We're Going on a Comet Hunt

Poor harvests, eclipses, strange lights in the sky... not Europe on the cusp of the first millenium, but 2024.

The price of food has gone up and we had the most colourful northern lights I've ever seen. Normally we have to travel north away from light pollution and cross fingers for a clear sky, but these were so bright, they were clearly visible in town.

Northern Lights:

And now there's a comet in the west, we decided to go see it! Our western horizon is blocked by the Pentland Hills, so up Castlelaw we went for sunset.

Comet hunters:

Near the top we met a woman coming down with her dog - she came for the comet but was hungry, and was going home for her tea. On the top was a well-rugged up man with binoculars. "I don't have much luck with comets," he said, but he'd come on the off-chance anyway. The Isle of Arran burned in the last fire of sunset out west, as the moon hung heavy behind us. Another man appeared. We wanted to get our dog down the steep bit before it got truly dark, so left. Fifteen minutes later, as we discovered on social media, the comet hunters on top were rewarded with what they came for. 

But who could say we hadn't had a wonderful experience anyway?

Ten Years On

Ten years ago, on a damp and foggy day, the people of Scotland voted No to independence. The victorious campaign's warnings of what independence would bring ironically came to pass anyway. Prices are higher, the standard of living worse, and we are out of Europe, with foreigners and career politicians increasingly getting the blame for our troubles. The union is broken, and nobody seems to have any idea how to fix it.

Meanwhile the devolved Scottish government limps on, still in power but stripped of purpose, waiting in vain for someone more convincing to come along and put it out its misery.

It's easy to be world weary about the state of things, but ten years on, one thing is much better than 18 September 2014. This week's weather has been glorious, a much needed burst of warmth at the end of six months of humidity and dampness. From up the Pentlands at sunset, here's to Scotland in all its many aspects.

No Scotland, No Party

Three football games, three different experiences. One common thread...

Game one

The opening game of Euro 2024. Scotland are playing Germany! The Germans are not the force they used to be, and Scotland qualified for the tournament with two games to spare. We beat Spain in the qualifiers FFS! OK, so we haven't won a game for months (except against the part-timers of Gibraltar) and have lost to Northern Ireland and taken a spanking off the Netherlands. But this run of bad form has to end some time. Maybe we are just planning to peak at the right time? There can be no greater incentive than the opening game against the hosts to put on our best performance. 

My sister wants to be together to watch the first game, and I invite my oldest friend over. My neighbour across the way has built a party shed in his back garden, and has invited us over. There's a new song that's gone viral, No Scotland, No Party, and we dance to that.

Memories of tournaments past crowd in. The dirty bastards Uruguay in Mexico '86. Listening on a car radio in the Highlands to an inspired display against Sweden in Italia '90. Cheering on England in 1996 to get a result against the Netherlands that would let Scotland through to the quarter finals. 

It's all going great... until the game starts... 5-1 Germany. A horrendous, headless display by Scotland. A defeat was expected, but not one of this magnitude! Oh well. Two more games to go. A draw in the second game will still give us hope...

Game two

It's a beautiful evening and I've been up the Pentlands with a friend and my dog Skye. We are down just in time to watch Scotland v Switzerland in the Flotterstone Inn. There are two other customers, neither that bothered by the football. I eat crisps and have an alcohol-free beer. Scotland score! But then so do Switerland. The dog gets restless. I take her outside. Back in the pub, it seems this is a game Scotland could win; it ends in a draw. But that's enough. We have that thread of hope to take into the final game...

Game three

Another friend, another hill, this time in Glencoe. It's turned out to be a glorious day, and we head to the Clachaig for food and telly - except they don't have a telly! A dog-loving Australian woman gives Skye a piece of her steak, and we hunt for the nearest pub with a TV - which turns out to be a place called The Gathering. We've missed the first fifteen minutes of Scotland v Hungary, but nothing really happens in the game until the last few minutes, Scotland playing like they have been specifically coached not to try to win this must-win game. We are sitting next to three young foreign women, and I have to keep Skye on a close leash because she keeps wanting to go over and say hello to them, despite them making it clear they don't like dogs. Skye has finally had enough and doesn't want to be here. I am bored with the football and on edge with the dog. My friend is spending more time looking at his mobile phone than watching the match. This is shite. This is Scotland. With ten minutes to go, Scotland suddenly burst into life attempting to win the game, which leaves them open to counter-attack. Hungary duly take advantage and score the game's only goal, ten minutes into extra time, leaving Scotland with one point from three games and the worst record of any team in the tournament. 

 Euro '24 has been one of the most deflating ever experiences of watching Scotland, and I've been deflated more often than the Argentine economy. Post-tournament analysis flies thick and fast, but when the dust settles, there's another season and another campaign.

There's always next time...

The Tiree Half Marathon

The main road on Tiree:

On the first Saturday in May I left the house at 2 a.m., drove through the night to Oban, boarded the ferry for Tiree, cycled to the campsite and back past corncrakes and skylarks, to arrive 1 p.m. at race registration after 11 hours travelling for the Tiree Half Marathon with friends, discombobulated at the rapid change in scene; the registration volunteer dancing behind the table as she handed me a bag with a Hawaiian flower garland to wear, people cycling on the beach, a piper warming up: and we all went down to the shore where a line had been drawn in the sand to mark the start of race.

Cycling to the start of the race:

Tiree is different to other Hebridean islands. Low lying, fertile and surrounded by long beaches, its nearest equivalent is Sanday in Orkney. Its name means 'land of corn', as depicted in the Wickerman-esque island flag. It is known today as a surfing location, but I wasn't here to surf. My aim was land-based - but only just. Of the 21km of the half marathon, only 6km were on road: the race route is mainly on the beach.

Runners:

It was slightly surreal to find myself on a Hebridean beach surrounded by keen runners having woken up in my own bed that morning, and the sheer novelty of the experience kept me going through tiredness, high humidity and sand underfoot. I ran out of puff about two thirds of the way through, and was glad of some salty food in the Lodge Hotel afterwards, not having eaten much all day. 

The Tiree ferry lounge:

This was just a flying visit to Tiree, which is no way to see the island: I got only glimpses of the unique Tiree expression of the Hebridean blackhouse and whitehouse, only visited one shop, missed the ceilidh, the beach clean, the beach yoga; but the next morning, before getting back on the ferry home, I did go down to Balephuil Bay to poke around the sea thrift and driftwood.

Balephuil Bay:

Just for one brief moment, the sea turquoise over sand.

Until next time, Tiree.

Loch Lochy Munros

Nothing marks the passage of time like going back somewhere you haven't been for a while. You might think the hills would be an exception: they've barely changed in thousands of years. 

"We can see thirty miles," said my companion, looking northwest from Meall na Teanga, "and not a sign of human activity."

But though the hills haven't changed, wait long enough, and you will! 

I've written about Loch Lochy before (A Great Glen Adventure), and this was my first return to the two Munros west of the loch. The shortest and most popular route goes from Laggan Locks to the north-east. A forest road and signposted hill track takes you to a bealach at 2,000ft and a straightforward ascent of Sròn a' Choire Ghairbh on a fine stalker's path. From here, the round of the corrie looks a fine prospect, including the Corbett Ben Tee.

But we're not here for the Corbetts! The next objective is Meall na Teanga on the other side of the bealach, another Munro. Today, a short stretch of snow over an awkward step meant the ice axe had to come out. I was delighted. It was my first axe work all year!

After the step, the summit. A clear view down Loch Linnhe, then a big arc of wild country round Ardgour, Knoydart, Kintail, Glen Affric. But it was Ben Nevis that grabbed the eye, enrobed in snow.  

The hills today were bathed in spring sunshine and simple to navigate. What a contrast to the last time I was here in the 1990s! We tackled Meall na Teanga from the south. It was a wild wintery day, cloud down, nothing to see in the blizzard, hard to stand up in the wind, which made the descent off Meall Coire Lochain to Meall na Teanga particularly 'interesting'. The reascent to the second Munro was suspiciously quick, until we checked the map and realised we'd climbed an intervening lower peak (Meall Dubh) by mistake! Today I was appalled at the bog we must have crossed on descent of Sròn a' Choire Ghairbh back to Gleann Chi-aig. There's no way I would cross that sort of terrain today if there was an easier option. 

It's true what they say: it won't be the same if you go back. And it wasn't the same: today was far better. But even if the hills haven't changed, frankly, I have. I wouldn't even attempt these hills today in the kind of weather we experienced thirty years ago. 

The People You Know

The people you know will get you into all sorts of scrapes and adventures. After all, they form a large part of who you are. People talk about nature or nuture, but it's not just your parents or your innate personality that moulds you. The people you surround yourself with are also crucial.

The reason I know this is rooted in an event over four years ago, when I got a nasty case of sciatica. I seemed to recover fairly quickly - by the end of the year I was up a hill again, the Cairnwell - but less than a year later I climbed Suilven with a walking stick and just one working leg. When it first happened, I told myself I would celebrate my recovery to fitness with something I'd never done before - an ultramarathon. But as the years rolled on, as Covid disrupted my routines and dog ownership affected my ability to rest and recover, an ultramarathon seemed further away than ever. A year ago today I tried to jog 10km and failed, pulling up short at 8km with an injury. It was a real low point.

That's where other people came in.

At the start of the John Muir Way Ultramarathon

I am in a running club and a cani-cross club, and a surprising number of club members had done an ultramarathon before. Many of them had done several. There was one woman in particular who had recovered from injury while still walking her dogs every day, and I was particularly keen to hear her story. I heard the same phrases so often that I actually started to believe them. The 50km ultramarathon I had signed up to was a "nice easy one," I would "enjoy it," and even though I really didn't know if I could handle the distance, I would "manage it no bother." People pointed out that I had done a marathon six years earlier. They had more belief in me than I did, and that confidence started to seep in.

That support led me to Port Seton esplanade this weekend for the John Muir Way Ultra, freezing on the start line along with 340 other hardy souls in a cold east wind, with the belief I could do this. We set off, the advice to "start slow, and get slower - you'll be fine!" in my ears. I followed the advice - my body frankly, couldn't manage more than a trundle anyway. But I got there in one piece.

An ultramarathon completed!

The dog walker with the injury was one of those 340 other people and in a lovely touch, she had waited at the finish to congratulate me. "You're an ultramarathoner now!" she said. The biggest mental milestone in my recovery from injury has been achieved. If it seemed less amazing a feat than it did four years ago, when I was doubled over in pain and popping co-codamols like there was no tomorrow, it was thanks to the people around me making it seem an everyday, unintimidating thing to do.

Thanks, folk who know me, this one's on you!

So what should I try next??

Scottish Race Events That Should Exist

Scotland is home to many races and events, from The Cape Wrath Ultra, a largely pathless 250-mile ultramarathon fom Fort William Cape Wrath, to the Subcrawl, a largely pissed circuit of Glasgow pubs. But what races should exist that don't? Here's a few that come to mind:

The Royal Mile Mile. 

A mile race uphill from Holyrood Palace to Edinburgh Castle. The winner gets to activate a plunger in the castle grounds, which sets off a spectactular firework display to mark the end of the Edinburgh Festival.

The Royal Mile:

The Pilgrimathon. 

A race commemorating the spread of Christianity across northern Britain. It starts at Iona Abbey and ends at Lindisfarne Priory, with racers chosing their own route. Will they follow the Tay to Dunkeld and down the east coast? Will they take the West Highland Way to Glasgow and the Forth-Clyde canal / St Cuthbert's Way? It's up to you! The twist is that water transport is banned except for a coracle, which competitiors must carry on their backs between the start and end points. (Or swim the Sound of Mull.)

On the Pilgrimathon in Mull:

Taste of Orkney Gourmet Half Marathon. 

There's already the Dramathon in Speyside, but what better place to sample the best of Scottish produce than Orkney? There's the best fish and seafood, beef and North Ronaldsay lamb, local cheeses, two distilleries at Kirkwall and Scapa and two amazing breweries. There are already two half marathons in Orkney, Kirkwall and Hoy, so just upgrade one with tasting stations and job's a good one :)

St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall:

The Lothian Skies Walk. 

A walk from Wishaw to West Lothian (or, maybe, to Leith). I wrote ages ago about this route in commemoration of the Proclaimer's song The Joyful Kilmarnock Blues. The important thing is that the walk has to be done overnight, after having first watched Hibs play Kilmarnock in Kilmarnock. How you get to Wishaw from Kilmarnock is up to you, but the rest of the way has to be done on foot. 

So there you go. Scotland already has lots of unique races and events, but there's plenty more to be created and competed in!