Monday, November 27, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
Smashing!
As I start to write this, I am offline and have no way of connecting to the internet. The reasons for which, will become clear later. There is my mobile which would cost a fortune and would take forever, should that be “4eVa”? I do not do text speak finding it infuriating in the context of a web page where users have a perfectly good keyboard with all the letters they need. I also find it incredibly ageing (one of those words incidentally, that looks wrong when written but you try taking out the E and it looks even worse) I will use abbreviations to some extent in text messages but not to the point of being unintelligible to all but a sixteen year old.
The house had several blown double glazed units so Katy arranged for Mc****** Glazing to come to replace them. When I arrived home just after twelve, they were at their lunch, having taken off the outside glazing beads in preparation for the removal of the misted up units once I gave them access. A little while later, one of them knocked on the door and I let him in. I warned him of the presence of Evie (She’s fine by the way. Her highlight of today was to go outside, eat some grass, come back in, puke up the grass in two strategically chosen piles at the doorway to the living room, then lay a smelly dump in her litter tray) to which he assured me that he would keep the doors closed.
While they were banging away upstairs, brother George phoned. He was needing advice as to how to break into a Mercedes S Class. I have no idea why I should know about these things. The only speciality I had was that of the owner of said Merc, to lock one’s keys inside (see last weeks blog). As we spoke, I heard a crash of breaking glass, followed by an expletive. When I walked through the hall, I saw the man struggling down the stairs with a glazing unit looking rather sparsely glazed. I acknowledged him and he grunted a reply. From the tone of the grunt, I determined that this must be one of the old ones. There followed another half an hour or so, more banging. After which, the ladders were put back on their van and they declared they were finished. I climbed the stairs and looked at the new glazing in the windows of the front bedroom. There was a little bit of putty round the edges of the glass but nothing major. They left the invoice and were on their way.
A little later, I spotted a piece of broken glass on the front doorstep. Upon bending down to pick this up, I noticed another piece and another, and another. In fact the driveway was strewn with little pieces of glass and a glazing nail which glinted at me almost saying “I’m going to have your tyre”. once I retrieved the debris outside, I thought I had better check to make sure nothing had been trailed through the house. Sure enough, once I started to look there were shards all the way up the stairs. Evie had followed me up so she was scooped up and locked in the living room for her own safety. I soon found where the unit had been dropped, a dent in one of the wooden stair treads, consistent with having been struck by the corner of a window unit. The area around the dent was strewn with fine glass dust and slivers. I cannot prove that this was the point of impact but, given that I recently hand sanded and varnished the stairs, I was unaware of such a dent previously. I, of course knew about the dent left by the decorators but that was in a different place altogether and another story told in the blog previously. I am considering naming each stair after a contractor, complete with a brass plaque bearing their name, date and level of incompetence.
While they had been working upstairs, I noticed that my internet connection had been lost and, upon trying the phone handset, found there to be no dialling tone. I put this down to the proximity of the BT master socket to the window area. There are several plugs into the socket and I imagined that the fitters had disconnected the plugs to make working easier. Again, it was only once they had left that I discovered that the plugs had not been disconnected but that the main line into the property had been severed where it connects to the master socket. I resolved to reconnect the wires. Unfortunately, I was not sure which wire should connect to which terminal. “I know” I thought, “I’ll call BT and ask them which coloured wire goes where, then I’ll whip out my screwdriver and wire strippers and simply reconnect it”. Wire strippers are an important accessory when connecting a BT line as the ‘stick between front teeth to strip off insulation’ method can be rather tricky. In fact, it can be rather painful as there is 50 Volts of direct current surging through a phone line and through me on a previous occasion at the flat.
I had to use the mobile to call BT of course. A free 0800 number, not free if using a mobile. In fact, it costs me more to dial a free phone number than it does to call an 01.… or 02... number. After the usual options, including the “if you want to report a fault with your phoneline, you can do it on our website” one which I love. I was told that they were experiencing high call volumes, (what a surprise that a call centre should actually have people call them!) and that, if I wanted, I could opt for them to call me back. I gave this a go. I then spent the next half an hour walking around with my mobile in the air to ensure a signal, inside the house tends to be a bit sporadic signal wise. A got the call and was asked to describe the fault. I said that I knew the fault and told the woman on the phone that the wires were cut. “So is the phone line not working?” she asked. “Of course not, the wires aren’t connected” I replied. “But if you just tell me which coloured wires go where, I will fix it. “Oh I cannot allow you to do it yourself, if you cause damage to our network then you will be charged. I will need to send out an engineer” I thought that I was going to be given an appointment a week on Tuesday or something but, to my surprise, I was offered Friday morning. I tentatively asked if it could be in the afternoon once I returned from work and she agreed. “If it proves to be anything other than wear or tear” she continued “ you will be charged for the call out. It will be £60, followed by £70 for every subsequent hour, or part thereof, necessary to remedy the fault” I replied, “How do you define wear and tear?” “The engineer will decide that” she told me. All I had wanted was to find out which wire went where. I could have searched the internet, but of course I couldn’t. I could have waited until George or Ashley were home and ask them to dismantle their socket but I had made the call now and was terrified that the fitters may have caused damage to the line had the bare wires touched. I was resigned to, not only having to be home by one the next day and stay in until the engineer turned up. But also the real possibility of a hefty bill.
FRIDAY:
The engineer has left now. His words upon being introduced to the bare wires were, "the quicker I get this done, the less it'll cost you" so I imagine a bill will be forthcoming.
The letter of complaint to Mc****** glazing has been written and, as soon as I know how much BT has charged for their five minute job. We shall be sending them a cheque for less than the invoice total to represents our costs, time and inconvenience caused by the actions listed above.
All I need to do now is upload this latest tale of good luck.
The house had several blown double glazed units so Katy arranged for Mc****** Glazing to come to replace them. When I arrived home just after twelve, they were at their lunch, having taken off the outside glazing beads in preparation for the removal of the misted up units once I gave them access. A little while later, one of them knocked on the door and I let him in. I warned him of the presence of Evie (She’s fine by the way. Her highlight of today was to go outside, eat some grass, come back in, puke up the grass in two strategically chosen piles at the doorway to the living room, then lay a smelly dump in her litter tray) to which he assured me that he would keep the doors closed.
While they were banging away upstairs, brother George phoned. He was needing advice as to how to break into a Mercedes S Class. I have no idea why I should know about these things. The only speciality I had was that of the owner of said Merc, to lock one’s keys inside (see last weeks blog). As we spoke, I heard a crash of breaking glass, followed by an expletive. When I walked through the hall, I saw the man struggling down the stairs with a glazing unit looking rather sparsely glazed. I acknowledged him and he grunted a reply. From the tone of the grunt, I determined that this must be one of the old ones. There followed another half an hour or so, more banging. After which, the ladders were put back on their van and they declared they were finished. I climbed the stairs and looked at the new glazing in the windows of the front bedroom. There was a little bit of putty round the edges of the glass but nothing major. They left the invoice and were on their way.
A little later, I spotted a piece of broken glass on the front doorstep. Upon bending down to pick this up, I noticed another piece and another, and another. In fact the driveway was strewn with little pieces of glass and a glazing nail which glinted at me almost saying “I’m going to have your tyre”. once I retrieved the debris outside, I thought I had better check to make sure nothing had been trailed through the house. Sure enough, once I started to look there were shards all the way up the stairs. Evie had followed me up so she was scooped up and locked in the living room for her own safety. I soon found where the unit had been dropped, a dent in one of the wooden stair treads, consistent with having been struck by the corner of a window unit. The area around the dent was strewn with fine glass dust and slivers. I cannot prove that this was the point of impact but, given that I recently hand sanded and varnished the stairs, I was unaware of such a dent previously. I, of course knew about the dent left by the decorators but that was in a different place altogether and another story told in the blog previously. I am considering naming each stair after a contractor, complete with a brass plaque bearing their name, date and level of incompetence.
While they had been working upstairs, I noticed that my internet connection had been lost and, upon trying the phone handset, found there to be no dialling tone. I put this down to the proximity of the BT master socket to the window area. There are several plugs into the socket and I imagined that the fitters had disconnected the plugs to make working easier. Again, it was only once they had left that I discovered that the plugs had not been disconnected but that the main line into the property had been severed where it connects to the master socket. I resolved to reconnect the wires. Unfortunately, I was not sure which wire should connect to which terminal. “I know” I thought, “I’ll call BT and ask them which coloured wire goes where, then I’ll whip out my screwdriver and wire strippers and simply reconnect it”. Wire strippers are an important accessory when connecting a BT line as the ‘stick between front teeth to strip off insulation’ method can be rather tricky. In fact, it can be rather painful as there is 50 Volts of direct current surging through a phone line and through me on a previous occasion at the flat.
I had to use the mobile to call BT of course. A free 0800 number, not free if using a mobile. In fact, it costs me more to dial a free phone number than it does to call an 01.… or 02... number. After the usual options, including the “if you want to report a fault with your phoneline, you can do it on our website” one which I love. I was told that they were experiencing high call volumes, (what a surprise that a call centre should actually have people call them!) and that, if I wanted, I could opt for them to call me back. I gave this a go. I then spent the next half an hour walking around with my mobile in the air to ensure a signal, inside the house tends to be a bit sporadic signal wise. A got the call and was asked to describe the fault. I said that I knew the fault and told the woman on the phone that the wires were cut. “So is the phone line not working?” she asked. “Of course not, the wires aren’t connected” I replied. “But if you just tell me which coloured wires go where, I will fix it. “Oh I cannot allow you to do it yourself, if you cause damage to our network then you will be charged. I will need to send out an engineer” I thought that I was going to be given an appointment a week on Tuesday or something but, to my surprise, I was offered Friday morning. I tentatively asked if it could be in the afternoon once I returned from work and she agreed. “If it proves to be anything other than wear or tear” she continued “ you will be charged for the call out. It will be £60, followed by £70 for every subsequent hour, or part thereof, necessary to remedy the fault” I replied, “How do you define wear and tear?” “The engineer will decide that” she told me. All I had wanted was to find out which wire went where. I could have searched the internet, but of course I couldn’t. I could have waited until George or Ashley were home and ask them to dismantle their socket but I had made the call now and was terrified that the fitters may have caused damage to the line had the bare wires touched. I was resigned to, not only having to be home by one the next day and stay in until the engineer turned up. But also the real possibility of a hefty bill.
FRIDAY:
The engineer has left now. His words upon being introduced to the bare wires were, "the quicker I get this done, the less it'll cost you" so I imagine a bill will be forthcoming.
The letter of complaint to Mc****** glazing has been written and, as soon as I know how much BT has charged for their five minute job. We shall be sending them a cheque for less than the invoice total to represents our costs, time and inconvenience caused by the actions listed above.
All I need to do now is upload this latest tale of good luck.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Applecross
A lot of people will have already seen this. Those people will also notice that It has not seen much progress since last they may have read it. It had all been saved on my old PC. when it died, I thought I had lost all the files. Allan was able to extracate it, amongst other files, from the old hard disk.
Please feel free to post a comment on it. I do worry when I don't get any comments, only knowing people read my blog, when I get asked why I haven't posted in months.
On the subject of comments, I was pleased to see that I have a namesake on the other side of the Atlantic. I didn't have the heart to ask if his surname is equally cursed as mine.
My trip away for the weekend seemed straightforward enough, I knew where I wanted to go, I even knew how long the journey would take, so I had intended to be in Applecross by the early evening of Friday.
Of course, planning and doing are two completely different things, you only have to look at the road building programme for that.
In 1982 the Stonehaven bypass was begun. It was only fifty years previously that it had first been considered an "urgent" project. The government and pen pushers, in their own little way, actually make me feel less self conscious of my ability to pontificate as no matter how long it takes me to follow up say, an unresolved insurance claim, I can rest assured that there’s probably some new disease, fatal in all cases, transmitted by pepperoni pizzas, and the only antidote is the addition of anchovies that they haven’t decided upon telling the public about yet as it may "cause unnecessary alarm".
I had it all worked out. As I was on early shift, finishing at eleven on the Friday morning, I would nip home, pack quickly, check the car over then set off. That was until I awoke on the Friday at three am to find that my mobile phone seemed to have been cut off as I slept. I resolved to call Vodafone later and also my bank to sort things out.
I left work with an air of excitement and determination. First step was Makro who had been advertising cheap tents. I have not had much luck with tents in the past. The only one I actually own is a huge thing kindly gifted to me by my aunt. It boasts two separate bedrooms, a porch and a kitchen extension. Dating from the sixties it’s of very high quality and is a fantastic piece of engineering. Then so is the Millennium Dome and look how long that tent took to put up. The other thing it shares with the Dome is its lack of use! Unfortunately I have only used the tent once, eight years ago, since that time it has lain, moulding and festering, in its five or so different bags at the top of my parents house in a room which unfortunately suffers from a leaking roof. I will one day resurrect this virtual marquee. But then, so will Aberdeen one day get its much needed bypass!
My borrowing of tents has tested a couple of friendships. Last year I mentioned to my friend Sue (friend is the wrong word, she has become more of a second mum to me) that I was to be buying a new tent. She insisted this was not necessary as her husband Dek (thereby my second father) had a good tent which he wouldn’t need for a couple of weeks. So it was agreed that I take Dek’s tent and his camping pans away with me on the proviso that everything was returned before his forthcoming trip. I misheard the dates and, on my journey home, received a voicemail message left some days before from an irate Dek who had believed me lost in the wilderness and had therefore purchased a new set of camping equipment.
I do have another tent lying beside my own tent in the leaky room. This is another borrowed affair from someone else called Derek funnily enough. He had bought one from Makro (they’re a cash and carry warehouse but you’d think by the way I speak that they were the only camping shop in the North) he had never even unwrapped the box. The first time I toured the North and West of Scotland, I had fully intended to use Bed and Breakfast for my accommodation but after Derek’s insistence, I packed his tent in my car "just in case". Upon my arrival in the village of Durness, I spotted the campsite and just couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the good weather at the time or maybe it was the better value (£3.50 per night compared with £30.00 in a B&B).
Probably it was the fact that the Pub was only a thirty second walk, a fractionally longer stagger as paths tend to follow a more diagonal route. In fact, I have often wondered if you make a drunk walk a zig zagged road marking will he be able to walk straight?
So to the erection (something of mine rarely affected by alcohol) Remember that this tent had not even been out of its box so I was breaking the first rule of camping in that I was unprepared. This is very unlike me as I have an annoying habit of packing everything ever possibly needed on a trip including the full first aid kit (buried by everything else in the boot of my car) boiler suit, high visibility jacket, no less than six torches, different sizes for different situations, yes dark is dark and up here in summer it never becomes fully dark but you just never can tell! I even used to carry traffic cones in my car just in case I happened upon a road accident and had to make the area safe!
How difficult can it be to put a tent up anyway? Under my belt there is all manner of camping experience from the erection of six man army tents to full marquees and of course the one that my elderly Aunt ,who suffers from Parkinson’s Disease, so expertly talked me through how to build whilst in her back garden. She had lost none of her school teacher like qualities that the many years of school teaching (funnily enough) had brought to her personality.
This was one of those dome tents, the ones they say you can put up in five minutes in a gale force wind. Appropriately enough, the wind had just begun to pick up. Five minutes later (give or take an hour or so) this miracle of modern fabrics and space age composite poles was up, minus the ends of the poles which I had wrongly plunged into soft ground, the wind howling past my ears, unable to get them out again when the elastic holding them on had snapped. I retreated to the Pub safe in the knowledge that upon my return the seams still wouldn’t run in a straight line and this would make it instantly recognisable amongst the other tents.
A year later when I returned to Durness, this tent decided that, despite having space age poles, the winds of the highlands were more demanding than any conditions NASA designers may have allowed for and I awoke to find the tent, my bicycle (which was propped up just inside the front flaps) and a nights worth of rain were on top of me. In order to extricate myself from this mess of snapped poles and a soggy sleeping bag I had to climb through the A-frame of the bike as it now blocked the entrance to the tent. The next night was spent in the Youth Hostel which was some half a mile from the Pub and the less said about how I got back from the pub that night the better.
Standing in Makro I was disappointed to find that the selection was somewhat depleted from that shown in their latest mail shot. Upon asking I was reminded that with the music festival "T in the park" this weekend there had been a rush on buying up the camping gear, I have personally never found a tent that I imagine would be suitable for a music festival. I only guess that they are fitted with chainmail to prevent their contents being liberated by the swift use of a knife, whilst their occupants lie in a state of near consciousness either stoned or off their faces with other drugs.
There was a choice of tents, a sun tent, more of a windbreak than a tent! A two person and a three person. Ever hopeful of picking up some "company" on my travels I opted for the largest one. Besides, it had the boast of being able to be put up in five minutes in a gale force wind emblazoned on the box! My theory was that it’s better the devil you know, I had always intended to replace the tent I had borrowed from Derek which was back in 1998 so he could have it on my return.
Arriving back at my flat I found that there was a phone bill waiting for me, this was rather strange as I had opted for a monthly Direct Debit plan some months previously.
The priority was to call Vodafone, my bank and now also British telecom before packing up all my stuff and heading away. I duly phoned all three and sorted out to my almost satisfaction, other peoples mistakes regarding my accounts.
I had been lying across my bed as I used the phone and was beginning to become rather sleepy so decided to set the alarm for two pm so that I would awake feeling refreshed for my trip.
Surfacing at eight, I realised that making it to Applecross before nightfall was now impossible. I enjoy driving through the night, the quiet roads, the early morning light, the knowledge upon reaching a blind corner that any oncoming traffic will at least be visible by their headlights. There is, however, one thing that terrifies me, Deer! Oh yes Bambi is very cute but, whilst she was mourning her mother, someone forgot to teach her any road sense. Since the reduction of hunting and culling of deer in Scotland the number of road accidents involving them have risen dramatically and you’re more likely to encounter them at night of course.
My own experience was some six years ago when travelling in a hired car on the A9. Having driven past a sign warning of wild animals I remarked to my passenger that in my years of driving, a deer had never crossed my path, five minutes later, this became something I can no longer say. Travelling at a speed slightly above seventy (honestly it wasn’t that far over the speed limit) I had a split second decision to make. Do I swerve left? No not up an embankment, I might roll the car. Right was out of the question as it offered a feeble crash barrier, the oncoming carriageway and past that, a very steep drop down a cliff. Braking in a straight line I managed to lock the wheels very little and brought the car to a standstill. There was something else which happened before I stopped a thump! After the obligatory "Oh Fuck!" we both emerged from the car to survey the scene. We had to move the carcass off the road and my friend, Derek (another Derek would you believe) looked down at the lifeless body and said "aww poor thing" I replied "what do you mean? Look at the car, I’ve lost my deposit!" Both the indicators had popped out of their fixings, the grille was missing several slats, those which remained had collected fur on them, the bonnet had a dent on it and a pattern of blood not dissimilar to the effect on a windscreen when a bird decants its bowels from a great height. The impact had come within a fraction of an inch of the airbag sensor so luckily the car was still driveable and I had avoided a broken nose.
I am not a heartless person when it comes to nature. I am a realist. I truly believe that some of Mans practices regarding animals are unacceptable but this was a genuine accident and had my decision whether to swerve or not it could have ended up with two dead young men. In fact it’s not unheard of for a deer’s antlers to puncture a windscreen and impale the driver. This was quite a small animal but it still took two of us to move it. Derek took the front legs and I grabbed its hind legs. "Urgh one of its legs is broken" protested Derek "I can feel it clicking" I told him that a broken leg is probably the least of its worries now as we lay it down by the side of the road. The law states that you may take a wild animal you hit as compensation for the damage to your vehicle. Which is all very well, but we didn’t know any butchers that would be open at eight thirty on a Saturday evening and to have taken it with us would’ve involved having to gut it, as the flesh of venison becomes tainted after only twenty minutes if you don’t. Besides which it was a white car and it would’ve shown even worse marks if we had tied it to the roof.
The hire company was very understanding but couldn’t help saying "Oh dear" and laughing. They of course retained my deposit and also asked for my permission to syndicate the accident report form to all their other branches as it was supposedly the most amusing story and accompanying sketches they’d seen in years.
The hours between eight pm Friday and eight on Saturday morning were spent chatting with new friends on the internet (none of whom were called Derek) and packing all that I believed I would need for what was now going to be only one night under canvas. One more torch, a tiny one in case I went to the pub without a jacket, I thought that the one that resembles a coastguard searchlight may attract some funny looks. Once I was sure I was ready for the journey I loaded up the car, checked the oil and water and headed for ASDA to buy some beer, cigarettes and to fill the petrol tank at the best prices. A blast of air in my tyres and I was off. It was now a quarter past nine and I knew I had a five hour drive ahead of me before reaching my final destination.
When I’m on holiday I tend to drive quite slowly but had decided to make up time on the major roads then slow my pace as the roads became less wide. I drove up Aberdeen’s ring road, which was originally intended as a bypass until someone had the bright idea of expanding the city beyond it; there are even houses with driveways directly onto the road. It now boasts seven roundabouts and sixteen or so sets of traffic lights so not a very direct route!
Outside the city, the road climbs past a forest of which I have fond memories. I had the great pleasure of the company of a girl there once. I still miss her and rue my decision not to take her up on her offer of a serious relationship. The road then falls very sharply to join another bypass which, I have to admit, is very well designed except for the roundabout at the bottom of this first hill which should be sponsored by a brake manufacturer. It really doesn’t matter how slowly you approach it, the copious depletion of brake pads is unavoidable. After this stretch of dual carriageway it’s all single as far as Inverness. There is always a hold-up of some kind on this stretch of road. Whether it’s an agricultural machine bouncing along at it’s flat out speed of 25MPH or a flat cap wearer who treats every day of the week as a Sunday drive. I pass a message board, normally used in winter to warn of snow ahead. Today the catchy slogan reads "Frustration Causes Accidents!" I mutter to myself "No, it’s these ignorant fuckers who happily drive at 35MPH in a Nissan Micra, oblivious to the fifty of so cars stuck behind them" Once you hit the highlands there are police signs which tell you to pull over to allow overtaking. I have no problem with this and am glad to let the locals, who have seen the stunning scenery before and now take it for granted to get on their way.
I passed through all the villages and towns that hadn’t yet been granted a bypass although many of these communities now don’t have to suffer the constant thundering of traffic through them that they once did. Ten years ago when I was at college in Inverness the route didn’t benefit from the many "stacker lanes" at junctions and "crawler lanes" up steep hills that are in place now. These allow faster moving traffic to whiz past the Lorries, caravans and flat cap wearers only to find a different collection of slow moving vehicles as the road narrows again. Never mind it’s a different Nissan with a slightly different travel rug on the back shelf so it relieves the boredom ever so slightly I suppose.
As I approached Inverness I passed the road to Culloden village and Culloden Moor, the scene of the last stand by the Jackobytes against the English army in 1745. It is now a visitor attraction but despite the flocks of tourists, when you stand at the edge what was the battlefield, you cant help but be hit by the eeriness of the place and think of the many good men who died here. That is before it strikes you what an utterly stupid place to choose to do battle. It was the Jackobytes Who Chose This flat heath land to make their stand. Anybody knows that Scotland is full of hills and trees and in the days before heavy artillery, the high ground was the best point from which to launch a charge. Before Isaac Newton got concussion from an apple, even a simple Highlander knew you could throw a stone downhill and it could go further than if it were pitched across level ground. Honestly to look of the battlefield into might have been of more benefit to rip up the heather and lay turf for a football game. On second thoughts, That’s Something else as a nation we’re crap at so maybe not.
Why were all these factors not taken into Consideration? Because our army was led by a Frenchman. Now I don't particularly dislike the French. They brought us The Peugeot 306 Diesel Turbo a very good car but I do blame the soft compound of the Michellin tyres for my inability to stop when I hit the deer.
The history books will tell you he was called Bonnie Prince Charlie, Heir To the throne and son of King James this sixth of Scotland (We have never had a King Derek by the way) And James the first of England. His heart just wasn’t in it, He was persuaded to leave his life of luxury In France by being promised the throne here. What they neglected to tell him was that in order to achieve the title of King, there was the little matter of disposing of the entire English Army first. It wasn’t just Charlie who was in charge of the Jackobytes, There were the numerous clan leaders but I imagine that they are communications with each other were about how If such and such ends up dead then we can get his land.
The whole escapade then, was fatally flawed and as vanity boy fled back to France, Scotland was decimated. The lands were taken over by English or southern Scottish lairds and the people were forced from their homes to make way for sheep farming. Even the wearing of tartan and was made a criminal offence. The effects of this, which came to be known as the highland clearances, are still apparent all over the top part of Scotland.
It was just after 11:30 when I arrived in Inverness. I was keen to get a haircut and wanted to top up my petrol tank whilst the price was still relatively low. The price per litre in Aberdeen was 73.9 pence, in 108 miles it had risen to 79.9 and the further North I traveled; I knew it would become even more expensive.
I feel I need to apologise to all the rural retailers of fuel. I appreciate that it is the oil companies who set the prices and then the government takes a massive seventy five percent as tax. I am simply not prepared to pay nearly a pound a litre for petrol.
Whilst I was paying for my fuel (and bemoaning the fact that as an oil producing country we pay the most for fuel) I enquired as to where the nearest barbers shop was which had easy parking and was delighted to be told just to reverse my car to the back of the forecourt and climb over a low wall where there was a shop I could get a hair cut.
I waited less than ten minutes and was greeted by a young girl with pink highlights. We chatted about the usual hairdresser things. She gave me a fair trim, except for scraping the back of my neck a little harshly with the clippers. The price was fair too, at only £5.50. I tipped her £1.50 making seven. Still a pound cheaper than my usual barber back home, they’re one of the cheaper ones.
I returned to my car and set off again.
I drove over the Kessock Bridge, an impressive piece of engineering and no Tolls, into the area known as the Black Isle. It is neither black, nor an island but I’m sure it has some historical significance. It is famous most recently for being the site of genetically modified crop trials and the subsequent influx of green protesters who make a habit of getting themselves arrested for trying to destroy it and probably make the problem worse by both necessitating its constant replanting and spreading the seed heads every time they ceremoniously trample the area. My own experience of the black isle was my involvement in building a deer fence around a primary school. This was not intended to cut the roads deaths to the children, as it was in a tiny town called Avoch (pronounced "Och" Remember to say that with a sound as if you were full of the flu and bringing up phlegm) miles from any major road.
I had studied forestry at college in 1991 and one of the skills we had to learn was fence building. The college grounds were littered with short sections of fences serving no purpose other than to show that the students could batter posts into the ground and string lengths of wire between them. So saturated was the ground that when I was being given tuition driving one of the massive forestry machines (so big That a six feet tall man could stand inside the center of the wheel rim and still have room to move around and this thing had sixteen of these giant tyres) I unfortunately crushed one of these ten foot long sections of fence. But was happy that I hadn’t destroyed the machine shed door and parts of the wall as one of my classmates later managed to do! Fence building is a lot tougher than I may have suggested there’s a lot more to it and after three days work I was very proud of our collective achievement. This was actually where I had headed to show off my work on the day some five years later when I hit the deer. There is definitely some bitter irony in the fact that I had just come from visiting a structure designed to keep deer out of certain places when I should collide with one of these dear (the pun was irresistible) creatures.
Continuing up the road, my goal became ever nearer. The first road sign I had been aiming for was Inverness, The next was Ullapool. This part of the journey was rather uneventful except for the recently resurfaced a stretch of road. Everyone, even myself, disregards the 20mph maximum signs and the warnings of Loose chippings. I drive an old Volvo and to be frank I couldn’t’ care less if the paintwork picks up a few chips, but I do worry about my windscreen getting a crack, So before long I had to adjust my speed accordingly. The other thing that concerns me about this type of road surface is that it never lasts, even if every vehicle drove across it at a steady 20mph, I don’t think it would last two weeks before looking more like a farm track with two ruts up the middle. I remember a friend who used to work in the insurance claims industry. He told me of a road in the Aberdeen area, which was repaired using this tar and chips on top method. Unfortunately, it was the hottest day of the year and several cars got stuck in it, others suffered permanent damage to their tyres or body work and subsequently the road department were hit with a massive repair bill.
I wasn’t going all the way to Ullapool this time and turned off to Auchnasheen.
Once I reached Auchnasheen I had a choice, I could continue on this road and travel to Applecross via Glen Torridon then the coast road, or travel through Glen Carron on to the mountain approach
In the past I had used the Torridon route and on my first tour, had stayed at the youth hostel. It was a Saturday night and I asked the hostel warden where the Pub was. When travelling I do enjoy socializing and meeting local people who can give me a better insight into an area. I was told that the nearest establishment was some half a mile away but that there was a Ceilidh being held at the village hall. It was open till one and was only 100yd. away. That decided that!
I had a fantastic time there together with the youth hostel warden and his wife who also appeared later on. I spoke to them about all sorts and had a few dances and I think made the poor guy a bit sorry he had suggested I come along as his wife seemed to have been rather unnervingly following my natural flirting, But he needn’t have worried as my sights had been fixed for some time on a group of young women gathered at one of the tables. One girl there was dressed too provocatively for a lone man traveling the Highlands to resist and we struck up a conversation. After a while, we stepped outside for some "fresh air" before she was called to rejoin the party as they were boarding a minibus for some little place I have never heard of called Applecross! I drove there on the Sunday and enquired after her but she was busy working in the kitchens of the pub and I haven’t seen her since. On my return
last year, I was told that she had a baby now (no. we didn’t go that far outside the village hall) and may pop into the hotel for a visit but still, she didn’t’ appear. I believe that she doesn’t exist at all and was merely a siren sent by the people of Applecross to bring me in so the spell could work on me and make me never want to leave.
Time was of the essence so I took the Glen Carron road because it is probably the most direct route. The signpost I was aiming for now was Loch Carron. The road quickly narrowed as I passed through the glen. Massive hills towered on either side of the road and the wind had picked up by now. A single track road with passing places meandered it’s way along the valley floor, passing small Lochs and Lochans (a smaller loch). The afternoon sun was glistening off the clean waters, some parts darker than others from the shadows now being cast by the overlooking mountains.
This is real mountain climbing terrain, Torridon being the largest in the range and hence the positioning of a Youth Hostel at it’s foot. I couldn’t see Torridon as one of it’s sisters, no less impressive, separated the stretch I was on from the road I had traveled in previous years. These roads are not for the faint hearted. I marvel at the way some local folk think nothing of traipsing along these highways just to go about their daily business. You have to realise that these single tracks are rated as "A" class major roads but are narrower in places than some people’s private driveways to their homes. It takes a bit of getting used to, diving into a splodge of tarmac barely the size of a large family car and waiting for the approaching vehicle to pass. You are always rewarded with a smile and a wave, regardless of whether you have allowed them to pass or they have pulled over. It can be fun waving to the left hand drive cars as I make an effort to acknowledge the driver and not the half asleep passenger who, at first glance, appears to have nodded off whilst driving. Thank god for foreign plates to make me realise that it is a map in their hands and not a steering wheel. A couple of times, I think I may have been spotted with my route map between the wheel and my concentration as I received a couple of disapproving stares. I chuckled to myself thinking of the many other things I’m known for balancing as I drive such as large bottles of Diet Coke, the occasional sandwich and sometimes even a donut! This forms part of the training for driving the trucks I use every working day. I had now confirmed being on the right road and shortly reached Loch Carron.
Loch Carron is a place I remember for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it has all the services that Applecross doesn’t. a lottery machine (I had forgotten about this and had to phone mum Sue to put on my ticket for me by proxy) a mobile phone signal, the lack of which makes Applecross all the more appealing, and cheaper fuel (although I was told this was an oversight by the elderly owner who hadn’t read the invoices from Shell) The second thing ( which perhaps sounds rather cruel as I have never spent more than half an hour at a time in the place is that it seems to have a certain pomposity not shared by Applecross. The hotel has signs by the waterfront saying "for hotel use only" the locals look up from their daily business as if to say "pah, here’s another clueless tourist driving through" and the golfers take their eyes off their most "noble" of games to give a look to suggest that prior permission were needed to drive across their beloved greens (the main road passes between the two halves of the course) As a final insult the national speed limit sign is posted half way up a steep hill out of town, negating the ability to take a run at the hill to avoid losing momentum.
All this pales into insignificance as I reach the sign I had been longing for which told me it was only twenty one miles to Applecross. Now normally when I imagine a destination being twenty one miles away, I think to myself "great, I’ll be there in around twenty minutes but Applecross, and the road to it, is no normal destination.
The initial climb is not too taxing, of course, I speak as I motorist and not a cyclist or walker, and this lulls you into a false sense of security. The route winds gently towards the village of Kishorn. I have only stopped here once before when traveling in the opposite direction I spied a postbox where I decanted a few postcards. There is a new looking wood built fish restaurant in Kishorn which I’m sure has tempted many a traveler originally intending to trek all the way to Applecross for the famous seafood menu that the hotel there boasts.
As you leave Kishorn you catch the first glimpse of Bealach Na Ba and the road which criss crosses up the mountainside. To some this probably appears a daunting sight (not least for cyclists!) all it did for me was fill me with more excitement that I had nearly arrived. The tarmac trail first had to take me around an inlet then looped back before beginning the ascent of "The Pass of The Bulls" that being the literal translation from the Gaelic Bealach Na Ba.
The road end had a sign indicating that it was twelve miles to Applecross. There were many warnings on this sign, "Road Not Suitable For Large Vehicles", "Road Normally Impassable in Winter" there were the signs that have hinges in the middle too ready to be opened up when the conditions on the mountain deteriorated.
This road is like no other in the country, in fact it holds the record as the highest climb over its distance,over two thousand feet within five miles. Vehicles coming down towards me (including those foolhardy enough to ignore the signs prohibiting motor homes) fill the air with the smell of brake dust. My own car struggles in any gear past second on the ascent. On some parts, where the road seems to just cling on to the side of the mountain, there is only room for one car at a time for hundreds of yards and oncoming traffic must reverse to a suitable space. On these threads of road there are crash barriers which hopefully would prevent any unfortunate soul from plummeting over two hundred feet down a sheer rock face. As I have said, this road is not for the faint hearted! When nearly at the top there are sharp switchbacks needing the tightest of turns and this is where many motor homes simply cannot either turn sharply enough or find a gear low enough to make it through the last push. To turn around is not an option, neither is to reverse all the way back as there will be several cars on their tail in moments, so it is not unusual to hear revving of engines, screaming of clutches and copious swearing, sometimes in other languages. A passenger may get out to give a guide and I wonder if occasionally it goes along the lines of "back, back," Bang "Stop!".
I reached the top and was, as on every other trip here, rewarded with magnificent views for miles all round the landscape. There is a viewing point come parking area here and it allows the traveller a short rest before journeying down the hill again. Some produce cameras to capture the panorama while motorcyclists empty their boots of urine following their meetings with vehicles cutting blind bends.
I continued on the road to begin my descent with the coast around Applecross now clearly visible.
A thought must be given to the history of this pass. Originally a drovers road for cattle it was, until only very recently, the only way to access Applecross by road. It was called a road when work was done in the nineteenth century to upgrade it from just a path. In the fifties the gravel surface was made more permanent when tarmac was laid. Despite this, it still remains a single track and is normally impassable in winter. Those wishing to leave Applecross had to travel some four miles along the coast to meet a boat which left at three in the morning for Kyle of Lochalsh, not being able to return until the same time the next day, in fact, if the weather was harsh they may be stranded away from home for days.
The "new" road, which follows the coast to the North, was only completed in 1975 and it now allows access almost all year round to the population and perhaps more importantly, to caravans, much benefiting tourism.
I came quite quickly down the Western side of the mountain. I suppose if my brakes had failed, my descent would have been all the faster. The tree line approached, my ears popped, again! The sign saying one mile to Applecross came into view and I rumbled over a cattle grid. The road turns sharply to the right then on to the waterfront and the village itself. On this bend is the turning for the campsite and I left the tarmac and drove onto the unsurfaced road and car park. I parked the car on the grass where I wanted to pitch, then walked over to the shop to pay for my night under canvas.
I was greeted by a girl with a non Scots accent who took my money and wished me well on my stay.
The people who live and work here are about as cosmopolitan as you can get considering how remote this place is. The girl who greeted me was Belgian, there was a French Canadian, two gorgeous Dutch girls worked there the year before and the campsite is run by Clive, his wife and daughter. They hail from the north of England as does the owner of the pub, Judy. From memory, her nephew had visited the area for a couple of weeks holiday five years ago and as far as I know he is still there. There are many stories of this where visitors come and never leave such is the appeal of this part of the world.
I set about putting up my tent after opening a beer which was well chilled having been in one of those fridges that plug into the cigarette lighter of a car. It was, in fact, borrowed from Derek who was kind enough to trust me with another piece of his property. I have no doubt he expected to get it back melted beyond recognition due to some freak power surge as is my luck when I borrow things from him. I didn’t mention his six month old Vauxhall Vectra that ended up in a ditch did I?
As I was putting up the tent I was plagued by midgies so the chain smoking began in earnest. That is one thing the little blighters really don’t like. I have been told that they build up an immunity to the various repellents and it is wise to carry two different kinds. A product which worked the year before is unlikely to have much effect the following season.
There is another, and very popular, way of avoiding midgies. It is very unscientific and I admit to having done it several times myself. The midgie dance! This involves moving your head in a jerking motion whilst flailing the arms up around the face then around the back of the head. At the same time as doing this, it is necessary to run from side to side looking like a rugby player trying to out manoeuvre a tackle. You can even add the words any rap artist would be proud of, "Fukoff, Fukoff, Fukoff-fukoff-fukoff you little bastards!" repeated until exhausted or until you reach the safety of a car or tent.
The sun was shining and it was quite warm so, once the tent was up, I took out my seat, a twenty litre jerry can full of petrol. I tend to take this so that I can use the over priced fuel found here as little as possible. The handles on the top could not exactly be described as comfortable but once I rolled up the foam bedroll, my bottom was adequately cushioned. With the backdrop of the sun going down behind the Cuillin Mountains of Skye visible over the water, I soaked in the whole experience while writing in my notebook. Summer in this part of the world may not be as hot as you might expect in countries such as Spain but where they do benefit over southern climes is the light evenings with it never becoming completely dark for most of the season. I have seen the sun still shining brightly after eleven at night although I still have to experience the true "Midnight Sun"
My usual pitch is close to the campsite entrance and this time was no different. From here I can watch the world go by and benefit from being close enough to the restaurant (should I wake up at five to eleven and have to run to order my bacon roll before they stop serving breakfasts) yet far enough away from the trees, reducing any contact with the midgie swarms congregating there. It was six pm and I had migrated from my perch atop the jerry can to a more horizontal; position stretched out on the bedroll. It wasn’t long before I drifted off in the evening sunshine, only waking as the air turned cooler. The long drive and my body clock being in early shift mode had combined to leave me exhausted and I retired to the inside of the tent to dream of my perfect woman who will one day want to share this paradise with me.
Sunday morning and I felt fully refreshed. I ordered my bacon roll and was again served by the Belgian girl. We spoke very litlle as I read the information and adverts posted all around the reception area waiting until my breakfast arrived. I returned to the sunshine where my stove had boiled the kettle allowing me to wash down the bacon roll with a cup of coffee before going for a shower.
The facilities here are excellent. In most campsites, you pay for your pitch, then you need to buy tokens in order to use the showers. Invariably one is rewarded with a cramped enclosure, the water is often only tepid and once it has started to come through warm enough then the flow stops while your hair still has shampoo in it. The cold water still works so you have to endure a pneumonia enducing final rinse. In Applecross, not only is there no need to pay extra to wash, there is a plentiful supply of ht water. The only problem is that both hot and cold taps are marked with a blue dot so it can cause some confusion as to which is which. On subsequent visits I notice this has been rectified by the addition of the words "hot" and "cold" written with marker pen on the walls behind the taps. The other thing s that the shower curtain has a nasty habit of being sucked in and sticks to your body.
I took to reading some more in the heat of the morning then continued making my notes. People were milling about the site going to and from the hop, car park and toilets. The Belgian girl passed a few times, each time waving or shouting a hello. As the day went by, I had been able to write quite a bit without having the constant interruptions which present themselves at home. I would look up between jotting to take in the view of a calm sea framed by the cliffs at the edge of the bay and the islands of Rasaay and Skye with mountains towering in the distance. By mid afternoon curiosity got the better of the Belgian and she came over. She thought by my position and the large writing pad in front of me that I had been drawing. Now, bearing in mind my inability to create anything more than stick figures of deer, landscapes would definitely be beyond me. My involvement in art is, to say the least, limited. I am a very able photographer having captured plenty great views. I can see the image I want in my head but translating that image with my hands and a pencil is something I just cannot do. I once applied to become a still life model with my local art school if it counts for anything. The woman who interviewed me was just as one would expect an art teacher to be. She had a well spoken voice, tousled hair with an all together eccentric manner. I found her very attractive too, despite her being a good deal older than myself. She was very keen to take me on due to the low number of young males willing to shed their clothes. A lot had applied for the position (is that the right word?) who had not been to the liking of this woman on account o their wish to supplement their "giros" by posing in front of young students. I suppose too that the thought of having to remove the obligatory Burberry baseball cap may have proved one step too far for them.
The Belgian girl ad I struck up a conversation. We both enthused about our surroundings. She suggested we go for a walk along the headland in the evening and I agreed, on the proviso I could return in time to order my pizza from the restaurant.
Later on, as arranged, we met in the car park before getting into her car and heading off to the other side of the bay.
Now, probably due to the amount of driving I do, I can be a rather nervous passenger but nothing had prepared me for this experience. As she hurtled along, launching into blind corners I was told that as a spiritual person she knew there would be no traffic coming in the opposite direction. "I just get this feeling" she told me "I can sense if a car is coming" I was also beginning to get a "feeling" a feeling that before long might change the colour of my underwear if she didn’t slow down. It wasn’t helped by the car being a left hand drive. The seat I occupied would, to me, have the added control of pedals and a steering wheel. Luckily, we pulled into a parking area in one piece before beginning our walk.
The path started by running parallel to the road before veering off, climbing higher through the heath of the headland.
Prior to the ‘seventies, when the road was built, this path was Applecross’ communication route to the North. It had now become redundant with some parts taken over by the heather and other bits now where a stream would run along briefly before continuing on it’s journey down towards the sea below. We walked one behind the other whilst trading stories. I had no particular attraction to this girl, although, while she was in front, I was admiring more than the scenery as her bum wiggled while she walked. It was only now I learned her name; Cat. This was not her real name, she told me, it was an unpronounceable one and she explained that everyone simply knew her as Cat. It transpired that she had worked her way up the country. Before coming to Scotland she had been a barmaid in Manchester where her previous partner lived. Cat had been an air hostess, a model and now supplements her income by doing Rieki healing
I must finish this off at some point. I realise that it was started over four years ago and needs to be concluded. All I will say is that it may only need a few lines but you know how my "few lines" can develop exponetially.
Please feel free to post a comment on it. I do worry when I don't get any comments, only knowing people read my blog, when I get asked why I haven't posted in months.
On the subject of comments, I was pleased to see that I have a namesake on the other side of the Atlantic. I didn't have the heart to ask if his surname is equally cursed as mine.
My trip away for the weekend seemed straightforward enough, I knew where I wanted to go, I even knew how long the journey would take, so I had intended to be in Applecross by the early evening of Friday.
Of course, planning and doing are two completely different things, you only have to look at the road building programme for that.
In 1982 the Stonehaven bypass was begun. It was only fifty years previously that it had first been considered an "urgent" project. The government and pen pushers, in their own little way, actually make me feel less self conscious of my ability to pontificate as no matter how long it takes me to follow up say, an unresolved insurance claim, I can rest assured that there’s probably some new disease, fatal in all cases, transmitted by pepperoni pizzas, and the only antidote is the addition of anchovies that they haven’t decided upon telling the public about yet as it may "cause unnecessary alarm".
I had it all worked out. As I was on early shift, finishing at eleven on the Friday morning, I would nip home, pack quickly, check the car over then set off. That was until I awoke on the Friday at three am to find that my mobile phone seemed to have been cut off as I slept. I resolved to call Vodafone later and also my bank to sort things out.
I left work with an air of excitement and determination. First step was Makro who had been advertising cheap tents. I have not had much luck with tents in the past. The only one I actually own is a huge thing kindly gifted to me by my aunt. It boasts two separate bedrooms, a porch and a kitchen extension. Dating from the sixties it’s of very high quality and is a fantastic piece of engineering. Then so is the Millennium Dome and look how long that tent took to put up. The other thing it shares with the Dome is its lack of use! Unfortunately I have only used the tent once, eight years ago, since that time it has lain, moulding and festering, in its five or so different bags at the top of my parents house in a room which unfortunately suffers from a leaking roof. I will one day resurrect this virtual marquee. But then, so will Aberdeen one day get its much needed bypass!
My borrowing of tents has tested a couple of friendships. Last year I mentioned to my friend Sue (friend is the wrong word, she has become more of a second mum to me) that I was to be buying a new tent. She insisted this was not necessary as her husband Dek (thereby my second father) had a good tent which he wouldn’t need for a couple of weeks. So it was agreed that I take Dek’s tent and his camping pans away with me on the proviso that everything was returned before his forthcoming trip. I misheard the dates and, on my journey home, received a voicemail message left some days before from an irate Dek who had believed me lost in the wilderness and had therefore purchased a new set of camping equipment.
I do have another tent lying beside my own tent in the leaky room. This is another borrowed affair from someone else called Derek funnily enough. He had bought one from Makro (they’re a cash and carry warehouse but you’d think by the way I speak that they were the only camping shop in the North) he had never even unwrapped the box. The first time I toured the North and West of Scotland, I had fully intended to use Bed and Breakfast for my accommodation but after Derek’s insistence, I packed his tent in my car "just in case". Upon my arrival in the village of Durness, I spotted the campsite and just couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the good weather at the time or maybe it was the better value (£3.50 per night compared with £30.00 in a B&B).
Probably it was the fact that the Pub was only a thirty second walk, a fractionally longer stagger as paths tend to follow a more diagonal route. In fact, I have often wondered if you make a drunk walk a zig zagged road marking will he be able to walk straight?
So to the erection (something of mine rarely affected by alcohol) Remember that this tent had not even been out of its box so I was breaking the first rule of camping in that I was unprepared. This is very unlike me as I have an annoying habit of packing everything ever possibly needed on a trip including the full first aid kit (buried by everything else in the boot of my car) boiler suit, high visibility jacket, no less than six torches, different sizes for different situations, yes dark is dark and up here in summer it never becomes fully dark but you just never can tell! I even used to carry traffic cones in my car just in case I happened upon a road accident and had to make the area safe!
How difficult can it be to put a tent up anyway? Under my belt there is all manner of camping experience from the erection of six man army tents to full marquees and of course the one that my elderly Aunt ,who suffers from Parkinson’s Disease, so expertly talked me through how to build whilst in her back garden. She had lost none of her school teacher like qualities that the many years of school teaching (funnily enough) had brought to her personality.
This was one of those dome tents, the ones they say you can put up in five minutes in a gale force wind. Appropriately enough, the wind had just begun to pick up. Five minutes later (give or take an hour or so) this miracle of modern fabrics and space age composite poles was up, minus the ends of the poles which I had wrongly plunged into soft ground, the wind howling past my ears, unable to get them out again when the elastic holding them on had snapped. I retreated to the Pub safe in the knowledge that upon my return the seams still wouldn’t run in a straight line and this would make it instantly recognisable amongst the other tents.
A year later when I returned to Durness, this tent decided that, despite having space age poles, the winds of the highlands were more demanding than any conditions NASA designers may have allowed for and I awoke to find the tent, my bicycle (which was propped up just inside the front flaps) and a nights worth of rain were on top of me. In order to extricate myself from this mess of snapped poles and a soggy sleeping bag I had to climb through the A-frame of the bike as it now blocked the entrance to the tent. The next night was spent in the Youth Hostel which was some half a mile from the Pub and the less said about how I got back from the pub that night the better.
Standing in Makro I was disappointed to find that the selection was somewhat depleted from that shown in their latest mail shot. Upon asking I was reminded that with the music festival "T in the park" this weekend there had been a rush on buying up the camping gear, I have personally never found a tent that I imagine would be suitable for a music festival. I only guess that they are fitted with chainmail to prevent their contents being liberated by the swift use of a knife, whilst their occupants lie in a state of near consciousness either stoned or off their faces with other drugs.
There was a choice of tents, a sun tent, more of a windbreak than a tent! A two person and a three person. Ever hopeful of picking up some "company" on my travels I opted for the largest one. Besides, it had the boast of being able to be put up in five minutes in a gale force wind emblazoned on the box! My theory was that it’s better the devil you know, I had always intended to replace the tent I had borrowed from Derek which was back in 1998 so he could have it on my return.
Arriving back at my flat I found that there was a phone bill waiting for me, this was rather strange as I had opted for a monthly Direct Debit plan some months previously.
The priority was to call Vodafone, my bank and now also British telecom before packing up all my stuff and heading away. I duly phoned all three and sorted out to my almost satisfaction, other peoples mistakes regarding my accounts.
I had been lying across my bed as I used the phone and was beginning to become rather sleepy so decided to set the alarm for two pm so that I would awake feeling refreshed for my trip.
Surfacing at eight, I realised that making it to Applecross before nightfall was now impossible. I enjoy driving through the night, the quiet roads, the early morning light, the knowledge upon reaching a blind corner that any oncoming traffic will at least be visible by their headlights. There is, however, one thing that terrifies me, Deer! Oh yes Bambi is very cute but, whilst she was mourning her mother, someone forgot to teach her any road sense. Since the reduction of hunting and culling of deer in Scotland the number of road accidents involving them have risen dramatically and you’re more likely to encounter them at night of course.
My own experience was some six years ago when travelling in a hired car on the A9. Having driven past a sign warning of wild animals I remarked to my passenger that in my years of driving, a deer had never crossed my path, five minutes later, this became something I can no longer say. Travelling at a speed slightly above seventy (honestly it wasn’t that far over the speed limit) I had a split second decision to make. Do I swerve left? No not up an embankment, I might roll the car. Right was out of the question as it offered a feeble crash barrier, the oncoming carriageway and past that, a very steep drop down a cliff. Braking in a straight line I managed to lock the wheels very little and brought the car to a standstill. There was something else which happened before I stopped a thump! After the obligatory "Oh Fuck!" we both emerged from the car to survey the scene. We had to move the carcass off the road and my friend, Derek (another Derek would you believe) looked down at the lifeless body and said "aww poor thing" I replied "what do you mean? Look at the car, I’ve lost my deposit!" Both the indicators had popped out of their fixings, the grille was missing several slats, those which remained had collected fur on them, the bonnet had a dent on it and a pattern of blood not dissimilar to the effect on a windscreen when a bird decants its bowels from a great height. The impact had come within a fraction of an inch of the airbag sensor so luckily the car was still driveable and I had avoided a broken nose.
I am not a heartless person when it comes to nature. I am a realist. I truly believe that some of Mans practices regarding animals are unacceptable but this was a genuine accident and had my decision whether to swerve or not it could have ended up with two dead young men. In fact it’s not unheard of for a deer’s antlers to puncture a windscreen and impale the driver. This was quite a small animal but it still took two of us to move it. Derek took the front legs and I grabbed its hind legs. "Urgh one of its legs is broken" protested Derek "I can feel it clicking" I told him that a broken leg is probably the least of its worries now as we lay it down by the side of the road. The law states that you may take a wild animal you hit as compensation for the damage to your vehicle. Which is all very well, but we didn’t know any butchers that would be open at eight thirty on a Saturday evening and to have taken it with us would’ve involved having to gut it, as the flesh of venison becomes tainted after only twenty minutes if you don’t. Besides which it was a white car and it would’ve shown even worse marks if we had tied it to the roof.
The hire company was very understanding but couldn’t help saying "Oh dear" and laughing. They of course retained my deposit and also asked for my permission to syndicate the accident report form to all their other branches as it was supposedly the most amusing story and accompanying sketches they’d seen in years.
The hours between eight pm Friday and eight on Saturday morning were spent chatting with new friends on the internet (none of whom were called Derek) and packing all that I believed I would need for what was now going to be only one night under canvas. One more torch, a tiny one in case I went to the pub without a jacket, I thought that the one that resembles a coastguard searchlight may attract some funny looks. Once I was sure I was ready for the journey I loaded up the car, checked the oil and water and headed for ASDA to buy some beer, cigarettes and to fill the petrol tank at the best prices. A blast of air in my tyres and I was off. It was now a quarter past nine and I knew I had a five hour drive ahead of me before reaching my final destination.
When I’m on holiday I tend to drive quite slowly but had decided to make up time on the major roads then slow my pace as the roads became less wide. I drove up Aberdeen’s ring road, which was originally intended as a bypass until someone had the bright idea of expanding the city beyond it; there are even houses with driveways directly onto the road. It now boasts seven roundabouts and sixteen or so sets of traffic lights so not a very direct route!
Outside the city, the road climbs past a forest of which I have fond memories. I had the great pleasure of the company of a girl there once. I still miss her and rue my decision not to take her up on her offer of a serious relationship. The road then falls very sharply to join another bypass which, I have to admit, is very well designed except for the roundabout at the bottom of this first hill which should be sponsored by a brake manufacturer. It really doesn’t matter how slowly you approach it, the copious depletion of brake pads is unavoidable. After this stretch of dual carriageway it’s all single as far as Inverness. There is always a hold-up of some kind on this stretch of road. Whether it’s an agricultural machine bouncing along at it’s flat out speed of 25MPH or a flat cap wearer who treats every day of the week as a Sunday drive. I pass a message board, normally used in winter to warn of snow ahead. Today the catchy slogan reads "Frustration Causes Accidents!" I mutter to myself "No, it’s these ignorant fuckers who happily drive at 35MPH in a Nissan Micra, oblivious to the fifty of so cars stuck behind them" Once you hit the highlands there are police signs which tell you to pull over to allow overtaking. I have no problem with this and am glad to let the locals, who have seen the stunning scenery before and now take it for granted to get on their way.
I passed through all the villages and towns that hadn’t yet been granted a bypass although many of these communities now don’t have to suffer the constant thundering of traffic through them that they once did. Ten years ago when I was at college in Inverness the route didn’t benefit from the many "stacker lanes" at junctions and "crawler lanes" up steep hills that are in place now. These allow faster moving traffic to whiz past the Lorries, caravans and flat cap wearers only to find a different collection of slow moving vehicles as the road narrows again. Never mind it’s a different Nissan with a slightly different travel rug on the back shelf so it relieves the boredom ever so slightly I suppose.
As I approached Inverness I passed the road to Culloden village and Culloden Moor, the scene of the last stand by the Jackobytes against the English army in 1745. It is now a visitor attraction but despite the flocks of tourists, when you stand at the edge what was the battlefield, you cant help but be hit by the eeriness of the place and think of the many good men who died here. That is before it strikes you what an utterly stupid place to choose to do battle. It was the Jackobytes Who Chose This flat heath land to make their stand. Anybody knows that Scotland is full of hills and trees and in the days before heavy artillery, the high ground was the best point from which to launch a charge. Before Isaac Newton got concussion from an apple, even a simple Highlander knew you could throw a stone downhill and it could go further than if it were pitched across level ground. Honestly to look of the battlefield into might have been of more benefit to rip up the heather and lay turf for a football game. On second thoughts, That’s Something else as a nation we’re crap at so maybe not.
Why were all these factors not taken into Consideration? Because our army was led by a Frenchman. Now I don't particularly dislike the French. They brought us The Peugeot 306 Diesel Turbo a very good car but I do blame the soft compound of the Michellin tyres for my inability to stop when I hit the deer.
The history books will tell you he was called Bonnie Prince Charlie, Heir To the throne and son of King James this sixth of Scotland (We have never had a King Derek by the way) And James the first of England. His heart just wasn’t in it, He was persuaded to leave his life of luxury In France by being promised the throne here. What they neglected to tell him was that in order to achieve the title of King, there was the little matter of disposing of the entire English Army first. It wasn’t just Charlie who was in charge of the Jackobytes, There were the numerous clan leaders but I imagine that they are communications with each other were about how If such and such ends up dead then we can get his land.
The whole escapade then, was fatally flawed and as vanity boy fled back to France, Scotland was decimated. The lands were taken over by English or southern Scottish lairds and the people were forced from their homes to make way for sheep farming. Even the wearing of tartan and was made a criminal offence. The effects of this, which came to be known as the highland clearances, are still apparent all over the top part of Scotland.
It was just after 11:30 when I arrived in Inverness. I was keen to get a haircut and wanted to top up my petrol tank whilst the price was still relatively low. The price per litre in Aberdeen was 73.9 pence, in 108 miles it had risen to 79.9 and the further North I traveled; I knew it would become even more expensive.
I feel I need to apologise to all the rural retailers of fuel. I appreciate that it is the oil companies who set the prices and then the government takes a massive seventy five percent as tax. I am simply not prepared to pay nearly a pound a litre for petrol.
Whilst I was paying for my fuel (and bemoaning the fact that as an oil producing country we pay the most for fuel) I enquired as to where the nearest barbers shop was which had easy parking and was delighted to be told just to reverse my car to the back of the forecourt and climb over a low wall where there was a shop I could get a hair cut.
I waited less than ten minutes and was greeted by a young girl with pink highlights. We chatted about the usual hairdresser things. She gave me a fair trim, except for scraping the back of my neck a little harshly with the clippers. The price was fair too, at only £5.50. I tipped her £1.50 making seven. Still a pound cheaper than my usual barber back home, they’re one of the cheaper ones.
I returned to my car and set off again.
I drove over the Kessock Bridge, an impressive piece of engineering and no Tolls, into the area known as the Black Isle. It is neither black, nor an island but I’m sure it has some historical significance. It is famous most recently for being the site of genetically modified crop trials and the subsequent influx of green protesters who make a habit of getting themselves arrested for trying to destroy it and probably make the problem worse by both necessitating its constant replanting and spreading the seed heads every time they ceremoniously trample the area. My own experience of the black isle was my involvement in building a deer fence around a primary school. This was not intended to cut the roads deaths to the children, as it was in a tiny town called Avoch (pronounced "Och" Remember to say that with a sound as if you were full of the flu and bringing up phlegm) miles from any major road.
I had studied forestry at college in 1991 and one of the skills we had to learn was fence building. The college grounds were littered with short sections of fences serving no purpose other than to show that the students could batter posts into the ground and string lengths of wire between them. So saturated was the ground that when I was being given tuition driving one of the massive forestry machines (so big That a six feet tall man could stand inside the center of the wheel rim and still have room to move around and this thing had sixteen of these giant tyres) I unfortunately crushed one of these ten foot long sections of fence. But was happy that I hadn’t destroyed the machine shed door and parts of the wall as one of my classmates later managed to do! Fence building is a lot tougher than I may have suggested there’s a lot more to it and after three days work I was very proud of our collective achievement. This was actually where I had headed to show off my work on the day some five years later when I hit the deer. There is definitely some bitter irony in the fact that I had just come from visiting a structure designed to keep deer out of certain places when I should collide with one of these dear (the pun was irresistible) creatures.
Continuing up the road, my goal became ever nearer. The first road sign I had been aiming for was Inverness, The next was Ullapool. This part of the journey was rather uneventful except for the recently resurfaced a stretch of road. Everyone, even myself, disregards the 20mph maximum signs and the warnings of Loose chippings. I drive an old Volvo and to be frank I couldn’t’ care less if the paintwork picks up a few chips, but I do worry about my windscreen getting a crack, So before long I had to adjust my speed accordingly. The other thing that concerns me about this type of road surface is that it never lasts, even if every vehicle drove across it at a steady 20mph, I don’t think it would last two weeks before looking more like a farm track with two ruts up the middle. I remember a friend who used to work in the insurance claims industry. He told me of a road in the Aberdeen area, which was repaired using this tar and chips on top method. Unfortunately, it was the hottest day of the year and several cars got stuck in it, others suffered permanent damage to their tyres or body work and subsequently the road department were hit with a massive repair bill.
I wasn’t going all the way to Ullapool this time and turned off to Auchnasheen.
Once I reached Auchnasheen I had a choice, I could continue on this road and travel to Applecross via Glen Torridon then the coast road, or travel through Glen Carron on to the mountain approach
In the past I had used the Torridon route and on my first tour, had stayed at the youth hostel. It was a Saturday night and I asked the hostel warden where the Pub was. When travelling I do enjoy socializing and meeting local people who can give me a better insight into an area. I was told that the nearest establishment was some half a mile away but that there was a Ceilidh being held at the village hall. It was open till one and was only 100yd. away. That decided that!
I had a fantastic time there together with the youth hostel warden and his wife who also appeared later on. I spoke to them about all sorts and had a few dances and I think made the poor guy a bit sorry he had suggested I come along as his wife seemed to have been rather unnervingly following my natural flirting, But he needn’t have worried as my sights had been fixed for some time on a group of young women gathered at one of the tables. One girl there was dressed too provocatively for a lone man traveling the Highlands to resist and we struck up a conversation. After a while, we stepped outside for some "fresh air" before she was called to rejoin the party as they were boarding a minibus for some little place I have never heard of called Applecross! I drove there on the Sunday and enquired after her but she was busy working in the kitchens of the pub and I haven’t seen her since. On my return
last year, I was told that she had a baby now (no. we didn’t go that far outside the village hall) and may pop into the hotel for a visit but still, she didn’t’ appear. I believe that she doesn’t exist at all and was merely a siren sent by the people of Applecross to bring me in so the spell could work on me and make me never want to leave.
Time was of the essence so I took the Glen Carron road because it is probably the most direct route. The signpost I was aiming for now was Loch Carron. The road quickly narrowed as I passed through the glen. Massive hills towered on either side of the road and the wind had picked up by now. A single track road with passing places meandered it’s way along the valley floor, passing small Lochs and Lochans (a smaller loch). The afternoon sun was glistening off the clean waters, some parts darker than others from the shadows now being cast by the overlooking mountains.
This is real mountain climbing terrain, Torridon being the largest in the range and hence the positioning of a Youth Hostel at it’s foot. I couldn’t see Torridon as one of it’s sisters, no less impressive, separated the stretch I was on from the road I had traveled in previous years. These roads are not for the faint hearted. I marvel at the way some local folk think nothing of traipsing along these highways just to go about their daily business. You have to realise that these single tracks are rated as "A" class major roads but are narrower in places than some people’s private driveways to their homes. It takes a bit of getting used to, diving into a splodge of tarmac barely the size of a large family car and waiting for the approaching vehicle to pass. You are always rewarded with a smile and a wave, regardless of whether you have allowed them to pass or they have pulled over. It can be fun waving to the left hand drive cars as I make an effort to acknowledge the driver and not the half asleep passenger who, at first glance, appears to have nodded off whilst driving. Thank god for foreign plates to make me realise that it is a map in their hands and not a steering wheel. A couple of times, I think I may have been spotted with my route map between the wheel and my concentration as I received a couple of disapproving stares. I chuckled to myself thinking of the many other things I’m known for balancing as I drive such as large bottles of Diet Coke, the occasional sandwich and sometimes even a donut! This forms part of the training for driving the trucks I use every working day. I had now confirmed being on the right road and shortly reached Loch Carron.
Loch Carron is a place I remember for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it has all the services that Applecross doesn’t. a lottery machine (I had forgotten about this and had to phone mum Sue to put on my ticket for me by proxy) a mobile phone signal, the lack of which makes Applecross all the more appealing, and cheaper fuel (although I was told this was an oversight by the elderly owner who hadn’t read the invoices from Shell) The second thing ( which perhaps sounds rather cruel as I have never spent more than half an hour at a time in the place is that it seems to have a certain pomposity not shared by Applecross. The hotel has signs by the waterfront saying "for hotel use only" the locals look up from their daily business as if to say "pah, here’s another clueless tourist driving through" and the golfers take their eyes off their most "noble" of games to give a look to suggest that prior permission were needed to drive across their beloved greens (the main road passes between the two halves of the course) As a final insult the national speed limit sign is posted half way up a steep hill out of town, negating the ability to take a run at the hill to avoid losing momentum.
All this pales into insignificance as I reach the sign I had been longing for which told me it was only twenty one miles to Applecross. Now normally when I imagine a destination being twenty one miles away, I think to myself "great, I’ll be there in around twenty minutes but Applecross, and the road to it, is no normal destination.
The initial climb is not too taxing, of course, I speak as I motorist and not a cyclist or walker, and this lulls you into a false sense of security. The route winds gently towards the village of Kishorn. I have only stopped here once before when traveling in the opposite direction I spied a postbox where I decanted a few postcards. There is a new looking wood built fish restaurant in Kishorn which I’m sure has tempted many a traveler originally intending to trek all the way to Applecross for the famous seafood menu that the hotel there boasts.
As you leave Kishorn you catch the first glimpse of Bealach Na Ba and the road which criss crosses up the mountainside. To some this probably appears a daunting sight (not least for cyclists!) all it did for me was fill me with more excitement that I had nearly arrived. The tarmac trail first had to take me around an inlet then looped back before beginning the ascent of "The Pass of The Bulls" that being the literal translation from the Gaelic Bealach Na Ba.
The road end had a sign indicating that it was twelve miles to Applecross. There were many warnings on this sign, "Road Not Suitable For Large Vehicles", "Road Normally Impassable in Winter" there were the signs that have hinges in the middle too ready to be opened up when the conditions on the mountain deteriorated.
This road is like no other in the country, in fact it holds the record as the highest climb over its distance,over two thousand feet within five miles. Vehicles coming down towards me (including those foolhardy enough to ignore the signs prohibiting motor homes) fill the air with the smell of brake dust. My own car struggles in any gear past second on the ascent. On some parts, where the road seems to just cling on to the side of the mountain, there is only room for one car at a time for hundreds of yards and oncoming traffic must reverse to a suitable space. On these threads of road there are crash barriers which hopefully would prevent any unfortunate soul from plummeting over two hundred feet down a sheer rock face. As I have said, this road is not for the faint hearted! When nearly at the top there are sharp switchbacks needing the tightest of turns and this is where many motor homes simply cannot either turn sharply enough or find a gear low enough to make it through the last push. To turn around is not an option, neither is to reverse all the way back as there will be several cars on their tail in moments, so it is not unusual to hear revving of engines, screaming of clutches and copious swearing, sometimes in other languages. A passenger may get out to give a guide and I wonder if occasionally it goes along the lines of "back, back," Bang "Stop!".
I reached the top and was, as on every other trip here, rewarded with magnificent views for miles all round the landscape. There is a viewing point come parking area here and it allows the traveller a short rest before journeying down the hill again. Some produce cameras to capture the panorama while motorcyclists empty their boots of urine following their meetings with vehicles cutting blind bends.
I continued on the road to begin my descent with the coast around Applecross now clearly visible.
A thought must be given to the history of this pass. Originally a drovers road for cattle it was, until only very recently, the only way to access Applecross by road. It was called a road when work was done in the nineteenth century to upgrade it from just a path. In the fifties the gravel surface was made more permanent when tarmac was laid. Despite this, it still remains a single track and is normally impassable in winter. Those wishing to leave Applecross had to travel some four miles along the coast to meet a boat which left at three in the morning for Kyle of Lochalsh, not being able to return until the same time the next day, in fact, if the weather was harsh they may be stranded away from home for days.
The "new" road, which follows the coast to the North, was only completed in 1975 and it now allows access almost all year round to the population and perhaps more importantly, to caravans, much benefiting tourism.
I came quite quickly down the Western side of the mountain. I suppose if my brakes had failed, my descent would have been all the faster. The tree line approached, my ears popped, again! The sign saying one mile to Applecross came into view and I rumbled over a cattle grid. The road turns sharply to the right then on to the waterfront and the village itself. On this bend is the turning for the campsite and I left the tarmac and drove onto the unsurfaced road and car park. I parked the car on the grass where I wanted to pitch, then walked over to the shop to pay for my night under canvas.
I was greeted by a girl with a non Scots accent who took my money and wished me well on my stay.
The people who live and work here are about as cosmopolitan as you can get considering how remote this place is. The girl who greeted me was Belgian, there was a French Canadian, two gorgeous Dutch girls worked there the year before and the campsite is run by Clive, his wife and daughter. They hail from the north of England as does the owner of the pub, Judy. From memory, her nephew had visited the area for a couple of weeks holiday five years ago and as far as I know he is still there. There are many stories of this where visitors come and never leave such is the appeal of this part of the world.
I set about putting up my tent after opening a beer which was well chilled having been in one of those fridges that plug into the cigarette lighter of a car. It was, in fact, borrowed from Derek who was kind enough to trust me with another piece of his property. I have no doubt he expected to get it back melted beyond recognition due to some freak power surge as is my luck when I borrow things from him. I didn’t mention his six month old Vauxhall Vectra that ended up in a ditch did I?
As I was putting up the tent I was plagued by midgies so the chain smoking began in earnest. That is one thing the little blighters really don’t like. I have been told that they build up an immunity to the various repellents and it is wise to carry two different kinds. A product which worked the year before is unlikely to have much effect the following season.
There is another, and very popular, way of avoiding midgies. It is very unscientific and I admit to having done it several times myself. The midgie dance! This involves moving your head in a jerking motion whilst flailing the arms up around the face then around the back of the head. At the same time as doing this, it is necessary to run from side to side looking like a rugby player trying to out manoeuvre a tackle. You can even add the words any rap artist would be proud of, "Fukoff, Fukoff, Fukoff-fukoff-fukoff you little bastards!" repeated until exhausted or until you reach the safety of a car or tent.
The sun was shining and it was quite warm so, once the tent was up, I took out my seat, a twenty litre jerry can full of petrol. I tend to take this so that I can use the over priced fuel found here as little as possible. The handles on the top could not exactly be described as comfortable but once I rolled up the foam bedroll, my bottom was adequately cushioned. With the backdrop of the sun going down behind the Cuillin Mountains of Skye visible over the water, I soaked in the whole experience while writing in my notebook. Summer in this part of the world may not be as hot as you might expect in countries such as Spain but where they do benefit over southern climes is the light evenings with it never becoming completely dark for most of the season. I have seen the sun still shining brightly after eleven at night although I still have to experience the true "Midnight Sun"
My usual pitch is close to the campsite entrance and this time was no different. From here I can watch the world go by and benefit from being close enough to the restaurant (should I wake up at five to eleven and have to run to order my bacon roll before they stop serving breakfasts) yet far enough away from the trees, reducing any contact with the midgie swarms congregating there. It was six pm and I had migrated from my perch atop the jerry can to a more horizontal; position stretched out on the bedroll. It wasn’t long before I drifted off in the evening sunshine, only waking as the air turned cooler. The long drive and my body clock being in early shift mode had combined to leave me exhausted and I retired to the inside of the tent to dream of my perfect woman who will one day want to share this paradise with me.
Sunday morning and I felt fully refreshed. I ordered my bacon roll and was again served by the Belgian girl. We spoke very litlle as I read the information and adverts posted all around the reception area waiting until my breakfast arrived. I returned to the sunshine where my stove had boiled the kettle allowing me to wash down the bacon roll with a cup of coffee before going for a shower.
The facilities here are excellent. In most campsites, you pay for your pitch, then you need to buy tokens in order to use the showers. Invariably one is rewarded with a cramped enclosure, the water is often only tepid and once it has started to come through warm enough then the flow stops while your hair still has shampoo in it. The cold water still works so you have to endure a pneumonia enducing final rinse. In Applecross, not only is there no need to pay extra to wash, there is a plentiful supply of ht water. The only problem is that both hot and cold taps are marked with a blue dot so it can cause some confusion as to which is which. On subsequent visits I notice this has been rectified by the addition of the words "hot" and "cold" written with marker pen on the walls behind the taps. The other thing s that the shower curtain has a nasty habit of being sucked in and sticks to your body.
I took to reading some more in the heat of the morning then continued making my notes. People were milling about the site going to and from the hop, car park and toilets. The Belgian girl passed a few times, each time waving or shouting a hello. As the day went by, I had been able to write quite a bit without having the constant interruptions which present themselves at home. I would look up between jotting to take in the view of a calm sea framed by the cliffs at the edge of the bay and the islands of Rasaay and Skye with mountains towering in the distance. By mid afternoon curiosity got the better of the Belgian and she came over. She thought by my position and the large writing pad in front of me that I had been drawing. Now, bearing in mind my inability to create anything more than stick figures of deer, landscapes would definitely be beyond me. My involvement in art is, to say the least, limited. I am a very able photographer having captured plenty great views. I can see the image I want in my head but translating that image with my hands and a pencil is something I just cannot do. I once applied to become a still life model with my local art school if it counts for anything. The woman who interviewed me was just as one would expect an art teacher to be. She had a well spoken voice, tousled hair with an all together eccentric manner. I found her very attractive too, despite her being a good deal older than myself. She was very keen to take me on due to the low number of young males willing to shed their clothes. A lot had applied for the position (is that the right word?) who had not been to the liking of this woman on account o their wish to supplement their "giros" by posing in front of young students. I suppose too that the thought of having to remove the obligatory Burberry baseball cap may have proved one step too far for them.
The Belgian girl ad I struck up a conversation. We both enthused about our surroundings. She suggested we go for a walk along the headland in the evening and I agreed, on the proviso I could return in time to order my pizza from the restaurant.
Later on, as arranged, we met in the car park before getting into her car and heading off to the other side of the bay.
Now, probably due to the amount of driving I do, I can be a rather nervous passenger but nothing had prepared me for this experience. As she hurtled along, launching into blind corners I was told that as a spiritual person she knew there would be no traffic coming in the opposite direction. "I just get this feeling" she told me "I can sense if a car is coming" I was also beginning to get a "feeling" a feeling that before long might change the colour of my underwear if she didn’t slow down. It wasn’t helped by the car being a left hand drive. The seat I occupied would, to me, have the added control of pedals and a steering wheel. Luckily, we pulled into a parking area in one piece before beginning our walk.
The path started by running parallel to the road before veering off, climbing higher through the heath of the headland.
Prior to the ‘seventies, when the road was built, this path was Applecross’ communication route to the North. It had now become redundant with some parts taken over by the heather and other bits now where a stream would run along briefly before continuing on it’s journey down towards the sea below. We walked one behind the other whilst trading stories. I had no particular attraction to this girl, although, while she was in front, I was admiring more than the scenery as her bum wiggled while she walked. It was only now I learned her name; Cat. This was not her real name, she told me, it was an unpronounceable one and she explained that everyone simply knew her as Cat. It transpired that she had worked her way up the country. Before coming to Scotland she had been a barmaid in Manchester where her previous partner lived. Cat had been an air hostess, a model and now supplements her income by doing Rieki healing
I must finish this off at some point. I realise that it was started over four years ago and needs to be concluded. All I will say is that it may only need a few lines but you know how my "few lines" can develop exponetially.
Long time no blog...
Yes, my apologies for not posting in a while. I have been busy having more bad luck. Here is a brief insight into yesterday at work.
I had a great day. Out on collections, I noticed that the osf tyre on the van was scrubbed bald. So bad that I decided to change it for the spare. After removing all the mail from on top of the spare, I found that it, too was bald, or very close to it. John was not a happy chappie. Later on, I was putting mail from a company into the back of the van. A council mini tractor was spraying the pavement and, as I was at the kerb side, I got sprayed with weedkiller too!
At Dyce, part of my job decants mail to another driver. Known as a hub, they get back up the road quicker than me and I continue with my job. All the mail had been transferred so I closed the back door. The keys which I had left on the bumper got caught by the closing door and locked the keys inside. Part of the reason the keys were not in my back pocket was that there were at least four different keys on the ring. The main "all in one key" had been snapped by another driver the day before so someone had put the spare keys on the same ring. When I phoned the office I was told to "do whatever is necessary" to get into the van. By this time, the other driver was in hysterics and I couldn't help seeing the funny side in a helpless kind of way. My face did drop slightly, when told I may be there for a couple of days until a new key was ordered and I had to guard the van, whose front was unlocked, until then. In the absense of heavy duty cutting tools, I opted to try to pull one of the keys which I coulod see out so far. I managed to get the key out to the point where I could try to twist it on the ring. Eventually, in the same way as a paper clip snaps, I used work hardening to break the ring, extracate the key and gain access to the other keys and go on my way.
I had a great day. Out on collections, I noticed that the osf tyre on the van was scrubbed bald. So bad that I decided to change it for the spare. After removing all the mail from on top of the spare, I found that it, too was bald, or very close to it. John was not a happy chappie. Later on, I was putting mail from a company into the back of the van. A council mini tractor was spraying the pavement and, as I was at the kerb side, I got sprayed with weedkiller too!
At Dyce, part of my job decants mail to another driver. Known as a hub, they get back up the road quicker than me and I continue with my job. All the mail had been transferred so I closed the back door. The keys which I had left on the bumper got caught by the closing door and locked the keys inside. Part of the reason the keys were not in my back pocket was that there were at least four different keys on the ring. The main "all in one key" had been snapped by another driver the day before so someone had put the spare keys on the same ring. When I phoned the office I was told to "do whatever is necessary" to get into the van. By this time, the other driver was in hysterics and I couldn't help seeing the funny side in a helpless kind of way. My face did drop slightly, when told I may be there for a couple of days until a new key was ordered and I had to guard the van, whose front was unlocked, until then. In the absense of heavy duty cutting tools, I opted to try to pull one of the keys which I coulod see out so far. I managed to get the key out to the point where I could try to twist it on the ring. Eventually, in the same way as a paper clip snaps, I used work hardening to break the ring, extracate the key and gain access to the other keys and go on my way.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Panic
Panic gripped the streets of Aberdeen this morning when patches of sky
took on an unusual blue colour and a ball of fire appeared above the
city.
The phenomenon, known as 'The Sun', and commonly found in Mediterranean
countries such as Greece and England, unleashed a terrifying heat and
brightness upon the city, causing many ordinary Aberdonians to tear off
their hats and scarves in mid July.
While most of the motorists were able to turn their headlights and
wipers fully off, some feared that they would be scalded or blinded by
'The Sun's'
intense radiation of heat and light.
Jack McConnell, speaking from a Sun-proof bunker lying deep under
Aberdeen's King St. urged people to be calm and return to work as
normal, stating:
"We've seen this sort of thing before, it happened once In 1945 and we
put it down to the war".
Fearing it could lead to a break out of cheerful, happy smiling he said
"Don't worry it will never last, it can't.
Our natural Siberian climate with its force 9's, ferocious chill factor
and horizontal rain will soon put pay to these shenanigans.
Aberdeen will soon be freed from this terrifying situation and we can
all return to our natural drab, downbeat selves complaining all the time
and being suspicious about everything."
No sooner had the apparition occurred, than a large, dark ominous cloud
moved in from Ellon, covering the city and efficiently blocking out the
horrible, dangerous sun.
The familiar horizontal driving rain made a welcome return and once
again the cafe's along the sea front reinstated their usual metal
shutters to protect themselves from the pounding they take as the sea
crashes down to top of them in summer.
However, it still wasn't as cold, drab or depressing as Peterhead.
took on an unusual blue colour and a ball of fire appeared above the
city.
The phenomenon, known as 'The Sun', and commonly found in Mediterranean
countries such as Greece and England, unleashed a terrifying heat and
brightness upon the city, causing many ordinary Aberdonians to tear off
their hats and scarves in mid July.
While most of the motorists were able to turn their headlights and
wipers fully off, some feared that they would be scalded or blinded by
'The Sun's'
intense radiation of heat and light.
Jack McConnell, speaking from a Sun-proof bunker lying deep under
Aberdeen's King St. urged people to be calm and return to work as
normal, stating:
"We've seen this sort of thing before, it happened once In 1945 and we
put it down to the war".
Fearing it could lead to a break out of cheerful, happy smiling he said
"Don't worry it will never last, it can't.
Our natural Siberian climate with its force 9's, ferocious chill factor
and horizontal rain will soon put pay to these shenanigans.
Aberdeen will soon be freed from this terrifying situation and we can
all return to our natural drab, downbeat selves complaining all the time
and being suspicious about everything."
No sooner had the apparition occurred, than a large, dark ominous cloud
moved in from Ellon, covering the city and efficiently blocking out the
horrible, dangerous sun.
The familiar horizontal driving rain made a welcome return and once
again the cafe's along the sea front reinstated their usual metal
shutters to protect themselves from the pounding they take as the sea
crashes down to top of them in summer.
However, it still wasn't as cold, drab or depressing as Peterhead.
Friday, July 07, 2006
I want one!
Ok, I don't need it but it would beat the gazeebo/pavillion thingy I currently have that is supposed to take nine people to put up then promply collapses with a breath of wind.......
http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/Bus-Shelter-Bury-St-Edmunds-Suffolk_W0QQitemZ110004672321QQihZ001QQcategoryZ26261QQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem
We are always being told by our councils to reduce, reuse and recycle so nice to see they're getting in on the act themselves.
I promise I will put more things on relevant to us soon but I have been far too busy enjoying the weather. More blogging like only I can blog soon.
http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/Bus-Shelter-Bury-St-Edmunds-Suffolk_W0QQitemZ110004672321QQihZ001QQcategoryZ26261QQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem
We are always being told by our councils to reduce, reuse and recycle so nice to see they're getting in on the act themselves.
I promise I will put more things on relevant to us soon but I have been far too busy enjoying the weather. More blogging like only I can blog soon.
Monday, June 26, 2006
A bottle of Stella and a poly bag
Arto's Song
We discovered this gentleman and his whole ensemble, known as "The Armenian Navy Band" while channel surfing one evening, earlier this year. You really do have to see him to appreciate the tune. They won a world music award and Arto appeared to collect the award with a bottle of Stella in his hand and a tambourine in a carrier bag...........
Better in video than just audio
We discovered this gentleman and his whole ensemble, known as "The Armenian Navy Band" while channel surfing one evening, earlier this year. You really do have to see him to appreciate the tune. They won a world music award and Arto appeared to collect the award with a bottle of Stella in his hand and a tambourine in a carrier bag...........
Better in video than just audio
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Camp Part 1
Last weekend, we went off camping to the West coast. we had planned to visit Applecross for the music and seafood festival but, by the time we called to book a pitch on their campsite, it was fully booked. Katy was told that they could have filled it twice over with the response they had. It was decided that we would still go away but that we would visit another site we had briefly stayed at two years ago, Clachtoll.
A week or so before we were due to leave, I was having worries about the MOT on the car. I knew it was due in June but could not remember when. I could not find the MOT certificate anywhere. My “where did you last see it” search was hampered by the fact that when I transferred my personalised plate I had obviously sent the wrong MOT to the DVLA. They had stamped it and everything had gone through despite the expiry date being in 2005! How’s that for their efficiency? I definitely had it was when I taxed the car in February. The easiest option was to book the car in as it would need tested sooner or later. The earliest date available was Friday the ninth of June, the very day we were supposed to be leaving. This caused no end of stress with Katy worrying that going away to de-stress was becoming more stressful than staying put.
I had arranged with my father that I would take the car down on the Thursday evening and leave it at the MOT station. I would be lent one of my dad’s cars to take home. He said something about an Octavia. Not bad I thought, a newish Skoda. If the Subaru doesn’t pass then we will have a relatively new, big car to take away with us. My pessimism about getting away subsided a bit.
When I rolled up outside my parents house, my dad scurried past me on his way to get the car. My brother George had been behind me on the road in from Aberdeen and came over to see what I was up to. I seized this opportunity to take him to task about why he had not materialised two weekends before when he and I were supposed to be replacing the flat roof on the house. He told me he had been working hard and was tired. I thought that was a fair excuse, after all, I had been doing fifteen hour days for the last few weeks so I had lots of energy and spare time…….
After a while, we noticed that our father was opening the bonnet on the car he had gone to retrieve some 200 yards away. Just before he had scurried off he had bemoaned that the Volvo sitting off to our left would have been the car I was lent but that it had trouble starting. The skoda on the other hand, “starts no bother, starts first time” He was now under the bonnet as it clearly, had….. not…… started…! George scurried off now to see what the problem was. At a loss for something to do, standing on the street, trying to vary each wave as the same boy racer drove past at one minute intervals. I followed. As I approached the car, a new wave of pessimism grew. The car was a Skoda Favorit ( probably not named favourite or favorit for fear of being sued for mis advertising) A small car which had seen better days but would, at least get me from A to B. That is, if it would actually start. The immobiliser was blamed at first and I got that to work. (the previous owner had been very security conscious and had hung the immobiliser key from the driver’s door) George then asked my father if he had changed the battery. He confirmed that he had done several days previously but that it had started “no bother”. after more head scratching, and the feeling of self consciousness due to the presence of a number of teens hanging about, George went off to get his jump start pack. Upon connection, the little car spluttered back to life and I was able to get home to a, by now, ruined meal from Katy as I had told her I wouldn’t be long. I drove home very fast in the wee Skoda. Or at least that’s what the speedometer would have me believe. By the time I was on the dual carriageway, it was reaching speeds of over 110mph. Strange that the fenceposts were only making the phoot……phoot…..phoot noises when, at that speed (not that I would know) they should be going phoot..phoot..phoot..phoot. This all might have had something to do with the needle on the speedo being bent. For fear of the car not starting at four the next day I resolved to take the jeep.
It had been agreed at work that I only do eight hours on the Friday. Someone else would cover my job in the afternoon so, at just after twelve, my weekend had begun. I thought I would put some fuel into the jeep before returning home to pack, Katy had done most of the packing the previous night so all I needed to sort out was my clothes. I noticed that the filling station outside work was particularly busy so I drove down towards the Sainsbury’s one to save a little time. Within several minutes, I was at a standstill in traffic as, it would appear, quite a few other people’s weekends had started too. My friend Niall phoned asking if I was free to help him move a couple of heavy items in preparation for his daughter’s first birthday party on the Sunday. I told him I would see him in about twenty minutes after I had cleared the traffic and bought fuel. As I was nearing Niall’s workshop, the phone rang again. My father was cheerily telling me that the Subaru had “failed it” The jeep is not exactly quiet inside and conversations with a passenger are normally done at very high volume so, those over the hands free are fraught with difficulty. When I asked him to repeat himself, my heart lifted again when he reiterated that the car had “sailed it”… “sailed through”… “ yer car passed”. I gleefully told him that I’d be down to collect it about 2pm and continued on to Niall’s. We moved the cast iron bench and huge barbeque into his van and offloaded them once we arrived at his house. My work bag was in the jeep so I locked the door as I went in to admire the transformation he had made of his garden in readiness for all his expected visitors. When we emerged, I tried the key in the lock and it would not unlock. We both had a go but it was in vain. The jeep has no official roof and it had a temporary fabricated affair made of bits of the old soft top and tarpaulin fixed to the body with plastic batons and duck tape. The front lip is forever blowing off creating a wind trap inside so I had been quite keen to completely remove it anyway. We set about unscrewing the self tapping screws holding the plastic and the lorry tie down rope keeping the front of the roof on. After a while, my phone rang and it was my father impatiently asking where I was. I was told that, being a Friday, the boys at the MOT station were likely to finish early and I ran the risk of the car being locked into their yard for the weekend. At this, I hauled the last of the bits of roof off and headed down the road.
None of my dad’s cars were running (he has about seven at the moment) and he needed to go up to see the mechanic. We couldn’t take the jeep up as he had trouble getting into it the last time and I hate to think how he would find the crash gearbox and heavy steering should he need to drive it back down the hill. I asked if George was about and luckily he was. He drove us both up to the workshop only for us to discover that, far from being finishing time, it was their tea time. We waited several minutes which felt like hours. I was getting increasing concerned at the time. Katy had sent me a text saying that she could finish work at five instead of half past. I was wondering if I would even get the car back by then, far less pick her up. The jolly mechanic appeared with his usual big smile. He gave me the key and the MOT certificate and we headed back down the road. The problem still remained with getting the jeep and the Skoda swapped over. I was keen to just leave the jeep until Sunday when we returned but George proposed that he could take my car to the house and I would take the jeep. He could then drive back the Skoda. The car again needed a jump start and George disappeared leaving me to get cracking with my packing. I hurriedly got some things together and had a shower. Eve the cat was making it clear that she wanted her litter tray changed so I tried to find the polythene liners we use. I texted Katy who told me they would be either under the sink or in the bathroom. I looked in both these places for the third time before resolving to improvise with a black bin liner. Poor Eve was left with a litter tray looking more like a capsized hovercraft as I just could not get all the air out of the bin bag and it billowed at the sides in such a way that should Evie fall over mid bowel movement her fall would be cushioned.
After Katy had told me she had gone to the pub with her colleagues, I finally was able to leave to head over to pick her up at around six.
Once we left Katy’s friends we headed to the supermarket to get supplies, Katy got the food and I got forty Benson & Hedges and £30 cashback.
I headed outide armed with the keys to Katy’s van to transfer the camping stuff into the car. When I lifted out the first box, I watched a bottle of red wine roll slowly but unstoppably out of the van and onto the concrete below. On her return, katy remarked that it was just as well she had bought another bottle.
We headed up over the Lecht road, our destination was still several hours drive away and I was keen to make up as much time as possible. The Lecht has a ski centre on top of it so tends to be quite a high, winding road full of bumps and yumps. Katy did not like the sensation and when I overshot a junction and turned the car sharply with a dust cloud she warned me that she would be sick if I did not start to drive a bit slower. As the worries were falling away, so was my speed. I was beginning to relax. We were finally on our way to a well deserved break.
As the roads grew narrower, so did my eyes. I am not accustomed to falling asleep while driving but, although I was determined to reach our destination, I did feel quite tired. Katy offered to drive several times but I felt that if I were to be passenger, I would fall asleep and feel even worse by sleeping in a moving car. I wanted to continue to our chosen campsite but, as the voice of reason, Katy suggested we look for a site at Ullapool, about an hour’s drive from Clachtoll. We found a site just outside Ullapool and drew up at reception. The door was locked and it was in darkness, there was a sign saying that if it was closed, to check in at the house. However it also said that the last arrivals were accepted at 9pm, it was now pushing eleven. We decided just to pitch and we would pay in the morning. The tent went up and I wandered over to the toilet block. It seemed nice enough and there was another camper just leaving. It was as he left that I realised a potential problem. He loudly pulled the Yale lock behind him as he left. It was then that I realised the importance of checking in on this site . A notice told me that the doors must be locked at all times. I opened the latch and very slowly closed the door making sure it didn’t catch. I ran over to Katy and told her that she should go now to the Gents as I has left the door ajar for her. She was adamant that she would not use the gents and walked over some time later to the ladies toilets. Luckily this door was slightly open and Friday night ended with us getting some much needed sleep.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
It’s just after half past five on a Sunday morning. My body clock has obviously told me it’s a school day, or more likely, my ability to catch up on much needed sleep yesterday afternoon. More likely still, would be the sound of rainwater dripping through the open skylight on the top landing. In any case, I am up now and, after over two weeks absence from contributing towards my bog, what better time than to ramble a bit.
I will start with the subject I do not wish to dwell on, The World Cup! I loathe football (soccer for those of you further afield).I have no objections to a kick about in a park or those who participate in Sunday league games etc but I really do fail to grasp how people can watch a game (after all that’s all it is) and comment as if they are some kind of experts. To pay over forty pounds for a team shirt made of Nylon which bears the name of a sponsor who could be a brewer or a comms company. If so many women allegedly watch football, then why don’t some of the shirts bear brand names for them? There is clearly a big market in “feminine hygiene” so why not have “Tena Lady, When you just can’t wait for half time” splashed (no pun intended) across the team shirts.
I have spoken enough about football. The point I wanted to make was that The Emslie Effect struck again. At work, they were doing a sweep stake. At Katy’s work, she had drawn Australia so I thought I could not possibly pick a worse team. The first team to be out of the competition were Costa Rica. No prizes for guessing which one John picked.
For the last few weeks I have been getting up just after 3am for an early shift. I have also been combining this with doing my own job in the afternoon so I have not been getting home until after seven in the evening, too tired to do anything but eat and retreat to bed. The weather has been great and I was looking forward to my week on holiday. Good news came on Wednesday where I was told that my contract would be amended as of the 26th making me permanent full time. This was good news until I realised that I have missed out on about £150 as I am still classed as part time while I am off and paid accordingly. My enthusiasm for being off has been tainted even more by the forecast (and in fact the current weather conditions outside) of rain all week. I wanted to do the little finishing off bits of the log cabin and give it a coating of oil. At least it has a weatherproof roof which is more than I can say for the house right now.
I will start with the subject I do not wish to dwell on, The World Cup! I loathe football (soccer for those of you further afield).I have no objections to a kick about in a park or those who participate in Sunday league games etc but I really do fail to grasp how people can watch a game (after all that’s all it is) and comment as if they are some kind of experts. To pay over forty pounds for a team shirt made of Nylon which bears the name of a sponsor who could be a brewer or a comms company. If so many women allegedly watch football, then why don’t some of the shirts bear brand names for them? There is clearly a big market in “feminine hygiene” so why not have “Tena Lady, When you just can’t wait for half time” splashed (no pun intended) across the team shirts.
I have spoken enough about football. The point I wanted to make was that The Emslie Effect struck again. At work, they were doing a sweep stake. At Katy’s work, she had drawn Australia so I thought I could not possibly pick a worse team. The first team to be out of the competition were Costa Rica. No prizes for guessing which one John picked.
For the last few weeks I have been getting up just after 3am for an early shift. I have also been combining this with doing my own job in the afternoon so I have not been getting home until after seven in the evening, too tired to do anything but eat and retreat to bed. The weather has been great and I was looking forward to my week on holiday. Good news came on Wednesday where I was told that my contract would be amended as of the 26th making me permanent full time. This was good news until I realised that I have missed out on about £150 as I am still classed as part time while I am off and paid accordingly. My enthusiasm for being off has been tainted even more by the forecast (and in fact the current weather conditions outside) of rain all week. I wanted to do the little finishing off bits of the log cabin and give it a coating of oil. At least it has a weatherproof roof which is more than I can say for the house right now.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Snow
Today was very productive. I have only about fifteen roof shingles left to attach so, an hour and I would’ve cracked it. Except….Except every time I tried to leave the house, it rained. Boiler suit on, open back door, rain comes on. I retreat inside and when I think the sun has come back out, I venture up the garden only to be soaked in another of the torrential downpours.
I know that living in the North east of Scotland that unpredictable weather is, well, predictable but today was just ridiculous. I have a habit of choosing the wrong time to do things which are weather dependant. This year, two specific ones come to mind.
The ground needed levelled where the log cabin was to go so I booked the hire of a mini digger. When it was delivered outside the house, it was sunny if a little crisp. That did not bother me. Once I started using it, the Saturday afternoon quickly descended into a day of driving sleet. I was wearing… tracksuit bottoms (only ever worn as an under garment or around the house) work trousers, chainsaw chaps (stop it!), T- shirt, fleece, boiler suit, hi viz jacket, chainsaw helmet, chainsaw boots and two pairs of socks. The chainsaw gear was not worn for protection from a saw but for the fact that it afforded some protection from the elements. The ear defenders kept some of the howling wind out but the chaps had a slight flaw, in that, even although they are waterproof, they have no rear end protection (most chainsaw users don’t use them behind their backs) as a result, every time my gloves got soaked through and I ran (as best one can with more layers than the Michelin man) into the house to warm up and change gloves. I would return to find the seat of the digger to be wet. Even whilst sitting on it, water would run off my jacket leaving my arse soaking. It was only on the Monday as I was preparing to return the digger that I noticed you can tip the seat to stop it getting wet!
On Sunday morning I woke up to find that about six inches of proper snow had fallen since I had collapsed into bed the night before. All my concept of levels were gone as everything was white. Undeterred, I continued digging. The snow started falling again and I noticed that each bit I was working on would become buried within about ten minutes. The battle against this was becoming hopeless but I carried on regardless, not wanting to waste any of the £65 per day plus insurance ( against hitting buried cables etc) plus VAT.
I had to give up when the actions of the digger were turning the snow into brown slush and I kept getting the machine stuck. Yes, this is the kind of thing used on building sites all the time. They have tracks which gives them plenty grip and I was getting this one so stuck I had to lift it round with its own hydraulics. When the guy from the hire place collected it he told me he had never heard of anyone else managing to get one stuck. I thought about saying that no one else had THE EMSLIE EFFECT but thought better of it.
For the next few weeks, my excavations remained a quagmire. I had to pour a huge amount of brick rubble and aggregate to displace the water. It was a mess. Katy proclaimed I had “ruined our garden” so it is, perhaps just as well we are having a spell of rain and showers as the grass has finally begun to grow back.
You will have heard a lot about how we pick up stuff on Freecycle. One of the first things I fancied was a Car Transporter Trailer. I was second in line to get it and when we got the green light that the first people hadn’t wanted it, I made arrangements to collect it. My car did not have a towbar at that point so I asked my brother to sort out a suitable vehicle. I went past as soon as I had finished work on a Tuesday evening.
George told me he had got a shot of a friend’s pick up truck which had a towbar. We went up to collect it. We put £20 of diesel into it, during which time we had a problem getting the fuel cap off and, at one point, were scared we‘d snap the key. The trailer was north of Aberdeen, it was going to take us the best part of an hour to do the 50 odd total miles up there. Once we were heading out of Aberdeen, the snow started falling, ever so lightly at first. It then became quite persistent. Before long, all we could see was one set of tracks ahead of us on the single carriageway road. Visibility was not great. This might have had something to do with one of the headlight bulbs not working. We had also, quickly run out of screen wash water so we stopped off at a filling station in Mintlaw. Just in the nick of time as I was bursting for the toilet too.
I went into the shop and, not wanting to seem only there with the intention of using their toilet, asked about the headlight bulb, which they confirmed they stocked before handing over the key for the toilet. I headed back out to the toilet and found that the light did not work so I had to trust the light from my mobile phone to ensure my aim at the pot. I went back inside, all the while trying to subtly check I had not had any accidents against my trousers or boots in the dark. The bulb cost nearly a fiver and I went back out to George who had a bad prognosis for the van. While he was filling the washer bottle he had noticed that there was a makeshift radiator cap made from a foil pie dish and an elastic band. This worried him as there might be a build up of pressure were we to use the heaters too much so the decision was made to forego the comfort for the benefit of the vehicle.
We continued on our journey and, finally got to the house of the people offering the trailer. It was a sturdy looking thing. Home made but I wasn’t expecting a Brian James or a Ifor Williams (there seems to be a bit of a theme with quality trailer brands) The guy told me he’d checked the lights and that they were all working which was great news until George piped up “wont make any difference, this thing’s electrics are broken” Fabulous!
It was a four wheeled trailer. Two tyres were completely knackered, one, we were told, held air for about a day and the fourth was a bigger wheel than was really practical as he had had to bend the wheel arch upwards for it to fit on. We hooked up the trailer, thanked the people very much and set off. A few miles down the road, George stopped so we could get out and have a good look to see that everything was towing ok. I rubbed the bare wires dangling from the van’s towbar on the ground a bit so they looked like they had just snapped should we get stopped by the police but a few more miles down the road we were stopped by something all together more terminal.
There was a noise coming from the trailer so we stopped in a lay-by. On investigation, the steam lead us to the oversized wheel and tyre which was now wedged into the wheel arch and sitting at a very un natural angle. It had obviously not just happened, as there was quite a gash in the wall of the tyre and the heat had built up enough to create the steam.
Between us, we decided that I would call out my breakdown company. I gave them the details of the trailer, the registration number of the van and that it was a Transit pick up that was towing it. However, it was only the trailer that needed uplifted. When the operator heard that it was a Transit van they said that they would need to check on something. I was then told that, seeing as it was a commercial vehicle, the recovery would be chargeable. I tried to explain that it was a borrowed van and that I was not involved in business. I told her that I still had my royal Mail uniform on and that we simply wanted the trailer picked up and that what was towing it was irrelevant. Perhaps I thought that the main thing was to get it and us home and out of the sub zero temperatures (George was still adamant that the heaters were not to go on) Perhaps I had decided that if they sent me a bill, I would tell them I wasn’t going to pay it. I agreed for them to send a recovery truck and she told me it would be there within the hour.
George then piped up that he could try the AA of which he was a member. He spent over half an hour waiting on hold to them before getting through and being told that they would come out and the mention of a van did not phase them. They said they would be with us in just over an hour. My phone battery was dying so I used George’s phone to call my agency to cancel the call out. Just under half an hour later, a recovery truck came into view. I went over and asked who had sent him (very much in the way an evil baddy might do in an espionage thriller) it became apparent to me that it was not made apparent to him that the call out had been cancelled so he was sent on his way. The next half hour seemed to last an eternity. I was losing the feeling in my toes sitting in a snowscape on a lonely road with only my brother for conversation. No way of telling Katy there was a problem but that I was ok and wishing I had not sent away the first lorry. Finally, the truck sent by the AA arrived and the trailer was loaded up and we made our way home. It was nearly 2am before I got home that night.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Katy dented my nuts
The roof is nearly complete on the Log Cabin now. Ten packs of fibreglass shingles containing at least sixteen sheets. Each sheet then requires to be brushed over to remove loose material, left out in the sun to ensure it’s completely dry, the plastic film which says “DO NOT REMOVE” in five languages needs, erm, removed (don’t ask) it needs lined up to give the “rustic effect” and fixed with four nails. Now, does rustic mean that it doesn’t have to be perfect? I lined up and measured precisely the top bits before the ridge pieces had to go on and found that, had I been a little less careful to form a uniform line, then I would not have had to remove a whole line of shingles. The rain has come on now and those things need to be laid in the dry so I thought that, seeing as the number of people being introduced to my blog is growing, I should put in some more contributions.
Katy kindly picked up some donuts yesterday whilst she was out. I opened the packet today to find that they were of an inferior standard. I protested that they were not donuts but, in fact, dent-nuts. As you will see from the photo, they possess a certain concave quality. I had to eat three in a row just to make sure the taste was not impaired, during which time I managed to spill jam on my leg. This was not something I felt comfortable about as I had discovered a second wasps’ byke on the cabin earlier.
Wasps are a species I just cannot tolerate. Spiders eat things so they’re ok. Bees make honey but wasps just scare me.Very few things do, actually fill me with fear. The only other one that comes to mind right now is level crossings. I always worry that the gates will open and as I drive across, the car will conk out or get stuck on the tracks. My solution, apart from trying to avoid using them, is to drive very fast across them. I have even been known to close my eyes as I cross. Potential passengers, you have been warned.
Katy said today that seeing as I was working on a roof then there was a much bigger potential risk of falling off. I countered that, should a wasp sting me while I was on the roof then I would be more likely to fall and then may impale myself on something. That scenario would all have been triggered by the presence of the wasp so my logic wins there. Normally, when I am up heights I am not bothered as I enjoy telling people, “the ground will break your fall” I have always worked with ladders. While other children were being taught football. My father was instructing me on how to get onto roofs. Imagine if I had used this for criminal gain? The Emslie Effect would of course have intervened to ensured my speedy incarceration.
When I briefly presented a radio show back in ’94. I again encountered the fear of a small yellow and black thing. I was talking into the microphone, which was covered in a red foam pop shield, when I became aware of a buzzing sound. A wasp had entered the studio and was now only a couple of inches from my face. Trying to stay professional ( which is a contradiction as I was not being paid) I finished reading the weather forecast and got a song on as the pitch in my voice increased.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Transplant Operation
Just over a month ago, our boiler started making funny noises late on a Tuesday night. This was followed by a strong smell of heating oil permeating through the kitchen. The light on it was glowing showing a fault.
Now, our boiler is very advanced, there are two lights on it. One light tells you it’s on and another that tells you it’s broken! The broken one was glowing. Our first thought was that we had run out of oil. We had a delivery back in October when we first thought there were problems with it. Our tank has no working fuel gauge on it so various makeshift dipsticks have been used ( including the one now standing on top of it at twenty past ten at night with a clothes prop in his hand). I concluded that we had very little oil left so we decided to get a small (minimum delivery 500 Litres at £180) top up. The fuel tanker came within a few days, during which time we were weighing up the benefits of replacing the tank with a smaller, less obtrusive plastic one. Once the oil had been delivered, I fired up the boiler and, hey presto (hey Safeway or Morrisons just never caught on did it? Come to think of it, I don’t think Morrisons ever will) it worked. We thought nothing else of it (apart from how the hell we were going to pay £180 we hadn’t factored for) until a couple of weeks ago when Katy complained about the lack of hot water. On investigation, the broken light was glowing again.
We survived for the last couple of weeks with the immersion heater for hot water and Katy’s corporate fleece for warmth! We toyed with the idea of getting out the engineer who had come back in October but Katy has many contacts and we had used Lewis (pronounced Louis) for the job of replacing a radiator and putting in a new one where the previous owners had seen fit to take away. We trust Lewis so Katy contacted him and he agreed to come past on a Homer (I say homer in capitals as it refers to Lewis‘ passion for Latin scriptures. It is a little known fact that plumbers live up to their title coming from the Latin, Plumbum for lead. Please do not dispute this as my father was a plumber for many years, as was he a Free Mason, so I know these things!)
When he came in on Saturday morning, he opened the thing up, all the time saying “aye she’s an old girl” “they don’t make these ones anymore” so we were prepared for the worst when he concluded that the ignition system had packed in. He thought there might be one in his boiler graveyard that he could salvage, to give our boiler a stay of execution but if he had no luck, then it meant we would have around £1500 to find for a new one. Lewis also found the source of the nasty smells, dating back to October which was a gap in the flu outlet. This had not only been venting nasty niffs back into the house but Carbon Monoxide. The boiler engineer we had previously used had concluded that there was no leak and to stuff glass wool loft insulation into the wall to soak up the smells.
On Tuesday evening I returned home from work to find Katy and Lewis chatting. The good news was that a donor part had been found and we were cooking by gas. We do actually cook by gas, another installation to thank Lewis for.
Now, our boiler is very advanced, there are two lights on it. One light tells you it’s on and another that tells you it’s broken! The broken one was glowing. Our first thought was that we had run out of oil. We had a delivery back in October when we first thought there were problems with it. Our tank has no working fuel gauge on it so various makeshift dipsticks have been used ( including the one now standing on top of it at twenty past ten at night with a clothes prop in his hand). I concluded that we had very little oil left so we decided to get a small (minimum delivery 500 Litres at £180) top up. The fuel tanker came within a few days, during which time we were weighing up the benefits of replacing the tank with a smaller, less obtrusive plastic one. Once the oil had been delivered, I fired up the boiler and, hey presto (hey Safeway or Morrisons just never caught on did it? Come to think of it, I don’t think Morrisons ever will) it worked. We thought nothing else of it (apart from how the hell we were going to pay £180 we hadn’t factored for) until a couple of weeks ago when Katy complained about the lack of hot water. On investigation, the broken light was glowing again.
We survived for the last couple of weeks with the immersion heater for hot water and Katy’s corporate fleece for warmth! We toyed with the idea of getting out the engineer who had come back in October but Katy has many contacts and we had used Lewis (pronounced Louis) for the job of replacing a radiator and putting in a new one where the previous owners had seen fit to take away. We trust Lewis so Katy contacted him and he agreed to come past on a Homer (I say homer in capitals as it refers to Lewis‘ passion for Latin scriptures. It is a little known fact that plumbers live up to their title coming from the Latin, Plumbum for lead. Please do not dispute this as my father was a plumber for many years, as was he a Free Mason, so I know these things!)
When he came in on Saturday morning, he opened the thing up, all the time saying “aye she’s an old girl” “they don’t make these ones anymore” so we were prepared for the worst when he concluded that the ignition system had packed in. He thought there might be one in his boiler graveyard that he could salvage, to give our boiler a stay of execution but if he had no luck, then it meant we would have around £1500 to find for a new one. Lewis also found the source of the nasty smells, dating back to October which was a gap in the flu outlet. This had not only been venting nasty niffs back into the house but Carbon Monoxide. The boiler engineer we had previously used had concluded that there was no leak and to stuff glass wool loft insulation into the wall to soak up the smells.
On Tuesday evening I returned home from work to find Katy and Lewis chatting. The good news was that a donor part had been found and we were cooking by gas. We do actually cook by gas, another installation to thank Lewis for.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Wasps, Radio Appearance, and B..Log Cabins
Well, you were warned, or at least I think you were. Due to lots happening, I just haven't had the time to update my blog. Apologies if I use a lot of cutting and pasting from my letters etc elsewhere but it saves me time in my one fingered stabbing of the keyboard.
The highlights at the moment are......
WASPS
RADIO 2
LOG CABIN
Here's a brief background on the log cabin......
Back in February, I ordered a log cabin from http://www.shedstore.co.uk/.On their website, it said that delivery was 45 to 60 days. This suited me fine as that meant it would arrive in late March to mid April. I would have enough time to prepare a base before it arrived. I ordered it on the Wednesday and to my surprise, the manufacturer called on Friday of the same week to say that they had one in the country and would I like it delivered the following Wednesday. I didn't need it as soon as that but guessed that at least if I had it I could put it up whenever I had the time. It arrived at exactly the time specified and was offloaded with great skill and care by the driver using a Hiab. It was carefully moved on its crate to the garden where it was covered up.In early March it became pretty apparent that building could not proceed as we had around two feet of snow in our back garden and the digger I had hired to level the ground had been getting stuck in the mess of mud. I also had been using it in blizzard conditions and it would be one without a cab wouldn't it. With the ground saturated and still a covering of snow, I called shedstore to explain the situation and that it had not been unwrapped to check the contents. They told me that it was ok, noted it had been an early delivery and to let them know when I did get the chance. It was unwrapped over the Easter weekend and it quickly became apparent that several pieces were damaged and a few were missing so I called shedstore on Tuesday of last week. There were about five damaged pieces, one missing piece of wall and no fittings ie screws, nails etc. I was told that, as some time had elapsed since I had had it delivered, that they would supply the parts but I would be liable for delivery. I accepted this as I thought it would be a minimal charge and I was keen to get on and build the thing. I heard nothing more from them until after I had called the manufacturer on Thursday to check that the bits were readily available. I was informed that shedstore were to be paying the delivery charge and I was to be billed for the missing parts. I returned a voicemail from shedstore at lunchtime to be told that the parts totalled £135 and that they would only contribute half of the £50 + VAT delivery charge. I said that I would concede the damaged parts and the fixings (which I would buy locally) as long as they supplied the crucial missing wall board but they still insisted they would only order it if I authorised them to dedit my credit card, the details of which they still had after I shelled out 1500 quid for what I had thought was a complete log cabin.That night, I did a bit of searching on trading standards websites and found that under the "sale of goods act, as ammended 1979" I had up to five years (six in England) to find any faults with a product and that this, as my statutory rights, over-rode the terms and conditions set down by the supplier of "14 days to report shortages" On Friday, I again called Shedstore and told them that, should I wish, I could demand my money back and ask that they remove the pile of sticks from my garden at their expense. I could then buy the same cabin from another supplier. Also, having purchased it on my cc I had purchase protection from the cc company. They kept insisting that I must pay for the pieces and for delivery and I felt that the only way to get my crucial pieces was to pay now and quibble later. I had already conceded that I would just use the split wood of the damaged pieces and that I would buy my own screws hoping they would meet me halfway by supplying the missing board but they kept insisting that I was in breach of the t & cs and that they were not obliged to do anything.Upon reflection, on Friday afternoon at 16:10 I tried to call Shedstore again to ask for all the pieces damaged or missing regardless of short term cost but their offices, I was told by a recorded message, were closed (their website says they are open til 5 Monday to Friday) I then called the manufacturer to communicate a message that I required all the bits but as yet I have had no response back.
The log cabin is nearly finished and my wrangle continues with the supplier. The parts ordered on the 21st of April which I was promised would be here in five days, arrived today. Because they had been paid for and not sent free, the parts were regarded as an order for a new building and therefore were subject to a 21 working day delivery time. A perfect way to infuriate my good self! I was told that the missing pieces should be with me by the end of the week. However, I absolutely, definately had to be in to sign for them and the carrier would phone me before delivery. Guess what was lying in next door's front garden this evening when I got home from work?
Wasps are little yellow and black things, they are, to all intense and purposes, furry animals but, for some unknown reason, people (and that includes me) dont like them.
On Saturday, I noticed that a wasp had begun building a byke right above the door of my Log Cabin. It is quite a small thing and has a certain beauty to it. There is no question of leaving it there so I intend to use a blowtorch on it. I am thinking that I should wait until late evening before doing it so as to dispose of the creatures inside. If I do it while they are awake will they get a bit annoyed?
The nest is no bigger than an eggcup and if you look directly up into it there is a very small honeycomb at the top.There are marks looking like snail trails around it on the wood (I havent finished the building yet so haven't painted it) I assume this is where they have got the material to build the nest/byke.
After posting that on a forum for advice or suggestions, I got quite a few replies including...
"Cover every inch of flesh. Put on gardening gloves or similar and make sure that your sleeves fit over the gloves. Put on thick socks over your trousers - otherwise, they may crawl up any gaps.Watch any gaps around your neck. If you have a walking jacket with a hood .... put tea towel over your head, then the visor, then put on the jacket, put up the hood and fully close the jacket right up to the neck.Can't work out if you're brave or stupid, though Good luck"
To which I responded...
No, either can I. It's more like a case of not wanting to spend 30 quid and wait ages for a pest control co to come. In the meantime worrying every time I pass under it. I forgot to pick up the blowtorch from my brother this evening so another day will pass and the colony will grow.
The replies continued.....
"Ach, take no notice of these nay-sayers, just get in there! give em a good kicking from me too, nasty little !!!!!!s that they are!"
and.....
"borrow an old person pretend she lives at your address and get the council to do it free!!!! round our way o.a.p's aren't charged for things like this"
Job done!!!Anyone got an icepack? lol for the shed, not for me.In hindsight, perhaps the bright yellow stormproof jacket could have been a bit antagonistic, but they were all tucked up in bed as I didn't see any flying around. So there's me, boiler suit, hood round my face and a grinding visor on. The most difficult part was lighting the blowtorch with gloves on.A slight scorch mark on the canopy of the shed (oh did I mention it's a 2 grand log cabin?) but at least I dont have to worry about the little blighters. Not those ones anyway.Thanks for all your advice, most of which I ignored. Sorry.
Now those of you who know us know that our favourite price for things is FREE
After our ventures, adventures and misadventures on Freecycle I heard it being discussed on the Jeremy Vine show on BBC radio2. Never one to hide under a bushel, I called in to extol the virtues of the site. Hear my comments here. The discussion I took part in started at around 1:45 so if you click the 15min forward key seven times it will take you to the middle of "Crowded House - Weather with You". Keep listening from that point. I get cut off once but come back within a short time. You'll have to be quick as the "listen again" feature only stays on until Tuesday of next week at 2pm.
I promise to endeavour to post more very soon. There's the roof that leaked again. There's the continuing saga of the decorators and the boiler that came back from the dead after being given it's last rites.
The highlights at the moment are......
WASPS
RADIO 2
LOG CABIN
Here's a brief background on the log cabin......
Back in February, I ordered a log cabin from http://www.shedstore.co.uk/.On their website, it said that delivery was 45 to 60 days. This suited me fine as that meant it would arrive in late March to mid April. I would have enough time to prepare a base before it arrived. I ordered it on the Wednesday and to my surprise, the manufacturer called on Friday of the same week to say that they had one in the country and would I like it delivered the following Wednesday. I didn't need it as soon as that but guessed that at least if I had it I could put it up whenever I had the time. It arrived at exactly the time specified and was offloaded with great skill and care by the driver using a Hiab. It was carefully moved on its crate to the garden where it was covered up.In early March it became pretty apparent that building could not proceed as we had around two feet of snow in our back garden and the digger I had hired to level the ground had been getting stuck in the mess of mud. I also had been using it in blizzard conditions and it would be one without a cab wouldn't it. With the ground saturated and still a covering of snow, I called shedstore to explain the situation and that it had not been unwrapped to check the contents. They told me that it was ok, noted it had been an early delivery and to let them know when I did get the chance. It was unwrapped over the Easter weekend and it quickly became apparent that several pieces were damaged and a few were missing so I called shedstore on Tuesday of last week. There were about five damaged pieces, one missing piece of wall and no fittings ie screws, nails etc. I was told that, as some time had elapsed since I had had it delivered, that they would supply the parts but I would be liable for delivery. I accepted this as I thought it would be a minimal charge and I was keen to get on and build the thing. I heard nothing more from them until after I had called the manufacturer on Thursday to check that the bits were readily available. I was informed that shedstore were to be paying the delivery charge and I was to be billed for the missing parts. I returned a voicemail from shedstore at lunchtime to be told that the parts totalled £135 and that they would only contribute half of the £50 + VAT delivery charge. I said that I would concede the damaged parts and the fixings (which I would buy locally) as long as they supplied the crucial missing wall board but they still insisted they would only order it if I authorised them to dedit my credit card, the details of which they still had after I shelled out 1500 quid for what I had thought was a complete log cabin.That night, I did a bit of searching on trading standards websites and found that under the "sale of goods act, as ammended 1979" I had up to five years (six in England) to find any faults with a product and that this, as my statutory rights, over-rode the terms and conditions set down by the supplier of "14 days to report shortages" On Friday, I again called Shedstore and told them that, should I wish, I could demand my money back and ask that they remove the pile of sticks from my garden at their expense. I could then buy the same cabin from another supplier. Also, having purchased it on my cc I had purchase protection from the cc company. They kept insisting that I must pay for the pieces and for delivery and I felt that the only way to get my crucial pieces was to pay now and quibble later. I had already conceded that I would just use the split wood of the damaged pieces and that I would buy my own screws hoping they would meet me halfway by supplying the missing board but they kept insisting that I was in breach of the t & cs and that they were not obliged to do anything.Upon reflection, on Friday afternoon at 16:10 I tried to call Shedstore again to ask for all the pieces damaged or missing regardless of short term cost but their offices, I was told by a recorded message, were closed (their website says they are open til 5 Monday to Friday) I then called the manufacturer to communicate a message that I required all the bits but as yet I have had no response back.
The log cabin is nearly finished and my wrangle continues with the supplier. The parts ordered on the 21st of April which I was promised would be here in five days, arrived today. Because they had been paid for and not sent free, the parts were regarded as an order for a new building and therefore were subject to a 21 working day delivery time. A perfect way to infuriate my good self! I was told that the missing pieces should be with me by the end of the week. However, I absolutely, definately had to be in to sign for them and the carrier would phone me before delivery. Guess what was lying in next door's front garden this evening when I got home from work?
Wasps are little yellow and black things, they are, to all intense and purposes, furry animals but, for some unknown reason, people (and that includes me) dont like them.
On Saturday, I noticed that a wasp had begun building a byke right above the door of my Log Cabin. It is quite a small thing and has a certain beauty to it. There is no question of leaving it there so I intend to use a blowtorch on it. I am thinking that I should wait until late evening before doing it so as to dispose of the creatures inside. If I do it while they are awake will they get a bit annoyed?
The nest is no bigger than an eggcup and if you look directly up into it there is a very small honeycomb at the top.There are marks looking like snail trails around it on the wood (I havent finished the building yet so haven't painted it) I assume this is where they have got the material to build the nest/byke.
After posting that on a forum for advice or suggestions, I got quite a few replies including...
"Cover every inch of flesh. Put on gardening gloves or similar and make sure that your sleeves fit over the gloves. Put on thick socks over your trousers - otherwise, they may crawl up any gaps.Watch any gaps around your neck. If you have a walking jacket with a hood .... put tea towel over your head, then the visor, then put on the jacket, put up the hood and fully close the jacket right up to the neck.Can't work out if you're brave or stupid, though Good luck"
To which I responded...
No, either can I. It's more like a case of not wanting to spend 30 quid and wait ages for a pest control co to come. In the meantime worrying every time I pass under it. I forgot to pick up the blowtorch from my brother this evening so another day will pass and the colony will grow.
The replies continued.....
"Ach, take no notice of these nay-sayers, just get in there! give em a good kicking from me too, nasty little !!!!!!s that they are!"
and.....
"borrow an old person pretend she lives at your address and get the council to do it free!!!! round our way o.a.p's aren't charged for things like this"
Job done!!!Anyone got an icepack? lol for the shed, not for me.In hindsight, perhaps the bright yellow stormproof jacket could have been a bit antagonistic, but they were all tucked up in bed as I didn't see any flying around. So there's me, boiler suit, hood round my face and a grinding visor on. The most difficult part was lighting the blowtorch with gloves on.A slight scorch mark on the canopy of the shed (oh did I mention it's a 2 grand log cabin?) but at least I dont have to worry about the little blighters. Not those ones anyway.Thanks for all your advice, most of which I ignored. Sorry.
Now those of you who know us know that our favourite price for things is FREE
After our ventures, adventures and misadventures on Freecycle I heard it being discussed on the Jeremy Vine show on BBC radio2. Never one to hide under a bushel, I called in to extol the virtues of the site. Hear my comments here. The discussion I took part in started at around 1:45 so if you click the 15min forward key seven times it will take you to the middle of "Crowded House - Weather with You". Keep listening from that point. I get cut off once but come back within a short time. You'll have to be quick as the "listen again" feature only stays on until Tuesday of next week at 2pm.
I promise to endeavour to post more very soon. There's the roof that leaked again. There's the continuing saga of the decorators and the boiler that came back from the dead after being given it's last rites.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
The Emslie Effect was coined many years ago by so called freinds. They had noticed that if anything was going to go wrong then it was me who it was going to happen to.
After lying dormant for a few years, The Emslie Effect reared its ugly head once again recently.
I will elaborate on more of the happening to me when I get the chance. Unfortunately, most of my time is spent doing complaint letters to various companies who see fit to spray Emslie Effect librally over every aspect of what shout be a routine job.
Here's one of the letters and the photos above are evidence too........
Dear *****,
* *********** ******* *******
Thank you again for your prompt action following our concerns with the standard of wallpapering at our property on Thursday . It is with great regret that I must draw your attention to more faults observed on our return home on Friday evening.
I appreciate that our walls are, perhaps, not completely plumb or straight but I would estimate that a large number of properties also have walls without every corner being a straight line and decorators historically have been able to match patterns.
On Friday morning, I was told that they would try their best but that the walls were not straight and a complete pattern match was not guaranteed. It is my understanding that should a pattern coincide with a top line of ceiling which is not straight, then the deviation is taken out in the top of the wall where it meets the ceiling, not at eye level where it is immediately visible. Again, we have found a large number of sheets which are not pattern matched.
The stairs, as everyone involved in the job was made aware, are now in their finished state and , as such, every effort should have been made to protect the surface. I presume that had a cream coloured carpet been present, then your employees would not have allowed a large quantity of paste not only to spill onto the surface, but make no obvious attempt to clean it up. Having now taken time to read the adhesive containers left by your employees, I note that this product contains a fungicide which the instructions clearly state should be kept out of reach of children and animals. The two decorators know we have a kitten who was shut inside the living room during works. Once the decorators have left for the day, she is allowed free range of the house. It should not be for us to search for dropped lumps of adhesive, which as already mentioned, were found on the staircase.
I am astounded to notice that a chunk of wood has been chipped from the front of one of the treads. A ladder left outside had one of the rubber feet missing and the word “damaged“ written several times on the side stiles. I can only assume this resulted in the aforementioned damage. We are now left with a damaged staircase which had taken hours of care to sand and varnish.
Finally, they have made no attempt to tidy up after themselves. We have had visitors staying at the property this weekend, meaning we have had to remove several bin bags full of rubbish, three full sheets of wallpaper which were left hanging over different doors, their entire tool kit, plastering tables, three tubs of adhesive, a set of ladders and a scaffolding board. We had to remove a sheet of wallpaper which had been left to stuck to the floorboards of the upper landing.
We will take no responsibility for any damage caused to these items, as we were not asked if these items could be left in the property over a holiday weekend, nor for the set of ladders which they saw fit to attach to our neighbours railings at the front of the property.
It is therefore with regret, that we have had no option but to advise our insurance company directly of this matter and provide photographic evidence of the damage and poor level of work in the hope of a satisfactory resolution.
We would respectfully ask that your decorators do not continue with the contract and that all items belonging to James Clark Decorators are collected from outside the property at 8am tomorrow morning.
Yours sincerely
John W Emslie &
Cc. Norwich Union Clubline
Circle Britannia
A.A. Agnew Insurance Broker
FAX
TO: Pune Claims Team 1
Club Incident Managers
FAX: 01603 821059
FROM: J Emslie & * **********
FAX: ***** ******
Dear Sirs
Property: * ********** ******* ******* **** ***
Claim Ref: 9961U02863
Please find attached a fax which has been sent to the decorators recently instructed to carry out works on our property as part of an insurance claim.
This along with the photographic evidence has been sent to Circle Britannia, however, I would be grateful if a Club Incident Manager could contact me directly to discuss this matter further.
Yours sincerely
John W Emslie & **** **********
I'm sure that this saga will continue much longer than is stricly necessary. Again, due to, The Emslie Effect.
Look out for my updates.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)