Reader Writing Competition Results
The results are in!
At the end of last year we launched our new travel writing competition and asked you to send us stories of your historic holidays around Britain. Click here to read the five prize-winning entries and the best of the rest…
1st prize
In Wainwright’s footsteps by Clive Bennett from Sydney Australia
What do old colonial fools do in retirement? They embark on a heritage walk in England. With my friends Chris and Tim, I set out from St Bees in Cumbria for a 14-day hike through the ‘land of hope and glory’ to Robin Hood’s Bay in Yorkshire.
Planning and training began in earnest before the start date, including buying the right boots and ensuring wet weather gear was adequate for the walk of a lifetime. How do you train for an average 14-mile walk per day? Easy, you wear down the hills around Balmain, an inner-west suburb of Sydney.
It had been raining in London before we left King’s Cross station on the train to Leeds for Carlisle and finally St Bees in Cumbria. Finding ourselves seated next to an ex-1996 Olympic rower, conversation continued until Leeds as we discussed the past parlous state of sporting success in England. Later we wondered why we had bothered after the UK’s brilliant success in Beijing.
We started the walk from St Bees on 3 August 2008 to overcast skies. Joined by an enthusiastic group of German walkers we set out to race them to Robin Hood’s Bay. Never let it be said an ageing group of Australian walkers couldn’t rise to the challenge! England in August, it was suggested, would be mild, pleasant with perhaps a little rain, as we envisioned an amble over meadows, fields, hills, dales, crags, tarns, becs, riggs and grills for this coast to coast trek.
Wrong! It rained and it rained and it rained, 12 days out of 14; it seemed almost biblical and our wet weather gear didn’t stand a chance. Neither did the walking boots as we squelched our way through the beautiful Lake District and beyond. Nobody mentioned navigation in the wet and the lead navigator was often ‘sacked’ for incompetence. And who would use walking poles? No senior Australian male would dare contemplate the idea. Later, three people were seen buying ‘poles’ in Grasmere and they remained treasured possessions for the rest of our walk!
Onwards we tramped to the hillier ascents on the Yorkshire Moor. In the delightful towns of Thwaite, Reeth, Richmond, Danby Wiske and Osmotherley, friendly local characters greeted us. By now we had experienced all types of rain as we walked from Osmotherley to Blakey. Finally through Egton Bridge we arrived at Robin Hood’s Bay on an overcast, then fine sunny day, followed by rain.
A celebratory drink at Wainwright’s Bar at the Bay Hotel was followed by the mandatory throwing of the ‘pebble’ picked up from the beach at St Bees. Apparently this tradition was started to confuse future geologists.
Having beaten the Germans to the end of our journey we retired with the purchase of the all-important T-shirt: ‘Coast to Coast, 192 miles’. What a wonderful experience and a fantastic legacy from Mr Wainwright. My only suggestion for anyone thinking about doing the same is to check the weather before you go!
The prize: Clive wins a luxurious seven-night cruise for two people, staying in a G-Grade double or twin ‘Castle Cabin’ on board the Hebridean Princess cruise ship, courtesy of Hebridean Island Cruises.
2nd prize
The ‘Heelun Coo’ by Dorothy McDonall from Toronto, Canada
“Heelun coos? Did he just say keep an eye open for ‘heelun coos’?” I turned to look at my partner – he just shrugged. We were on a day trip by bus from Edinburgh into the Scottish Highlands and Will, our tour guide, had an extraordinarily thick accent. What the heck did he mean?
As we travelled the high roads and low roads to our ultimate destination, Glen Coe, I fixed my gaze upon the wondrously ancient rolling hills, carved into sections by low stone walls that seemed to go on forever. The fields were punctuated by myriad cotton ball lambs bouncing around their tired mothers. But I’ll be darned if I could spot the elusive ‘heelun coo’.
By the time we reached Glen Coe, Will had regaled us with epic tales of political intrigue and battles won and lost, and my mind had drifted over the rising hills picturing the murder and mayhem of centuries of tortured Scottish history. Along the way we stopped for delicious hot chocolate in Pitlochry and a bumpy boat ride on Loch Ness. The monster proved to be as elusive as the ever mysterious ‘heelun coo’!
But it was at Glen Coe, with its dramatic landscape scooping below and towering above, that the heart of my imagination really began to beat.
Will had been preparing us for this moment the entire trip, offering up the Reader’s Digest version of the famous massacre of the sleeping Clan MacDonald in 1692, when 38 people were murdered by the light of a frosty moon.
“Th’ Campbells ‘old a spee...cial place in Scottish ‘istory,” he explained, and proceeded to mock spit to demonstrate the universal contempt felt for their dirty deed.
And it wasn’t that the MacDonalds were particularly saintly that made this such a heinous event. No, the Campbells had broken “the code” of Highland hospitality by murdering their hosts in cold blood. As aptly shown by Will’s demonstration of disdain the Campbells had yet to live this moment down!
He told us that some of the MacDonalds had managed to escape that terrible night. As I sat upon a welcoming boulder and breathed in the heathered air of this storied corner of bonny Scotland I looked to the hilltops and imagined how those terrified souls might have scrambled their way to liberty on that cold February night. I wondered how far they had to go to feel safe. My ruminations were interrupted by the loping of three majestic roe deer through the valley floor. This led me to wonder if ‘heelun coos’ – whatever they were – had existed then too?
All too soon Will beckoned us to the bus. As we wended our way back to Edinburgh another traveller as perplexed as I finally asked the definitive question: “What’s a heelun coo?”
Will laughed. He pointed out the bus window. As fate would have it there appeared, in that moment, our very first sighting of a mighty hairy beast with horns ...
the Highland cow!
The prize: Dorothy wins a two-night stay for two adults (and two children) at the Auchrannie Spa Resort on the Isle of Arran, Scotland, including champagne on arrival, use of all leisure facilities, a beauty treatment and a full Scottish breakfast.
3rd prize
In search of Pentre Ifan by Jo Fletcher-Cross from Longstanton, Cambridgeshire
They said it rained a lot in Wales, but as a Glaswegian I felt I was prepared for a bit of inclement west coast weather. So as we set out, on the second day of our romantic Welsh break, I felt I was ready for anything. My partner wasn’t sure. Did we still want to set out in search of Pentre Ifan? Absolutely.
The map was on my knee, our macs were in the back of the car and I was clutching a hip flask of whisky to keep out the cold. The night before, curled up in our wonderful wooden ‘love shack’ in the forest, we had read about the history of Wales, marvelling at our ignorance of this wild and romantic place, and the stories that sounded just like fairy tales. The thought of seeing the fantastical megolithic site of Pentre Ifan kept us going, even when the rain started and didn’t stop until the roads were rivers and the rivers were torrents.
An hour passed. And then another. Julian Cope’s book The Modern Antiquarian had mentioned that it was difficult to find, up and down twisting tracks. As our little car struggled with another crazy gradient we began to wonder if it really existed at all. And then we passed a little van; a small, unassuming council vehicle with a picture of Pentre Ifan on the side. It renewed our hope and, sure enough, within 10 minutes we finally saw a sign pointing us in the right direction.
A mere half an hour of missed turns and steep, terrifying tracks later, we pulled up beside a hedge on a deserted road. As we struggled against the wind, another couple just leaving passed us. We laughed with them, acknowledging the absurdity of the weather, the situation. The rain lashed our faces and although the guide book said we were surrounded by a circle of mountains, we couldn’t see them through their thick covering of cloud. We pushed on down the path.
And there it was.
They say it would have looked totally different; been covered with earth and stones. They say the wonder of the place is that the delicately balanced capstone mirrors the shape of the hill behind it – which we couldn’t see.
But we were captivated, entranced and moved. We huddled under the huge stone, dry for a moment, listening to the wind howl around us. We had a dram, and poured out a wee libation to those who had been here before us, to those who built and those who have made the pilgrimage.
It may have taken us hours to find this mysterious place. It didn’t matter. It had been here for what felt like forever, and would still be here forever. Take your time, it said. I’ll be waiting.
The prize: Jo wins an overnight stay for two people in a four-poster bedroom at Bibury Court Hotel in the Cotswolds, with complimentary afternoon tea, dinner in the newly refurbished restaurant and a full English breakfast.
4th prize
The spirits of Islay by Willie More from Tiverton, Devon
I could see she wasn’t expecting it. We were winding down beautifully at the beginning of our Scottish holiday, especially having so enjoyed the after-dinner stroll by the peaceful harbour of Tarbert, Loch Fyne. It was then I told her: “It’s an early rise tomorrow. We have a ferry to catch. We’re off to commune with the spirits.” I could see this was an unwelcome shock.
Nevertheless, the next morning we were at Kennacraig in West Loch Tarbert, driving on to the Calmac ferry bound for Islay. She began to relax as we sailed down the mirror-like loch, confronted suddenly with the magnificence of Jura to starboard with its sentinel ‘Paps’, and the flat, still calm of Gigha to port. Now, with Islay close to starboard, we passed in quick succession three eye-catching distilleries, all brilliantly white in the morning sun. Ardbeg, Lagavulin, Laphroaig – which was the prettiest? That’s when she put two and two together and made five. “‘Commune with spirits’, you said. It’s distilleries, isn’t it? You’re surely not dragging me around another distillery. If I hear about the ‘angel’s share’ once more, I’ll scream.”
Disembarking in sullen silence at Port Ellen, I took the road north, leaving Port Ellen distillery behind us also. We passed by the road-ends to Bowmore and Bruichladdich, also leaving behind Kilchoman, a brand new distillery only now delivering its three-year-old malt. She would be thinking we were visiting Bunnahabhain or Caol Ila, but I turned left into a side road, signed to Loch Finlaggan.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Stop playing games. There are no distilleries up here.”
Sailing back to the mainland later, all her questions had been answered and we both felt strangely at peace. We had gone to Loch Finlaggan, found a visitor’s centre in a converted cottage with an incongruous modern extension. Climbing the hill to get our first view of the loch and its two historic islands was like crossing into another universe. This was the home of the ancient Lords of the Isles, and it felt as if it could have been just yesterday that they ruled their islands and highlands, from Lewis south to Kintyre, rather than in the 14th and 15th centuries. Their home was the larger isle, and the smaller, the Council Isle, was where the island lords and chieftains gathered to deliberate when summoned by the Lord of the Isles.
As we stood among the ruins of the great hall, the soft wind carried the rustle of the reeds and the faint rippling in the loch’s shallows. I swear we could hear the oars breaking the water, and the voices rising and falling from the council chamber. The aromas of roasting venison seemed all around us, and our ears picked up the laughter and merry-making of those feasting. This was what I meant by ‘communing with the spirits’. We were not alone. We were hosted by the spirits that inhabit Finlaggan, an awe-inspiring experience. Finlaggan is that sort of place.
The prize: Willie wins two tickets to an event of his choice at the Royal Academy of Arts in Piccadilly, London, with internationally acclaimed loan exhibitions, supported by education programmes, seminars and debates
5th prize
Chasing mermaids by Colette Mellor from Rotherham, South Yorkshire
With wellies, waterproofs and walking stick I set out. It was 5.30am, a time that I very rarely see but my day was dictated by the North Sea tide. I walked along the shore; the beach still wet from the early morning waves. Huge walls of boulder clay cliffs towered above me, deeply serrated by the weather. Their unique faces had been altered yearly by erosion. As I reached the sand’s end a group of gulls edged nervously away from me. I stepped onto the path, beautifully painted green with seaweed, and began my journey along Filey Brigg.
I had often looked towards it as a child, playing happily on the beach during family holidays. I’d imagined mermaids living amongst the rocks and sea monsters guarding them from predators. Now, over 20 years later, I was about to discover the truth.
My first few steps were apprehensive as the seaweed was slippery. The birds handled it with ease but I wasn’t quite so agile. On either side were rock pools; some shallow, some deep but all teeming with life. Crabs peered out from their safe haven, disturbed by my footsteps. Anemones danced to the rhythm of the ripples and delicate fronds of seaweed swam with the movement of the water.
Soon the path was behind me and the shelter of the cliffs came to an end as I stepped out onto the final part of the Brigg and into the North Sea. Waves thundered against the rocks drowning out all other sounds. The temperature dropped and an icy chill swept past as if the spirits of Filey’s lost seamen had joined me to scrutinise their latest visitor. In the distance to the north was the silhouette of Scarborough Castle, to the south the chalk cliffs of Flamborough. I glanced behind to see the familiar white buildings of Filey, a town just waking and one that now seemed a world away.
The hidden rocks where my mermaids once lived were littered with barnacles and limpets. On the ground, intricate patterns in the stone filled with foam around my feet. Occasionally a ravenous wave would leap over the boulders showering me with its spray before hastily sweeping back into the sea. Thank goodness for my waterproofs!
The end of the Brigg was in sight, exposed by low tide for just a short time each day before being swallowed again by the dominant North Sea. I turned to look at the Carr Naze headland behind me and visualised the Roman signal station that previously stood there. The 4th-century tower, once a vital part of the coastal defensive system, had long gone but I pictured the garrison looking out, ever fearful of the invasion of seaborne enemies. Standing beside gulls and oystercatchers I gazed ahead imagining how it would have looked as the ancient Roman harbour it once was. I had experienced a truly remarkable piece of Yorkshire heritage, one of exceptional beauty that holds centuries of secrets which may never be revealed.
The prize: Colette wins a Thorntons chocolates gift set, including an assortment of milk, dark and white classics; chocolate smothered vanilla fudge; milk, dark and white chocolate blocks; milk chocolate caramels and chocolate-covered fudge.
And here is the best of the rest…
Fairytales are made of this by Deirdre Anne Hines
Have you ever sampled the vagaries of the local buses? If you haven't, I can recommend the Truro to Tintagel route. My itinerary of Cornish landmarks wouldn't have been complete without following in the footsteps of King Arthur and his knights. Of course, the undulating Cornish roads induce a soporific state at the best of times, but add some brilliant June sunshine and you will sleep for a hundred years. Unless of course a booming voice shouts out-"Last stop-Tintagel"-
Then you will jump up in haste to disembark at speed. It is not until you have gotten your bearings-a field of rippling corn to your right, a lark's rising song above you and a green wood to your right-that you realise something is amiss. A wrong turn has been taken, but your guide has disappeared, anxious to get back to his real purpose in life-fishing.
Catching sight of a wooden sign peeking through the leaves, I pushed my way through the verdure to find myself on a sanded path. It circled and straightened in hermetic homage to my simple quest. To find Tintagel. Everywhere was junebloom and songbirds sounded the air. And then a house. The smiling face at the door proffered her hand.
"£2.50 please-"
"Pardon"-
"Entrance to St.Nectan's cell and waterfall"
Thoroughly flummoxed I paid and followed a pilgrim down to the site of his cell. Who was this man?
Born in Wales in 468 AD, he was the eldest son of King Brychan of Brycheiniog (now Breconshire). He left his twenty-three siblings to take up a life of hermitage here in this glen, only being visited by two of his sisters at Christmas. Jars of foxgloves flanked the slate steps leading to the chapel and the rear bedrock wall stunned in its simplicity.
I followed the path to the waterfall, where I was transported to another world. Fairytales are made of these forgotten and infrequently visited places. This was where monks walked in quiet communion with and veneration of the natural world - and what an awe-inspiring world.
The torrent of water that cascaded for thirty feet into a bedrock scoured basin flows along a narrow cleft, and then plunges through a man-sized hole to fall another ten feet into a shallow pool. The spume of spray drowns out all conversation, leaving the visitor no choice but to enter into a dialogue with one's inner self and the natural world.
It is rumoured that St. Nectan kept a silver bell, which he kept in a tower above the falls. Disbelievers would be plagued by bad luck if they heard its tinkling peal. The air sparkled with spume and spray. One couldn't but believe in this gentle and soul-soothing place. I spent the remainder of the afternoon there, a place I'd stumbled upon by chance, on St. Nectan's feast-day, June the seventeenth, and found the spot marked X on every treasure hunter's map. A place where fairytales are made, and where one was made for me to visit in memory and dream.
The perfect storm by Patricia Lichty
Waiting for the ferry to Orkney from John O’Groats, I placed my billed cap squarely on my head and promptly tied it down with the hood of my all-weather jacket. The wind was picking up and it was starting to rain. The ferry arrived, we boarded, and soon set off across the Pentland Firth --- an area where the Atlantic Ocean meets the North Sea causing a “confusion of seas”. Our tour director (with his slightly bent sense of humor) likened it to “The Perfect Storm”. This did not bring the best of images to mind.
About twenty minutes into the crossing, I was thinking that it wasn’t really so bad --- somewhat akin to a bucking bronco. Then we took a low dip and I could no longer see the horizon. The roller coaster ride had begun.
Arriving safely (but shaken) at the other end of our journey, several of our group placed a big wet kiss on good old terra firma, then we began an exciting tour of Orkney. I had long been fascinated with the large number of prehistoric sites on Orkney --- the brochs, burial mounds, standing stones, and especially Skara Brae --- the Neolithic village dating back to roughly 5000 B.C. A couple thousand years older than the pyramids!
By the time we reached the Ring of Brodgar, it was raining horizontally. I’m pretty sure the original buildings of that particular stone circle didn’t envision an American tourist using one of their standing stones as a refuge from the weather, but that was what I did. It was an awe-inspiring place. Imagine the work it would have taken to move all of those heavy stones into just the right spots. Both the Standing Stones of Stenness and the incredible burial mound, Maes Howe, were in sight. If I erased my fellow tourists, the road and the tour coach from the picture, I could place myself back thousands of years when those monuments were built. I understand Orkney was much warmer back then.
At Skara Brae, the wind was blowing so hard there were times when I worried it would blow me over the edge into one of the houses and I’d come crashing down on an exquisite stone dresser below. But I braced myself as best I could against the wind and rain so I could take loads of photos and video. Then I would be able to look back on that day for many, many years into the future. There probably won’t be anything left of my own house or belongings 7,000 years from now.
Toward evening, I finally got in out of the weather and had a cup of hot chocolate at St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall (an impressive site in itself). Sitting and sipping while watching a film about the history of the cathedral, I thought about what a thrilling adventure the day had been. Then I remembered I still had a wild ferry ride back across the Pentland Firth.
A Roman Encounter by Clare Bray
We drove along the busy dual carriageway and looked at the rows of tightly-packed houses and offices, brown and grey against the leaden sky. Caerleon hadn’t appeared to be anywhere near as big as this on the map. We really should get a more up-to-date one to keep up with the rapid expansion in these parts. I peered dubiously at the map, and hopefully turned it upside down, to little effect.
Gradually the metropolis began to recede. I twisted in my seat to read a sign we’d just passed.
Newport.
Ah.
This was what came of trying to visit somewhere purely because it had ‘Roman Remains’ marked in red on an old map.
Eventually we arrived at a small town tucked in a valley, which was apparently the genuine Caerleon. We were soon standing by a large site of very low walls mapped on the grass. A sign explained that these were the best preserved Roman barracks in Europe. It was completely deserted. We jumped up and down in the biting wind as it became increasingly clear why most people didn’t holiday in south Wales in January.
On the plus side, we could explore undisturbed by others. Fighting the effects of mild hypothermia, we wandered around the site, standing in the different rooms and seeing where the soldiers had lived and slept, right here. Some of the rooms must have been claustrophobically small when packed with soldiers, but it was certainly well organised. With only the bases of the walls remaining we could step over from room to room, effectively walking through walls, something the soldiers might have enjoyed. Then again, they probably had the edge when it came to warmth.
We struck out towards the town centre in the hope of taking refuge in the museum, only to find it was closed for lunch. Left to fend off the elements by ourselves, we followed a sign pointing to an amphitheatre. Green humps of grass backed by walls of grey stone rose up around the central circular arena. I clambered up to the top and surveyed the amphitheatre, imagining it thronging with crowds. Running down into the centre, I twirled around.
“Friends, Romans, Countrymen...”
I hesitated. We really were alone, weren’t we? Having checked that only the grey sky was looking on – Tony having escaped to read another sign just outside the amphitheatre – I continued with my magnificent performance. Hundreds of Romans seated around me erupted into cheers as I finished. I bowed, and left the amphitheatre with a flourish.
We walked back across the barracks to the car. We had no feeling in our hands or feet, but that would return. Somehow experiencing these Roman ruins on an empty January day had made them very alive, as though the ghosts of the ancient soldiers and townsfolk were watching, just out of sight.
Or maybe my brain was just starting to freeze. Either way, the red mark on the map had been well worth the trip.
A walk around the Snickleways of York by David William Isaac
“How was it for you?” I asked lazily,
“Perfect,” she breathed, “Absolutely perfect.”
I tossed the book down on the tabletop, slipped out of my wet anorak and slumped down in the café chair.
“See this book,” I said, “This book is a tardis. Not only does it take you back in time, but it is infinitely bigger on the inside than it is on the outside.”
It’s true, twenty years on we have yet to enjoy a holiday more and we still re-read the book and are transported back to our youth.
I doubt there is a single reader of this magazine who needs to be introduced to the delights of the historic city of York or who would need any persuading as to the bona fides of its venerable place on the British tourist scene. Hosts of sight-seers from all corners of the globe are familiar with the open top buses, the Minster, the Castle and Railway Museums, Betty’s Tea Rooms, Jorvik, etc,.
However, many of these weary travellers will have only scratched the surface of the real York, the York where the ordinary citizens have walked for centuries along the ancient rights of way and passageways known as The Snickelways of York, recorded for the rest of the world in a quaint and quirky tome of the same name by local man Mark W. Jones. His hand-drawn maps take you on a magical history tour of the old city - a tour which puts your boots on almost every cobblestone, along with a potted history of each ginnel and its more colourful inhabitants of old.
It was a filthy, January week with short, grey days and long, dark, wet, windy nights. My wife and I and our two baby girls stayed on a farm just outside Pickering, North Yorkshire, in one of six purpose-built holiday bungalows with a shared indoor swimming pool. As there were no other guests, we had the farm and the pool to ourselves: bliss. The bad weather just made the swimming pool and the evening log fires more of a treat.
Each morning we drove to the Park and Ride and bussed into York and for a week we followed Mark W. Jones’ hand written directions through the Snickelways, taking our time and soaking up the history of the old City. So often we would head down some dark alleyway to find ourselves in a whole new world, away from the crowds and the camera-snapping tourists, with our own private view of the Castle or the Minster. We felt as if we were privy to much more than your average sightseer. This was our York. We had seen the real city and knew our Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate from our Mad Alice Lane, our Fish Landing from our Great Shambles In-and-Out. Thanks Mark W. Jones. What a gem and what an adventure!
Chapel worship by Susan Hibbins
What can I say about Chapel Porth? A narrow bay on the north coast of Cornwall, it was once a site of tin mining, toil and industry, spoil heaps and work for many; now it is National Trust site with a small car park, a base for cliff-walkers, beach lovers and surfers. The ruined tin mine of Wheal Coates, one of the most photographed in Cornwall, towers above Chapel Porth beach below. A stream tumbles its way down the hillside past older, capped mines, now covered with ferns and brambles, and bubbles its way across the beach into the sea.
At low tide the glory of the beach is revealed: a billiard-table smooth expanse of golden sand with not a pebble, not a strand of seaweed in sight. There are caves to explore, cold and full of echoes, and from the mine adit another stream cuts its way across the sand. Traces of ore gleam in the rocks above. When the tide turns the beach becomes a dangerous place to be: the sea advances quicker at some points and at different depths. Linger too long and look behind you, and your way back might already be cut off. Lifeguards patrol during the summer months, rounding up the stragglers.
From the car park the more energetic climb the steep path to the ruined buildings of Wheal Coates spread across the cliff top. In spring the cliff paths are softened by yellow gorse and sea pinks, in autumn by blazing heather, nature softening the despoliation of the land. The engine house of the Towanroath shaft stands alone, its chimney pointing to the sky, its empty shell a mute memorial to all the tin miners who once toiled below to extract the precious ore. Then the walker returns downhill, back to the shelter of the car park and a welcoming bowl of soup at the famous Chapel Porth Café, open all year round and only closed on Christmas Day.
We have visited Chapel Porth in all weathers and at all times of year: in brilliant sunshine when the sea is gentle and the sky a wide expanse of blue, and in a tearing gale, when the waves thunder into the bay, spume flying, rollers breaking halfway up the cliff. One summer, we were staying not far from Lands End, and faced the next day with a long drive in 80 degrees’ heat we decided to set off after dinner and drive through the night. As we approached the turning to Chapel Porth, I thought, better not to stop. We need to get going. Then my husband, reading my mind, said, ‘Want a last look?’ and down we went. It was a Friday night: the surf was up, and the weekend party was underway. The sun stretched golden to the horizon; the cliffs glowed in the rosy light. I reached for my camera to record the moment.
Perfect.
Culloden and the Clava Cairn by Eileen Ramsay
Fifteen years ago I took my son and our Spanish exchange student to visit the site of the battle of Culloden. Our first view was disappointing. Before us was a vast field not unlike hundreds of others. I had told Ignacio, a highly intelligent and very practical Spaniard, a potted history of the reasons for the battle. We walked around the field, noting the Victorian stones that commemorate the clans decimated on that dreadful day in April 1746, and stopped for some time at the achingly-sad Well of the Dead.
'There are ghosts here,' I told the boys, and with teenage derision, they laughed at me. They were, however, interested in history and enjoyed visiting the National Trust Centre where Ignacio had great fun being wrapped in tartan by two attractive young women.
After a few hours we drove off planning to meander around the countryside on our way home, content to enjoy the scenery and the sunshine. We had gone about two miles when we saw a small sign directing us to the Clava Cairn. I knew nothing about it but am interested in stone circles and so we decided to visit.
From the moment we stepped out of the car in the deserted parking lot we knew we were in a very special place. Firstly, it was quiet, not unnaturally so but serenely quiet. The boys, aware of the special atmosphere, whispered as they walked through the turnstyle. On that first visit we had no idea of what we were seeing but I assumed that we were in some late Stone Age or early Bronze Age burial site. We saw an incomplete circle of standing stones and then two circular cairns, obviously constructed with great care to a precise plan. Mature trees protect the cairns and I stood, my back against a trunk, and watched the effect that Balnuaran of Clave- for so it is called - had on the boys. Normally full of noisy questions, they asked nothing but spoke quietly to each other as they walked around. They trod carefully and treated the cairns with respect, not climbing on them but examining them as if hoping that the stones themselves would yield up their secrets. I prayed that I might have answers to a few of their questions for I knew that the silence would end as soon as we drove away.
Evening was drawing in, the sun was slipping down and still the boys were captivated by the ancient site. I felt as I feel sometimes when entering a great religious building - this is a holy place. The boys semed to feel it too.
But, at last, they were ready to leave. At the turnstyle Ignacio turned to me and said quite seriously, 'Aqui, hay fantasmas.'
I had to agree. 'Here, there are ghosts.'
Mrs Crabb’s B&B by Daniel K. Barnes
We had been travelling now for some three months through Europe and Great Britain when, alas, the train stopped in Stonehaven, Scotland on the last day of July, 1978. Where, with the help of the local tourist office, we found ourselves on the doorstep of Mrs. Crabb's Bed and Breakfast. We did not yet realize what a lucky chance this had been.
The proprietor met us at the door. She was friendly, not quite stern, but rather to the point. Her establishment was in the old town - eighteenth century buildings standing firmly beside a snug little harbor on one side and an open bay to the other that this day came lapping gently upon a golden beach.
She lead us to a small, but tidy room, with a comfortable looking bed surrounded by old, well polished furnishings and with a slight view out a high window to the bay. My wife smiled giddily. After weeks of camping, mostly in the rain, we found ourselves in the lap of luxury - it was heaven, and dry.
We spent the evening walking cement piers and along the sandy beach collecting polished beach glass and stuffing the shiny colored pieces in our pockets. For three days we walked the narrow streets watching the fellows in tweed jackets making street repairs and seeing those same tweed jackets in the pub, the market, the bakery and everywhere else around town.
We paid tribute to Dunnottar Castle just up the road and learned a brief history of her more glorious and troubled times. The view was incredible across a calm North Sea. We spent time at the arcade giving away our coins. We did, however, win a tiny fleet of boats which we later gave away to a wee Irish lad in Wicklow. 'Tis odd what one will carry around in his already overstuffed backpack.
Then, we went off for three crowded days in Edinburgh at festival time, in overflowing campgrounds and an overpriced bed and breakfast where people might have died the night before in the very bed we were using.
So, we made a rash decision and caught the next train back to Stonehaven, where we spent the next most pleasurable ten days. Mrs. Crabb was delighted to see us and even offered a warm smile as she ushered us back to our old room.
At breakfast the next morning she brought the regular faire, a fine spread I might add, for the ordinary travellers. And, for us, a large platter of fish in a deep sauce - a specialty that took some time in preparing. There was some grumblings at the other tables, but Mrs. Crabb quickly explained that we had come back from Edinburgh to her bed and breakfast and they could eat what they had or nothing. We had become celebrities.
Over those next splendid ten days, we spent our time in most common pursuits. Venturing back to the castle where we ran about the ramparts as though we were members, enjoying leisurly days on the rock beach beneath the tall cliffs, wading in the cold water, skipping stones and writing in our journals in days of sudden sunshine.
We watched the sheep dog trials in a long green field, sitting next to the fine old fellows leaning on their staffs, with large muscular hands, rugged rosey faces and looking obligingly authentic to the American eye. All the while Mrs. Crabb supplied us, not only with breakfast, but sandwiches and bakery surprises for our wandering lunches.
Ah, there are many fine things to do in Stonehaven now as then, I would imagine. But none so fine as Mrs. Crabb's Bed and Breakfast.
Welcome to Lundy by Esme Gilling
Imagine taking a five minute flight to your holiday destination, having checked into a shed in a turnip field, hopped into the aircraft and sat next to the pilot, to be deposited into a field of grazing sheep on your own little island paradise. Welcome to Lundy island!
Lundy is a small but packs a big punch. Arriving here is like stepping back in time, with no cars, no street lights and no electricity beyond midnight. Home is a small corrugated iron bungalow, chosen for our February visit to magnify the sound of the rain and take me back to my childhood sleeping under a corrugated iron roof. Perversely, it doesn’t rain a drop for a whole of our four day stay.
Being only 3miles long and ½ mile wide, Lundy is easy to explore. To be honest, I wondered if I would be bored after a day or two but how wrong I was. History is everywhere, from the ruined hospital to the nearby ruined quarry workers’ cottages, nowadays grazed by wild ponies. No less than three lighthouses, the original of which was abandoned due to be being so high that the mist or cloud would often obscure the light.
You wander at will on Lundy. You walk around the old buildings, visit the ancient cemetery, enter the church, climb the stairs of the old lighthouse, see the evidence of old granite quarried and the mist nets used to ring birds, long since abandoned.
It’s all evidence of another age when this island was not a tourist destination but a place of work and a home. We join a guided walk one morning and are shown a small house perched precariously down a steep slope on the edge of a sheer cliff. Two families with their children lived in this house.
Imagine trying to keep an eye on a toddler living in such a place! One young man in our party asks the name of the black bird flying low over the water-shag, replies our young, attractive lady guide. My husband recons he just wants to hear her say it.
There is a shop on Lundy which supplies all you need for self-catering, but I think most people make for the pub. The pub is open all day for drinks, food or just somewhere to read a book or socialise. The food is very good, especially when you consider the constraints under which they operate. On such a small island, animal number can escalate and have to be managed. This meat provides extremely fresh, local produce which appears on the pub menu and for a very reasonable price. Its very cosy in the evening sitting by the log fire eating your dinner, then putting on your head torch to return to your cottage, setting out into the darkness with a million stars twinkling overhead and only the sound of water trickling down to the sea below.
Oh, Lundy, how could I think I would be bored? I will return!
Gertrude’s garden by Laurie K Smith
Have you seen our garden?” he asked.
“What garden?” I responded.
My husband and I have been renting a 17th century thatched house in rural Hampshire for a week by then, but no one had mentioned a garden in the area. Our house was a quarter mile from the village of Upton Grey, where a photographer id met online lived had invited us for drinks one evening. “There is quite a famous garden at the Manor House, just up the way,” he said.
We are English garden junkies. We love world-famous gardens like Hidcote and Sissinghurst, but we are equally fond of the small cottage gardens that bloom all over England. So on a rainy summer day we drove through the gates and up to an impressive Edwardian country house incorporating the remains of a Tudor manor. Stretching out to the sides and the rear of the house where the most exquisite gardens we had ever seen. Designed in 1908 by Gertrude Jekyll, the legendary 19th century Arts and Crafts gardener, they were neglected and overgrown for decades before the property was bought in 1983 by john and Rosamund Wallinger. No one, including the people living in Upton Grey, had any idea that the gardens were there. After she discovered their historical significance, Roz Wallinger devoted 16 years to restoring the gardens to their original design, with remarkable success. Fortunatelt, the original plans for the gardens still existed, with Gertrude Jekyll’s handwritten notes, a rarity in landscape design.
Although not initially interested in gardening, Roz Wallinger became an extremely knowledgeable horticulturist (with John as unpaid labour) as they worked to bring back to life perhaps the best example of Gertrude Jekyll’s inspired art. Every flower, every tree, every plant in the garden was her design. She was one of the first to understand the relationship between colour and perspective in a garden, and to paint her living canvas as if it were a watercolour. As we walked along flowering borders edged with rock walls or between clipped hedges, the colours and scents of roses, day lilies, peonies, hydrangeas and dahlias drew us deeper into the spell of the garden.
We were sometimes accompanied by dogs, ducks and a very fancy grey cockerel, all of whom seemed to take a proprietary interest in the place. There were the wild garden the formal garden, the orchard, the nuttery, the rose lawn, the tennis lawn, the bowling lawn, each restored to its original and utterly unique splendour.
Both Roz and John Wallinger were at home and working in the garden during our visit, and we tried to express to them our admiration for their achievement. It was clearly a labor of love for them both. The pleasure they took in sharing with visitors from around the world the magic of this once-lost garden was evident.
We felt very fortunate to have come upon the Jekyll garden at manor house at upton Grey, thanks to a casual question by a new acquaintance. “have you seen our garden?” Yes, we have and it was perfect.
Disappointment deflected by Trina Beckett
“Best turn back”, our boatman spat through salty spray. Thank you god. I squinted through stinging eyes, as a barrage of horizontal water made a mockery of my 100% waterproof jacket. Staffa, my Keats-inspired quest, was out there somewhere, basalt towers guarding scenes no soul dare witness. My stomach churned rhythms of the furious ocean.
Safely back, battered haddock and chips in Fionnphort’s café, restored number extremities. Next morning’s blue skies and scanty breeze, set sails of hope fluttering. On the jetty, Cap’n Birdseye was holding forth.
“Don’t care if you have come from Timbuktu, there’ll be no Staffa today. See that dark line on the horizon? Storm. Heading this way.” Angry murmurs, “I’ll do Iona,” riot averted.
Half an hour later, I was rocking across glistening water to the ‘cradle of Christianity.’
“Stick together shall we? Safety in numbers?” Did the woman squashed next to me think Neanderthal man and sabre tooth tigers still roamed this ancient landscape?
“Just getting over a sprain,” I lied. “I might hold you up.” I limped away. Drat. After yesterday’s soaking, my pocket guidebook’s pages had stuck together for safety. Rocky mounds, Celtic crosses with graffiti of lichens, the ruins of a nunnery, all redolent of enduring spirituality, proved Iona able to articulate the past herself. High in sycamores, hooded rooks instilled an eerie air: ancient prayers rustling the leaves. Graveyards rested early rulers of the Scots, alongside generations of islanders: equal in death. Stone circles played out druid hauntings. Bloodthirsty clouds of midges, abandoning the solitary relic of a hermit’s hut, pursued me to the shore. Spewed from cave mouth, spouts of water cascaded several metres upwards; defiant, diamond droplets lingered in the air, before obeying gravity’s call.
A high peak beckoned, teasingly keeping its distance as I advanced. An avalanche of tourists threatened to absorb me in their downward surge.
“Dun I, 332ft,” said the first voice for two hours. “That’s one percent of the height of Everest. If you bathe your face three times in the pool near the top, your youth will be restored!” People usually told me I looked young for my age.
“How’s the ankle?” puffed the safety-in-numbers lady, who appeared to have got her wish. I reddened.
Atop the summit, landscape dazzled. Bright crofters’ cottages, grazing sheep sprinkled like salt on terraced slopes, turf-fringed dunes frilling Bahamas beaches painted a false idyll. Unfettered from the shackles of the printed word or droning guides, my mind was privy to Iona’s whisperings of darker truths: that hers was a heritage of isolation, endurance, simplicity and spirituality tempered with myth. I tingled with the illusion that I was first to share her secrets. A glimpse of golfers - an uneasy juxtaposition - stirred the notion that UK heritage majors in narratives of splendour and affluence.
Silver ringlets streamed from haloes of cloud on Mull’s highest mountains. I looked north. Was that jutting speck Staffa? A small ship cruised softly ahead of the storm. Now, there’s a thought.
Aston Hall by candlelight by Sheila Kondras
Outlined against the darkening sky, the elegant lines of Aston Hall, rise in stark relief. The gravel crunches wetly beneath our feet as we approach. The windows gently glow. The tradition of candlelight entertainment here dates from Victorian times and characters from yesteryear, suitably garbed, are everywhere. Yet, it is the backdrop of Jacobean splendour which draws the eye.
In the green library, the neo-classical bookcases have been restored to their original appearance and row upon row of books sit, inviting the casual hand to pick out and linger. On the oak table, in the dim candle glow, a book lies open awaiting its ghostly reader.
The long gallery is particularly fine, untouched by time. Stretching the length of the house, it is a place to exercise on miserable wet days. We promenade along the wide polished boards in the panelled gloom, under elaborate plasterwork of cornstalks, flowers, birds and small creatures. On such dark winter evenings a thousand candles are needed to make it glow.
Two guests from the jewellery quarter, important manufacturers, wait for us in the wood panelled parlour proud of their elegantly crafted candelabra made for the great exhibition of 1851 and now gracing the gleaming Jacobean table.
The great dining room, formerly the great chamber, is where we find their majesties, standing in front of a spectacular Jacobean fireplace waiting to dine at a table elaborately laid for dinner. A ruffian fellow has the temerity to express republican sentiments within her majesty’s hearing and is sternly rebuked. Not surprising, when hanging there is a portrait of her famously beheaded ancestor, Charles 1. Above our heads, nine worthies, representing figures from history, such as Charlemagne and Alexander the great, cast a disdainful eye.
Amidst the dark panelling of the colonnade, we find our erstwhile host, Sir Thomas Holte. Gleaming brown eyes look down a fine aristocratic nose at this invasion of the hoi polloi.
During the Civil War, Sir Thomas was a royalist. One Christmas, the parliamentarians repaid his loyalty to his monarch by laying siege to the house for three days. Negotiating the richly carved wooden staircases, we see evidence of the damage done. Shortly before the battle of Edgehill in 1642, Charles 1 even stayed here, allegedly laying his head in the inappropriately named best lodging chamber.
Eventually, we arrive in the Great hall. In a large ancient fireplace, its stonework inscribed with verses, a welcome fire burns. Next to a fragrant pine tree decorated with red bells and ribbons, Victorian style, we sing carols. Above our heads gallops a frieze of mythical creatures.
We exit through kitchens where the dimly flickering candlelight illuminates the realities of life for the poor: hard unrelenting toil. Then outside to reflect that even as ashton was being built, the world that Britain was exploring was already influencing the design, construction and decoration of building such as this.
An idyllic day by Mrs R A Hale
What a day! We were halfway through a two week cruising holiday and were blessed throughout with perfect weather – calm seas, cloudless blue skies and warm sunshine.
Our senses had already been bombarded with amazing sights, sounds and smells, as we visited idyllic small islands, ancient sites, massive bird colonies, pure white sandy beaches and tropical gardens.
Surprisingly, we were not sailing in the Indian or pacific oceans, instead we were circumnavigating the British isles in a small expedition ship “National Geographic Explorer”.
For me this was the most eagerly awaited expedition of the whole trip. So it was on with the life-jacket (plus waterproof trousers to prevent wet bottom) and into bobbing zodiac, hanging on for dear life, for an exhilarating ride towards a small oval-shaped island with sheer cliffs and a grassy plateau on top.
After about fifteen minutes the engines cut out and we glided into a dramatic tidal inlet and tied up. Up some steep steps and onto a rocky platform made up of hexagonal blocks of basalt, and at last we were setting foot on the world famous island of Staffa.
Some hardy souls, with stout calves, proceed to climb up a very steep path to the top of the cliff to enjoy the splendid views of the surrounding islands.
We chose to gingerly edge our way along a narrow pathway at the base of the cliffs, hanging on to a flimsy handrail in order to keep our footing.
The path eventually led round the corner of the cliff face and into the entrance of Fingal’s Cave. Nothing prepares you for the sight of the vast 20 metre high hexagonal columns, packed tightly together, which rise up from the sea, with reflections of the clear water playing on the walls and the ceiling.
As you enter the cave on an even narrower path, the water at the base of the columns is a glorious jade green. Towards the back of the cave the water is as deep as the ceiling is high and you can hear the sound of it sighing as it swells and recedes. It was so quiet – everyone was entranced by this magical place.
Apparently during the Second World War a mine drifted into the entrance of the cave and exploded, luckily not causing too much damage. Had it gone further into the cave itself, it would probably have demolished the roof and Fingal’s Cave would have been lost forever.
Eventually we dragged ourselves away and sat outside on the rocks, looking at the brilliant colours of the sea and the mountains of Mull in the background, with Kittiwakes, razorbills and puffins circling and diving around us.
Then it was reluctantly back to the ship to sit on the deck in the sunshine, with Mendelssohn’s Hebridean overture ringing in our ears and watch this unforgettable place recede into the distance.
A family day out by Karen Brady
My nine year old was determined to make it to the top of the turret, even though the wind was blowing hard. Taking the steps two at a time he followed my husband, who was carrying our four year old daughter, up the stone staircase of Tantallon castle. My eleven year old took off in s different direction. He headed down the stairs, eager to see what remained of the dungeon that was once at the bottom of the castle. What an adventure. The view from the top was amazing, looking out over the North sea, we read all about the castle, my family and I were living history.
The wind was freezing, but the kids were determined to read every heritage site information board. We found the kitchens, climbed the dovecot and even spit down the grate covered wall cool! All the while, we looked out over the age old windowsills, mesmerized by this castle at the edge of the sea. In the distance we could see Bass rock, shinning in the sun. We all tried to imagine what it was like out there, what it would have been like centuries ago when first inhabitants built a small chapel together.
After an hour or two of exploring, we soon began to hear moans of “I’m hungy”, “what are we going to do next?” and “can we go swimming?” Sadly, my husband and I knew it was time to move on, so we collected the troops, dragged my youngest son off the curtain wall, and headed back through the gift shop to the car. After much debate we decided to head to the village or North Berwick, figuring we could find a bite to eat and some water to dabble our toes in.
We quickly found a car park and the north Berwick fry. My husband ordered take-away fish and chips and I continued down the block with the kids to the beach along Melbourne road. We laid our jackets out in the warm sand and took of our socks and shoes. The kids splashed in the tidal pools searching for snails and swan in the shallow part of the Firth of Forth enclosed by the sea wall. They were having the time of their lives, breaking only to enjoy a bite of food every now and again.
As my husband and I sat snuggled in the sand, marvelling at our children’s ability to swim in such cold water, we reflected on our day. Today we had lived history in an age old castle, climbing the same stone tower where battles took place centuries ago. We looked down at the cliffs, out at sea and dreamed. We hopped from rock to rock looking for treasures washed in by the tide and enjoyed a great meal, complete with a crunch of sand being blown in by the wind… most importantly we did it all as a family, what could be better than that?
The Seven Sisters by Tony Spiers
It’s June and we’re up and down the Seven Sisters cliffs in Sussex like yo-yos. The chalk downs seem to have been sliced open by some forgotten giant butcher, so we, like geological voyeurs, can peep inside. If these undulating cliffs were dun clay, they might never have acquired such celebrity. This whiteness is part of their magnetism.
“How could a material buried in the dirt look so lustrous?” you ask. “Do daily regiments of extreme Mrs. Mops with J-Cloths, buckets and very long ladders, buff the grimy chalk?” No, its exposed snowy surface soon tarnishes and grows a patina of algae or lichen. But happily, chalk is not one of the hard-boiled rocks – one reason the pharaohs didn’t use it for the pyramids. It has the toughness of feta cheese. Weathering of its surface allows the cliffs, like snakes, to slough off their sooty skins.
The chalk’s softness expresses itself in the buxom geography of the downs, and this perhaps inspired their names. But who were the seven sisters? Nobody can remember. You think the chalky siblings should wear glamorous names but the people who christened them sported tiny imaginations, and so Venus, Angelina, Rihanna, Kylie, Courtney, Peaches and Kate they are not, but Haven Brow, Brass Point and lots more that will only bore us.
Who invented these cliffs? Was it the Foraminifera’s – microscopic blobs of protoplasm living in the sea at the same time as the dinosaurs, over 100 million years ago? So slight of build and so lacking in charisma, did they realise no-one would remember them? Did they, like the pharaohs, hit upon the clever idea of building a white gargantuan memorial to themselves, constructing it from their own miniscule chalky bones? In death, the calcareous shells rained down like school blackboard dust, building up, nanometre by nanometre, the present day chalk.
Or was it these sheep, that eye us as we walk? Did they steal the idea of fashioning their own colossal monument from the Foraminiferans? For thousands of years did they practise their topiary, with hoof and teeth, sculpting and nibbling the turf into shape, to create the down land landscape for us humans? And is this how we express our gratitude to them? By eating their children?
We’re not alone as we ramble over these cliffs, for sight-seers and hobbyists of all kinds pass us by. There are hang-gliders, photographers, runners, ramblers, botanists on bee orchid hunts, actors in wigs and film crews, mountain bikers, dog walkers, air-takers, birdwatchers hoping for a glimpse of a peregrine falcon, geologists, poets, abseilers, etomologists. And here we watch as flocks of visiting language school students spell out their names in lumps of chalk on the cliff tops, like a kind of green graffiti. Hoping perhaps for what Andy Warhol promised us all, that fifteen minutes of fame, Fabien, Marta and Tomoko unpick yesterday’s names to write their own small Hollywood signs in the grass.