bases. Thanks to the Royal Observer Corps I visited RAF Scampton (home of 617 Squadron ‘The Dambusters’) on two separate occasions, RAF Waddington (at that time home of 50 Squadron) sorry to say just the once, RAF Leeming on two separate occasions and a little trip to the RAF College at Cranwell. Other training courses took place in different locations, but those were the highlights for me.

I was also part of two ‘Colour Party’ honour guards (that’s carrying the Flag to those who want to know, but don’t know the jargon). I didn’t carry the ‘colours’ but three of us guarded the officer who did.

I also attended a Royal Garden Party at 11 Group Headquarters at RAF Bentley Priory.

In 1991, the Royal Observer Corps was ‘stood down’ as a result of Defence cuts. It was a sad day for all who wore the badge, but as long as the memory lingers on, it still lives. It was not always great, but I did enjoy the majority of my time with the ROC. If you want to know more about the Corps, you can check it out on the internet.

Battle of Britain over the duvet...

The conversation went something like this.

“Did you see that documentary about the Dam Busters and the bouncing bomb?”

“Yeah… yeah I did.”

“Did you ever build the Airfix Lancaster?”

“Yeah… yeah I did.”

“Have you checked out the Airfix website?”

After that, I went misty eyed at the thought, ah, Airfix. What a wonderful creation. To be honest I wasn’t even sure that Airfix was still that big, but after checking out the Airfix website, I was back into a world of nostalgia.

The website is great. In my opinion, it’s really great.

I did, of course have to look at my favourite kits from my childhood. My favourite kits were the Supermarine Spitfire, the Hawker Hurricane, the Messerschmitt Bf 109 and the Messerschmitt Me 110, all in 1/72 scale. When I was about 8 or 10 maybe even up to 12 years old, I must have made a squadron of these things.

With the Supermarine Spitfire and the Messerschmitt Bf 109, I use to fight the Battle of Britain over the duvet, because the duvet could form the shapes of the rolling landscape of Dover. Whether or not Dover had a  multi-coloured rolling landscape, I didn’t know, but in my mind it did.

The Spitfire always won of course. Well, it would, it was after all a Royal Air Force Spitfire, and I would never let the ‘jerry’ Luftwaffe win.

Another thing I was glad to see was that they still made the figures, the little box of soldiers that my friends and I fought many a battle with. These came in two sizes 1/72 scale (small about 1 inch tall) and 1/32 scale (not as small about 2 inches tall). The detail was always great on these things, no matter how small they were. Faces had expressions. Hands gripped objects, whether rifles, pistols, machine guns, or mortar rounds.

I remember having small ‘skirmishes’ with the British 8^th Army (The Desert Rats) and the Deutsches Afrikakorps (German Africa Corps). The ground was sandy and gritty, small boulders littered the landscape, there were no trees and no oasis. The troops hid behind the sand dunes and fired single shots at each other until the order came to begin the bayonet attack.

The order came, “Charge!”

A small number of khaki clad troops headed towards the enemy, Rommel’s elite desert troops, supported by machine gun wielding ‘Tommy’s’. Of course, the British Army won, yet again.

The desert landscape was obviously not a real desert. It was actually a piece of board about 2 feet wide by three feet long, covered with sandpaper, the boulders were just big stones and the sand dunes shaped by placing things under the sandpaper. My dad helped me make it and I thought it was wonderful. It may not have been a very accurate depiction of the western desert, but it seemed great to me when I was small.

This landscape also doubled for the Battle of Waterloo (it has to be said that 1940’s North Africa does not really look like Belgium in 1815, but it didn’t matter to me). The Scottish Highlanders and The British Infantry of the Line took on of the might of Napoleons French Imperial Guard. Obviously, they won, they were British, and there were more of them. That sometimes changed when one of my friends got a box of French Infantry of the Line (1815), but I still somehow managed to get the British on the winning side.

Anyway, that was part of my childhood, a misty-eyed nostalgic part, and a wonderful time. Why do we have to grow up? Although I have heard that just because we age, we don’t necessarily ‘grow-up’.

You have to excuse me as I have a website to check out… “Oh look, they do a full Battle of Waterloo set piece… the farm house and both armies… wow…”

My right foot

It has now been a week since the discovery of my gout and a week since the intense, mind gripping pain that I felt.

I have been religiously taking the medication that I have to take and it’s great to have a ’normal’ sized foot again. I can walk without wincing and can tie my shoes tightly again.

I feel somewhat smug. 

That is all.

"... may return more often than a badly digested onion ring."

I am sorry to say that my walking will have to be put on hold for a bit due to a seriously annoying condition known as gout. This, I have discovered, has been passed on from my mother. And there was me thinking all I got was long eye lashes and a rare blood-group.

Gout is an off-shoot of arthritis which causes inflammation in the joints. It causes pain (which is severe and excruciating, believe me. I have been there and back, and hope I wont go there again) and swelling, usually in the big toe. Thing is it can affect any joint, but for me it is the big toe.

If you ever suffer any of these symptoms you may have gout and should see you doctor:

• severe pain in your joint (can be any joint, don't just go by my example)
• swelling and warmth around your joint (it feels like some one has peeled your skin off and then dipped the raw meat that was formally your foot into burning hot sand. Honestly, it's that bad)
• red and shiny skin around your joint (your joint swells up to the size of one of Shrek's limbs)
• mild fever (a sort of cold sweaty feeling is more the mark)
• firm, white lumps beneath your skin - these are urate crystals called tophi

I was not pleased to learn some of the facts about gout. It seems I can have a have gout attack for up to two weeks! Two feckin weeks! You have got to be kidding me? Almost 4 hours was bad enough. Apparently if you leave it alone, it will go away. After two weeks I would be prepared to kill.

With treatment, it can go away in less than a week. An attack of gout might only happen once in a lifetime, but it might not, and may return more often than a badly digested onion ring.

I am now on tablets to reduce the swelling and the monumental pain, soon I hope to return to what I joking refer to as normal. Maybe tomorrow my foot will be able to once again fit into a shoe and I will be able to walk like an adult human being and not a zombie from The Walking Dead.

The house has some of the best wall paintings in Scotland. Apparently it also has a ghost...

I know that I have visited this area before, but in this case I am going to look more closely at some of the subjects I have already covered. So please bear with me as I think I am starting to get the hang of this thing now.

I begin my journey at Kinneil Museum. This is a small red roofed building in front of Kinneil House. The museum has an extensive display of the history of the Kinneil Estate.

From the museum I follow the red bales path and head towards the imposing Kinneil House. The oldest part of the house dates back to the late 15th century. It was remodelled in the 16th century and turned into a stately home for the family of the Dukes of Hamilton in the 1660s.

The house has some of the best wall paintings in Scotland. Apparently it also has a ghost. I am sorry to say I did not encounter this ghost, but if I ever do, I will let you know.

The family of the Hamilton’s has a long and distinguished past. One of the best known members was Air Commodore Douglas Douglas-Hamilton, 14th Duke of Hamilton and 11th Duke of Brandon. Sounds posh and he was. His big claim to fame occurred in 1941 when Adolf Hitler’s Deputy Furher, Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland in the mistaken believe that the Duke of Hamilton would be sympathetic to his cause and would arrange a peace treaty between Germany and Britain. He was wrong. And as we know the Second World War lasted until 1945.

As I stand in front of the house, I look to the right of the building and see a wall. In this wall there is a door that is just asking me to go through it, which I do. As I do, I come to a roofless 18th century building. This building was used by the engineer James Watt. Here he carried out early experiments in order to develop the steam engine. He carried these experiments out with his friend John Roebuck, who was leasing Kinneil House at the time.

After looking at the old cottage and soaking in the atmosphere, I head towards the small foot bridge and head towards the next part of the walk.

Here we go again, another tale of another trail

This one takes us on a slightly more scenic route than around the town and covers some more of the history of the town.

I begin my journey as I always do by closing the front door and walking the mile to the town centre. It’s from here I decide which of the routes kindly suggested by the local council pamphlet I will take. On this occasion I will go round the 400 year old harbour, pass the old railway station, and head along the fringes of the River Forth.

I walk down the twisting road and head to my destination. I cross the small wooded platform that allows access across the railway line (Beware of Trains. They are big and sore when they hit) and look out over the flat landscape at the river, as I look to the right I see the post office building and the old custom house.

I cross the small bridge and begin following the path around the dock. It has to be said that the dock is not looking at is best at the moment due to the low water level. Mounds and tons of mud and silt undulate inside the walls of the harbour. Small long legged, long beaked birds move over the damp surface looking for food.

The walk along the foreshore is a pleasant one. Ahead of me there are two wooden bench for those who need a rest and want to savour the views of the River Forth. If you stand at the edge of the foreshore and look left you can see up to Grangemouth, every once and a while oil tankers move to and from the massive refinery, breaking through the grey, choppy water.

Straight ahead the far shore of Fife can be seen, looking down to the right, in the distance can be seen the Forth Road and Forth Rail Bridges. The foreshore is rocky, no golden sands of a Greek or Spanish beach to enjoy. 

I continue my walk and head towards the Upper Forth Boat Club. There are no boats sitting on the 'runway' today, the water is too low for that, but the yard is full of private boats wrapped up for use. Not far out I can see the white sail of a red boat that has made it's way from the Blackness Boat Club. The two occupants moving back and forth across the boat, doing whatever needs to be done to make it go the way they want it to. As you can probably guess from that last statement, I don't sail, although the idea of 'boating' is something I find interesting.

In front of me is the harbour that I passed some time ago. near the harbour there is the railway yard, part of the Scottish Railway Preservation Society. The SRPC station has a lot to offer, there is a fixed exhibit filling two very large rail sheds, old steam, diesel and electric trains give those who are too young to remember or those who want to relive the golden days of train.

Another experience that the SRPC offers is the power and joy of steam with a 'Day out with Thomas the Tank engine', Easter egg specials, Diesel gala days, Santa steam trains and the traditional Scottish Black bun special.

My journey comes to an end and I prepare to climb the old iron bridge that crosses the railway line.Once again I hope I have entertained on a one of my little rambles.