Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 10

Above was taken on whatever low res camera loaded into the Sony Ericsson phone I had at the time, below was taken on whatever borrowed camera I had at the time, and just before the solitary battery died too leaving me with just the phone to capture what I have to say was an absolutely perfect morning.

Easter, space year 2000 and something and it was like yesterday in my mind. I was camped on Carn Dearg, north of Rannoch Station, an easy walk and a fine pleasant camp, but with that morning, oh what a morning.

I was in a first gen Alpkit down bag the night before, Alpine Dream was it? Great warm bag with a shite hood that was barely a pillow, glad they changed that. It was frosty but that sun was instantly warm and the glens, hell the whole landscape, flooded with fog as soon as the first rays broke the horizon, just over a wee bit from Schiehallion if memory serves me right.

That was a multi cuppa breakfast, I didn’t leave until the mist lifted and the sun was high up. The run across to Sgor Gaibhre does not linger sharply, I think I was still stunned by the preceding hours, but I do remember gladly reaching water in the coire and seeing the first of the days’ fresh feet ascending towards me. Too late folks, you missed it all.

Now, I wrote that first bit above over my morning coffee before I went out to meet a client. By the time I got back to base everything had changed.
Travel restrictions are being lifted on Friday this week, not on the 26th.

This has spun me right onto my arse, the dream is a reality etc. But I’m getting my first jag on Saturday and I’m expecting having some sort of reaction to it, I don’t see me getting anywhere right away.
It’s not theoretical anymore, I’m planning for reality. It’s like an out of body experience, what do I do, I know what to do, what did I forget, what do I need?

Bloody hell.

That big grin below, he had no idea what the next few years would bring to him in the outdoors. But now I’m looking ahead too. Time to make a brand new grin to catch and keep with all these old ones.


Deep blue see

I was in a dungeon in the dark with the water on the floor actually drying up rather than deepening as I usually tend to find it since I’d actually stopped the leak and then the call came.
It was an international call, it meant a border crossing.

I had all I needed, I could go then and there. “It’s 12 miles to Argyle and Bute, we got a half tank of gas, half a pack of Wrigley’s Extra, it’s sunny and my sunglasses are in Linda’s car”. In my head: “Hit it”.

I put my feet on foreign soil for the first time in a long time. Funny, it felt like home. Fresh snow, blue skies, cold dark water, a chill breeze, a tingle in my toes and a tear in my eye.
I laughed out loud, a nervous reaction I think. All the lockdown breaking arseholes who have seen this and walked or driven through it without worry or consequence and I’m playing in my head how I would explain to the police where I was going and what I was doing if I got pulled.
I had the set of church keys in my pocket, my tools in the back and a documented loss of pressure to investigate. And I was still a little worried.

Come the 26th I don’t care, I’ve done my bit. I played the game to the letter, if there’s a third wave due to dumb bastards mixing willy-nilly over Easter and consequently another lockdown I’m declaring myself the ambassador of a small independent Scottish protectorate and I’m going wherever the hell I like with diplomatic immunity.



The journey ended in another dungeon of course and with a few fancy moves I left it all in fine working order. Amusingly I’ll have to got back next week though because it needs a pump. Bummer.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 9

This is still borrowed camera time and also my first iPod days, so I think it’s spring 2008. I know exactly where this is, the Laserlite above is parked on the ridge of Meall Coire Lochan (ish) west of Meall na Teanga above Loch Lochy.

I remember this one vividly, mind you I think if you show me any photie it pretty much all comes back as I’ve discovered these past few weeks.
See, that’s why we should take always photies, that’s why we should blog. Memories might bring mixed emotions but there’s a real joy in it, and I don’t feel any stronger inspiration that realising what I can do myself after so long of not doing it.
Seeing others adventures can be aspirational, seeing my own makes it all feel accessible. Sometimes that’s just enough where you’re a bit rusty.

It was raining all the way up. I’d dumped my pack at the bealach to run up Sron a Choire Ghairbh and then enjoyed a little clearer air on the fine traverse over Meall na Teanga.
I had music on in the rain, metal in my earbuds and I had Celtic Frost’s then recent new album on repeat. Singing Os, abysmi os in my best death metal voice as I went. Can’t believe that detail has stuck so fast in my mind.

I was damp getting in the tent but warm enough, staring out to a distant Fort William as the sky darkened. I only saw the sky by accident and it had me scrabbling for wet shoes and my jacket to get out and see it.
Vivid red out to the west with a window to a pale clear sky that had been hidden all day. It kinda makes it all worth it, these wee moments.

I must have slept well, I have no horror stories of wind or rain, animal attacks or seismic events to recall. It was a lovely morning too.

I feel it’s my duty to point out that the fuzzy pastel scenes here are exactly as seen on the day. I haven’t done that, it’s a combination of cheap camera and actual weather conditions.
Mist on Loch Arkaig, the last of the snows clinging onto Ben Nevis’ gullies. I sat there for hours, it was nearly lunch time before the rising sun burnt off the soft sheen and I descended in unexpected bright sunshine, bare skin cooking well before I got to the treeline.

The trees are gone now, Gleann Chia-aig having been dynamited end to end for a hydro scheme. I was there with Gus a few years later and the whole place was devastated.
I do remember walking down through the tall pines on a winding trail, rushing water below and the occasional whisper of wildlife far above. Now I just immediately think of bare rock and bulldozed slopes.

That’s another reason to go somewhere, to take photies and to write it down. Some bastard is always ready to take it all away.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 8

Scoutmaster. That word will forever have a meaning for Z, Helen and I after our Knoydart trip.

It was a mission with a purpose back in 2007 I think, we were there to retrieve the Wilderness ARC adventure race electronic check in point that was bolted to the trig point on Ladhar Bheinn. If ever there was an excuse for a wee jolly this was it.
We had just made the tide for the the boat from Kinloch Hourn and were gloriously late as we sat in the bothy for a cuppa. We were camping though so late evening found us high on Stob a Chearcaill in two Laserlites with the cloud scraping my head if I stood up.

I think that’s Bachd Mhic an Tosaich across from us below and I think that was the only patch of sun we saw until we started descending next day. We didn’t care though, it was a joy from end to end and Ladhar Beinn without a view is not a lesser experience at all, under your feet and hands is awesome every stumble of the way.

The walk out though, that was maybe the best of all. There was a scout troop who were leaving around the same time as us for the 10km or so walk back out from Barrisdale and their brave leader didn’t like the look of us one bit.
We hit the trail, we spotted wildlife, dealt with a blister, we laughed etc and all the while, we caught glimpses of the scoutmaster peering at us from the distance to see just how far ahead we were.

It’s a glorious trail by the loch, but it is long and we soon found ourselves fully immersed in this game of cat and mouse to help pass the time. Every time they got closer we horsed on and widened the gap. Scoutmaster rallied his troops and whipped them forwards in his hopeless task to assert his domination over the trail.

I can imagine the poor kids red, sweating and miserable faces and the curses uttered underneath. I can also imagine that they clubbed to death and then buried the scoutmaster in an unmarked grave by the loch and then went feral for they never were seen again after Skiary…

From that day on, between us and soon also our once tight knit wee group of adventurers, to Scoutmaster *verb, meant to push hard, to beast in, to race for the goal.
And so it remains.

April Shower

500m over the river from the front door but across a local authority boundary. It only just occurred to us that we were allowed to go.
Picked a nice evening for it too.

I’ve often said on here that I can walk out my door into the hills and I know that sounds like exaggeration, but below is both my door and the hills behind it.
Bowling is right in the middle, if I go either way I’m in the Highlands or a Glasgow restaurant in the same amount of time.
The village may have spend many years abandoned by West Dunbartonshire council but Scottish Canals are building a linear garden on the old railway viaduct, the shops in the arches are still open and other brownfield sites on either side of us are showing the green shoots of new purpose.
We shall see.

We took a different route, going down through woodland on trails I’d never even see. Around the trees is a jagged blanket of lush green getting ready burst with bluebells, we’ll be back to see that.
It was cool, not too much of a breeze, but enough to keep the beach and trails quiet so we had the place to ourselves.

The tide was pulling the river away leaving waterlogged and reflective sand to mirror the golden sky. It’s really quite beautiful, but you have to line it up right, I can see this same bit of sand in the photie below from the living room window and I can assure you it’s kinda brown. You have to find the sun and walk towards it, always.

I have made a packed dinner, it’s way too late for lunch mind. I slow cooked a sirloin steak in the griddle pan, cut it into strips and filled a baguette with it along with proper butter, fried red onion, sliced baby tomatoes, Seriously cheese and Hellman’s chilli mayo. They were wrapped in foil, oven warmed to get the cheese melting and stuck in a cool bag, you know, to keep them warm.
Warm they were and emotionally tasty with a flask of coffee.
And then there were Patisserie Valerie cakes. It’s date night, come on.

The riverside terrain is complicated to say the least and there was much falling over. It’s a place to blow out a knee or twist an ankle, I’ve watched a helicopter rescue unfold here from home for just that.
There’s weird stuff too, I think below it’s a table set for a giant or something? Neolithic toilet? Troll crutch and fez Christmas set?

There were dope smoking neds lurking in the dark trees on the way back so we took a detour through the old Erskine Hospital grounds, sorry Mar Hall.
Last time I was in there they had a steam leak in the basement which had blown all the asbestos off the pipework and it was floating in chunks in the hissing bubbling water as it gained depth in the plant room.
The 80s were great, health and safety hadn’t come in yet. We did get to chat to WW1 and WW2 veterans at the same time we were there too.

Never seen such scars, or men alive and talking with such substantial bits of their heads missing. I’m not making light of this one little bit. These poor bastards got blown to pieces there wasn’t the knowledge to do any better than what these old boys got.
It’s a testament to their own inner strength and the regenerative capabilities of the human body that they were still there.

We walked the deserted access road back to the car as a fox scurried from side to side ahead of us. The world was quiet, but the next morning it was going to wake up and go mental for easter.
I’m glad life is coming back but I will miss the quieter times and places, I’m going to have to look a little harder to find them now. Drive a little father too? Oh, I remember that stuff.

Less than three weeks.

Easter Ned Hunt

Easter is a horrible time. It’s where the unthinking cadre of the urban masses launches into the countryside without care or courtesy and cause misery before leaving their shite behind them and returning home to their telly once again.
Why easter I don’t know, there’s no difference from the weekends either side of it, is it just because there’s a mark on the calendar and they get a subliminal trigger or something?

The Lang Craigs are a prime spot for this mayhem. The car parks and access roads were choked by 10am and the site was heaving with bodies. I was working on pipes etc elsewhere so I went up after dinner to see what was happening, any fires burning, manic campsites etc Luckily I missed it all, the site was nearly quiet.
But elsewhere there was violence towards staff at Balmaha trying to keep the car park running smoothly, so the stupids were definitely out in force.

The access roads from nearby Old Kilpatrick to the hills were double parked and blocked from early on too. I believe many loose wing mirrors were seen along those same roads later on. I guess that tractor was pretty wide eh?

For me it was cool and eventually quiet on the crag edge though. I watched the last dregs slip away screaming and shouting downhill towards Milton through my binoculars and then there really was just me.
There’s a couple of points on the crags I can see the whole site and I scanned everything as the light dimmed and left me with stars randomly poking out of the deep blue above me.
The light lingered pale and pastel on the horizon and I could pick out all those familiar peaks. They’re well beyond my head torch, but not beyond my imagination.

I was back home in under two hours, a short shift for me. But, I was limping. On Friday I’d fell down a hole, it happens. Straight down on my heel which kinda jarred my heel, ankle, knee and hip. But I walked it off and was just a wee touch stiff on Saturday.
Come the descent from the crags that night it was louping though, I could barely put my weight on it (and what a mighty weigh that has become…).

It stems from an old work injury (’98, it’s a good story for later) and I today am shoeless for a wee bit. That’s okay though, it’s a while til the 26th yet.

April Fooled

I stayed off the internet by accident and missed any wacky news stories or whatever that folk had prepared for the 1st.
Not sorry, not really in the mood this year. I think that joke has been on us long enough already.

However, an evening by the water to see the day out brought a smile if not a laugh. Not just the sunset either, we found a huge piece of driftwood that had ideas scratched all over it and we just couldn’t leave it there to be lifted by the next tide and be swept out to the firth with all our lovely ideas being washed away with it.
So I heaved it onto my shoulder and made it up to the road while Linda scurried ahead and rescued me and it with the car soon after and before I fell over on the pavement.

I want to make a magical portal, Linda fancies a nature display of things from our adventures, Holly fancies a purple stained glass window. All these are possible, it’s quite the odd shape.

There will be more.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 7

I learned very early on that failure is an option. It’s never bothered me either.
I’ve stopped in my tracks, ran out of steam, changed my mind or crashed and burned many times. Sometimes its weather, sometimes its energy, sometimes it’s the environment like a bank-bursting river and sometimes I’m just plain not feeling it.

This was a little of all of those. We wanted to walk the West Highland Way fast and light over a weekend with a wee wild camp or two on the way. Z, Brian and me.
It seemed like a good idea, we were all fit and lightly kitted out, but by Bridge of Orchy all our feet (especially Brian’s who have seven Compeed blister plasters on…) had come apart due partly to the fast pace on the cobbles so er, we had to be rescued.

But it was still smiles, and now it’s smiles at the memories. I don’t feel my feet at all, I just remember the banter, the laughs and that it gave me a lingering love for the WHW.
I did such a lot with these two wonderful characters back in the day and now we’re all in different countries. Bummer.

In the spirit of the style we often conducted ourselves where we could could have an entire conversation that made complete sense to us based purely on movie quotes, I give us the Eiger Sanction:

Meier: You’re very good. I have really enjoyed climbing with you.

Hemlock: We’ll make it.

Meier: I don’t think so. But we shall continue with style.

Misquoting the same movie a little:

Maybe someday we’ll do more climbing together.


Bless you boys, wherever you are. Well, I know exactly where you are and have spoken to you both in the past 24hrs, but that’s far less dramatic.

Floored (Tales from the Toolbox)

I seem to spend a lot of my time on a floor, or indeed under a floor. I suspect I’m getting to old for it too as the recent trapped upside down with my back arched over an electrical trunking under a concrete slab incident brought to mind.

But it can be pretty. look at that window. I woke up to fresh snow all over Misty Law and Hill of Stake on Saturday and immediately went to spend the day prepping four churches’ heating to go back for their surprise services the next day after a successful legal action during the week. Which I did rather enjoy.
Aye, you can safely hang out together in a church now but I can’t step foot in Argyle and Bute solo. I spend my life in churches, surely all that dust from the floor must give me whatever covid repelling proprieties that they said they have to allow early reopening?

I could probably say that I wish I had their lawyers, but what the hell. I can’t begrudge folk getting together for their mental health, and that’s exactly what this is. Besides, given the average age of congregations, they’ll mostly have had their shots. I wish them well and look forward to getting cuppas and cake when the groups start filtering back into the church halls when I’m in fixing stuff.
I get to know the days where groups are on, Wednesday I can get soup here, Monday is just coffee there, Friday is, well we’ll come back to that.

For now I’ll just lie on the floor until it’s my turn to go out and play. At least the window is nice.


I was heartened just overhearing a group of chatty women around my age (50s) and older which proved that understanding equality isn’t something new or generational, it’s down to the individual.
In a Glasgow accent of course: “We’re aw the same. Black, white, fat, skinny, gay, aw the same”.

But being Glasgow, within 30 seconds the same voice also said “Ha ha, he’s needin’ a boot in the baws”.

I love this city.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 6

I think I’m wearing fleece pants there. Funny that’s the first thing I noticed before I realised that I had hair and that it’s dark brown. When the hell did I take this?

Bein Ime from Beinn Narnain, I can feel my feet there right now. My favourite hill.

That’s it really, no rambling insights, no tortuous ruminations on past deeds or melancholy observations, just an old photie.

Ach, I’ll maybe explain that last bit though. I got some very good advice once by Matt Swaine, the editor of Trail mag back in the day and a man who made a lot of sense, had great imagination and encouraged me a lot.
He told me to put myself in my photies after I submitted some landscapes to go along with something I’d done early on in my time there. He explained his reasons and I agreed once it had been pointed out.
I can easily tune out of looking at landscapes unless they’re unusual and different, but I can flick through my old mountain guide books again and again. That’s because there’s folk in the shots more often than not and I think that shows me subconsciously that I can do that, that I can be there too.

It won’t work for everyone, some folk want that blank canvas. Me, I want to be that figure, so I am. Or was? No, will be.
Also, I’ll admit there’s a certain joy at looking at the younger skinnier me. Oh if only he knew what was ahead.

Take photies, and get yourself in them. Capture yourself in the heart of the moment and give yourself a smile looking back in 20 years time.
Just don’t trip running for the timer.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 5

I’ve always had a willingness to turn on a dime and do that instead of this if it looked like a) it would be fun and b) I would get away with it. How many customers have heard “Ah, I need a #3 plato fumtertron, I’ll nip into Glasgow and try and get the last one at the suppliers” followed by spinning truck wheels heading north the A82?
I have of course never left anyone in the lurch, in fact it’s just the opposite which is why I’ve had many of my customers for 35 years and they know me well. Unfortunately a lot of them now know exactly where to find me on the internet so I just say, oh the weather’s looking nice and they know, oh yes, they know.

These old photies of older prints took a while to tie down but I can now place myself right there, right now. But then, right?
Winter, late afternoon, mid 90’s high on Ptarmigan Ridge on Ben Lomond. No idea who they other two are, but they’re perfectly placed, so I thank you from across the years and I hope you are well.
It was a midweek escape and it was a dash for either Arrochar of the Ben, it usually was. I used to take Ptarmigan because it was quieter, it’s not so quiet these days, but it’s still a better ascent so I’ll still chose it first. Besides the tourist route is a fine saunter back down in the dark, a time when it’s definitely quiet.

I’ve had a lot of time on Ben Lomond at night, either in the passing or in a tent. It’s a very different place then, it grows upwards and outwards, the well worn paths and familiar features change shape and fade and it becomes exactly what it still is at its core, thousands of feet of ancient highland rock. Makes my heart sing does that.
It brings me its share of the unusual too. Walking a Chilean women with just an umbrella for weather protection down to the carpark, walking two tourists in street clothes down to the carpark in heavy winter snow, sending an already lost group the totally wrong way when they followed me miles of the track in deep fresh snow because they followed my footsteps to where I was trying to get a pee in peace.

There’s another one that I still think about. I was unusually going up the tourist track in the near dark when I met an old boy coming down and I saw straight away he’d taken a tumble. He had a bruise on his cheek and a fat, bleeding lip and I stopped to check on him and chat. He was lucid and had a lot of mixed emotions. He was angry at himself because he’d taken his crampons off too early and had slipped and he was more than a little rattled.
He rested as we chatted and my thoughts raced from one side to another. I was on no special mission, just another after work dash up the Ben, coming straight back down with the old boy was no problem at all. But, and this is where I’ll never know if I did the right thing, if I took him down, would he see it as hand holding, would he think he’d been rescued? Would that affect his confidence and keep him at home the next time he thought about the hills? I would have hated to do that to him.
He was well up there in years, he had old and well used but quality gear, he obviously knew his stuff and had been there and done it over the years. I was so torn by it.

I was straight up with him, I’ll walk you down I said. He protested, I asked again, he protested again but I wanted to to know he’d be okay. no no he’d be fine he insisted. I let him go and I still don’t know if my head or heart won with that decision.
I sat on a rock and watched him all the way down to the tree line, including him catching up to a couple I’d seen earlier, so he was moving okay. I knew he’d be safe, but would he be okay? I didn’t know then and I never will.

If I’m honest with myself looking back now I know my choice was made with the best of intentions but I think I got it wrong. I should have walked him down and made light of it with banter and whatnot. I should have done more.
Maybe he shrugged it off, another spill like so many he had before, maybe he hung up his ice axe. I think of it sometimes and that experience has informed some of my decisions since.

Every hill has its ghosts, some are its own, some are the ones you bring yourself.

Getting it right tomorrow? Maybe you have to screw up yesterday.

Close to the edge

I knew it was going to be good because it was late when we left because work and various other hassles had made it look like we’d not get further than having the notion to go out and play.
But out to play we went.

It was surprisingly quiet, never saw a soul until we hit the woods by the loch where a family sat on the sand soaking up the rather cool sunshine. The only other person we saw turned up where we sat waiting for the sunset and he seemed miffed by our presence so quickly disappeared once again with his huge bird watching scope thing. Ah well.

I wonder if it’s quiet because it’s sold to you as a bird sanctuary where it’s really just a beautiful wee wander through woodland to the loch. Admittedly with a lot of birds flapping around you.
The end of the track has a couple of benches and a gated enclosure with directions to a low viewpoint of sorts. Better though its where you can get onto the long spit of land that holds in Endrick Water for over a kilometre before it joins the loch. Fine sands, lilies in the sheltered bays, and nervous wildlife are all there to be found, but today the loch was too high to even chance it. The grass grew straight from deep, cold water wherever we put out feet. As glorious as it would be to sit and watch the evening arrive from out there, tonight we’d stick to the tourist path.

West Dunbartonshire has fantastic views to its neighbours, so many hills with so many ascents I call up from my archives. None of them in the last year of course but a lot of them are oh so very sharp. I can feel the rocks under my hands on Beinn Narnain, I can feel my knees on the descent of Ptarmigan Ridge.
Right now was all about a picnic though, and that’s just fine by me. It was getting noticeably colder as the sun went down, jackets, hats and gloves were welcome and necessary.

The water was choppy and waves lapped at our feet and the cold air swept off the loch. There was a little heat in the sun bit is was fizzling out as the light faded. We’d come for the walk, to be somewhere different, to revisit a happy memory too, but aye, that sky was starting to look a wee bit fancy too.

It was glorious and unexpected. Dark hills on the horizon, dark water patterned by sharp bright wave crests as the sky whirled through it’s wonderful wacky colour palette.
It was getting dark so we did leave before it was all over and the last scenes here are me lying on the beach trying to catch a wave, the mountains and the sky while giggling and trying not to roll into the loch. Pure magic.

Then the deepest of reds on a silent trail as bats zipped low past out heads looking for those early hatching midges perhaps.
The sole came of my shoe. Pretty much completely off, it was attached only by a glue spot at the toe and it was a fine mix of inconvenient and funny as it wack wack wacked it’s way back to Gartocharn in the dark. Can I repair them? 14 years old, I’ll see.

This was a win in the face of nearly giving up. Not a lesson learned, a lesson reminded.

Crag Ratbag

It was just nice, I had no other motivation other than going out and enjoying the niceness. I think being back at work more regularly might see me seeking post customer interaction niceness quite often. I love my customers but lying on a floor steaming up my glasses listening to banter from someone that’s said three words to someone outside their household in the past year is somewhat draining.

Bright and hazy with a wee nip in the breeze, perfect walking weather. The sky was magic too, pastels edging the varied display of cloud shapes. Aye, just nice.
I had my data on on my phone so I was getting pings and I heard one from the Woodland Trust chat group which started a little thread that followed me along the trail through the evening.

If you’re hiding in the woods up to no good, remember I can probably see you…

A fire had been reported in Barr Wood, too far for me to get to without getting back to the motor, but somewhere I could see from my loftyish viewpoint. No fire could be seen.
A little further on I was sending photies to the group, I could see smoke, a lot of smoke. Then there were sirens too and I watched for the blue lights as it got darker, they’d have to get to where the fire was on the tack that circles around the back of Bellsmyre. Good luck with that.

A walked on as the other rangers and the site manager compared notes as I sent photies. The smoke was gone now but wait, was that gunfire? I’ve heard shots plenty up here and it sounded just like it. Was it the arsehole neighbouring landowner as usual or something more sinster. It wasn’t until I was going down later on that the helicopter scanning the area with a searchlight pushed my opinion to the more criminal flavoured side of events.

But I was still enjoying the evening. The sun was lazy tonight, no big show just well, nice. It was chilly too, windshirt and gloves chilly. I could feel my ears and cheeks pickle as the the temperature dropped with the sun.
Snow streaked hills to the north softened by distance and haze, Dumbarton twinkling in the dusk like a Disney hamlet and police circling overhead looking for who knows what. It often occurs to me that someone who would likely be hard of thinking and seeing might report a brightly dressed man on the skyline with a rifle because I often cut about with my zipshot tripod extended.
Drop the weapon.
You want me to throw my camera on the ground?
We are armed and will fire, drop your weapon.
I only shoot sunsets, go and take a f…
Suspect was too sarcastic, he’s down.

I had very old shoes on, Montrail Namches. Mesh mids with a super flexible forefoot and sturdy heel cup. Back in the late 2000’s they were one of the bits of kit that actually changed my life and it was a joy to be back in them. I had wet toes and a big grin, just like the old days. Actually just like most days I’m not on tarmac.
I might write them up along with a few more things that immediately come to mind, the kit that really did change my life. Hmm, I’m definitely finding more interest looking back with my now even more experienced eyes than I am looking at next season.

Anyway, the moral of the tale is er, go outside, it’s nice.

A folded corner

We got in late last night, tired and happy from a wee bit of local exploring. Everything was covered in mud and I’d even lost a sole from the old favourite shoes I’d taken for a spin.
The rucksacks still aren’t unpacked and the camera has secrets yet to divulge. So this is a we note to self from my phone before I get all lost in photies and flowery banter: yes it was that nice.

You can pick your friends, but not your days of the week.

It was a Tuesday and that wasn’t the problem, it was the Monday before it, that was the problem.
Tuesday did everything right, it turned upon time, did a fantastic job, but everyone still talked about Monday.

I can see Tuesday’s point, you are what you are, just like Monday was and you can’t be anything but. And why should you try to be anything other than yourself anyway?
Be a Tuesday, be the best Tuesday you can be, just never mind what Monday id doing.

I’ll tell you though, Wednesday really was rubbish.