It is now almost a year since we were on holiday in Scotland, our first ever holiday there. We stayed in a cottage situated a mile or so outside the village of Comrie in Perthshire, surrounded by farmland and trees, and in the distance, hills. There was something there in the lie of the land that quickly cast a spell over us, something magical, that I can still feel as I write here.

I had just finished reading The Story of Yew by Guido Mina di Sospiro, a novel in the form of a history of Ireland, and the world, as seen through the eyes of a 2000 year old yew tree. The tree at the heart of the book is the Muckross Abbey yew in Killarney, which Thomas Pakenham finds in his book Meetings with Remarkable Trees to be probably only 500 years old. However, he does note that not far from the Abbey, on an outcrop of ancient limestone there exists the largest wild wood of yews in Ireland, a wood “as black as a monk’s cowl”. The photograph of the Muckross Abbey yew in Pakenham’s book shows the tree surrounded by a circular iron fence to protect it, from tourists! My wish to visit Muckross and the neighbouring yew wood is still to be achieved.

Having finished di Sospiro’s book I had nothing to read on the last few days of our holiday. At the last minute, our planned visit to Loch Lomond on the last full day of our stay was changed and instead of driving west, we travelled north and east to Cluny Gardens and then on to Aberfeldy, where according to my younger sister, who knows my weakness for reading, there was a great bookshop. The Watermill also serves a good lunch and so I was in heaven! Out of the thousands of books there, one in particular caught my attention; the black and white cover illustration of The Great Wood. The author was Jim Crumley, and I have to admit that I had not read anything by him before, although listed there on the inside cover were at least twenty other titles.

I began reading the book on the way home, to be exact, on the ferry crossing between Cairnryan and Larne. I couldn’t put the book down, enjoying the author’s knowledge and obvious love of the Scottish landscape. Imagine how I felt when I read the first chapter, Soliloquy by the Fortingall Yew. It felt as if I was meant to visit that bookshop and buy that particular book. How could I have missed the fact that a few miles west of Aberfeldy was a truly ancient yew tree? Within weeks of our return home, I had found another holiday cottage to rent near Comrie, and booked it for the following year. That year is almost up and we will be holidaying there again within a couple of weeks, and this time I will not miss making a pilgrimage to see the Fortingall yew!

How long is a piece of string?

Once upon a time, when I was much younger and an avid toxopholite, I volunteered to give a talk to club members about bowstrings, what they’re made of, how to make them and so on.  I had just qualified as an archery coach and was feeling on top of the world.  The talk was to last no more than twenty or thirty minutes and if the weather was bad we could move into the clubhouse and hold it in there in comfort.

It took several late evenings to produce my notes and along with sample strings, materials, tools and diagrams I finally gave notice that the talk would take place in a couple of weeks’ time.  At the beginning of my notes I made reference to my childhood and how much I had loved rummaging in my mother’s sewing box.  There was magic in the button jar with its dolly mixture assortment of buttons; the many spools of sewing thread, mainly of cotton but also polyester, which most archers would know by its brand name, Dacron.  So the string on most of our bows was the same material as that used to sew the buttons onto our shirts!

At the time of my talk we lived in Hertfordshire, and at work I had begun talking on the phone with a colleague at our depot in Mitcheldean in the Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire.  He was an American with a wonderful twang in his voice and many yarns to tell (ah, those were the days, when work wasn’t all work).  Coincidentally I was reading a biography of the legendary Fred Bear, an American bow hunter and bowyer, and casually asked my colleague if he knew of a town called Grayling in Michigan, the town where Fred Bear had set up his archery business.  “Why, that’s where I was born” replied my colleague.  “In fact I worked at Fred Bear’s factory for a while, making strings!”  I couldn’t believe it!  Another crazy coincidence!

Anyway, the day of my talk arrived and as luck would have it the rain was pouring down, rain like stair rods!  The turnout wasn’t what I had expected and was made up mostly of my seniors, hardened and very experienced archers; the core of the club.  So, I gave my talk against a background of cajoling and much interruption, and many questions.   Nevertheless, it was a success and I was applauded on its close.  I kept my notes and made a promise to return one day and repeat the session at a later date.  However, my work and my circumstances altered, and shortly afterwards I relocated to work alongside my colleague in Gloucestershire.  I discovered that in his spare time he was a great knitter of woollen clothing and even turned out some mighty fine crochet work.

We remain good friends even though I have relocated again, this time three hundred miles to the north-west.  When working together we discovered that we were the same age with our birthdays only a few days apart.

And the answer to the question in the title: twice as long as half its length!

I’m writing this whilst stood by the kitchen sink, looking out into our small back garden.  Standing is more comfortable than sitting since I pulled my back badly earlier this week.  Actually, I’m standing on one leg as the other rests on a firm kitchen chair; shifting from one leg to the other every now and then also seems to help.

Whilst I write, I am watching a band of starlings scrapping with each other on the top of the hedge, as they wait for an available space on the bird feeder.  A few sparrows are in the hedge also and they take their chances whenever a starling vacates a feeding slot, flying in quickly and grabbing a seed before another quarrelsome starling lands.  I only filled the feeder earlier this morning and now at 11.00am it is already below the half-way mark.

 If I lean forward and stand on tip-toes I can see next door’s bird feeder which has peanuts in it.  A couple of starlings, one hanging upside down, are feeding furiously.  My neighbour told me once that they seemed to be spending as much on bird food as they did on feeding their dog.  Rusty was being taken for his morning walk and on hearing his name he looked up at me, held his head on one side and gave me an imploring look.  I felt sorry for him, poor little chap!

 The grey sky is racing across my view, going in a roughly west to east direction.  There are occasional breaks in the clouds when the pale blue infinity beyond is revealed.  Just as the daylight hours increase, so does my urge to be out walking again.  The Christmas and New Year festivities, work and now injury, all of these things are playing on my mind and pushing me towards some New Year resolutions, albeit a little late: to come up with a revised fitness routine; to walk much more this year; to ensure I’ve got my camera and sketch book with me on my walks and to come up with a different title for this blog, something with a wider view.

A happy and peaceful New Year to all who pass this way!

Setting off from home at around 10 o’clock, I was glad I had pulled on my winter trousers. The strong wind at my back was icy cold and my walk into town was quicker than expected. I called into the local petrol station and bought a bar of chocolate to nibble at on my walk. A quick scan of the newspaper headlines was a mistake; the news was as usual, depressing and so I quickly left the claustrophobic atmosphere of electric lights and refrigerators and headed towards town.

As I walked I was overtaken by the flow of cars full of people making their way to the shops or the fitness club or dance lessons for the children. As I crossed the bridge over the river Bann, I looked south along what is locally known as the boulevard and my thoughts shifted to a different view of the world; more relaxed, less fearful. I almost ran down the steps onto the towpath and had to remind myself to take my time, to slow down and look around.  Walking south, following the river, I passed a man sitting on a park bench. He was taking a long drink from a plastic bottle. I hurried by without making eye contact. I did not want his tragedy to infect my thoughts.

Groups of young people were roistering around the entrance of the Boat Club. On the river there were already several boats readying themselves for practice. Some boys on the bank were calling out to those on the water and calls and shouts were being instantly returned. The new club house is the last building on the banks of the river and as I strode passed it, I felt the full force of the wind as it rolled in from the south west. Like a huge sea, the movement of air above the open countryside washed across the flood plain, scouring and bending everything in its path. The tall trees on my right were well rehearsed in this dramatic character of the wind as high above my head their crowns swayed easily.
The river surface was rippled in silver and grey patterns which moved back and forth across its width. I could easily imagine that the patterns were being made by something underneath the water rather than by the invisible wind. Further along the river there were two boats, four girls in one, two boys in another and on the towpath a man on a bicycle shouting instructions. Passing alongside the trees, a man with a video camera, then a couple walking their dog; it was discernible that the gaps between these brief encounters was increasing, the further south I walked. Then, there was only the river and the sound of the wind.

Today’s walk, about ten miles, was part of my training plan in preparation for an eighteen mile charity walk at the end of the month. I had started much later this morning than I had wished but it didn’t really matter as long as I arrived in Poyntzpass in time to meet my wife there for lunch. I had been told by someone at work that a new café had recently opened in the village and the food was exceptional. That sounded good to me!  Whilst doing my earlier training walks I discovered that the more I walked the more I wanted to walk. The longer walks were helping me to dispel the noise of living in an ever more frantic world; the constant chatter of radio and television, mobile phones, clattering keyboards, flickering lights and road traffic; the thousand and one things that we are bombarded with every day. I was finding I could shut these things out and listen to birdsong, or the wind in the trees; the small unnoticed sounds of the Earth.

On the long path south
beside smooth water,
I walk.

I walk at a pace,
scanning the ground
searching the land
and watching the sky,
taking everything in
through my eyes,
and my nose and my ears.

Here,
I am me,
at home on the road,
at one with myself and the world.

I spent the morning foraging with Dermot & a group from Ulster Wildlife. It was fascinating & we walked in a very special nature reserve. I’d love to learn more so that when I’m out walking I can snack safely & healthily.

The top story on the main evening news the other night was the weather!  Are they only noticing now that if we continue to warm the planet, the ice will melt & the seas will rise!