Once upon a time there was a friendly gargoyle who never had a cross word for anyone and always had a wide smile. His one failing was a habit of spitting, and, because of this, Gordon the gargoyle was never spoken to by anyone except the very youngest of children who didn’t realise that spitting was a nasty, unsociable habit. Then one day a grown up who, up until then, everyone had thought was a responsible person decided to switch off the water supply to save money for the city council and so that he could go on a courtesy visit to their twin city which was in a foreign country many miles away over the sea. All at once many more grown ups decided that they hadn’t minded Gordon’s spitting and if anything they actually liked him doing it (although just because they wanted Gordon to do it didn’t mean that they thought it was OK for all the boys and girls to do it). They kicked up an enormous fuss and paraded in front of the city hall until the grown up responsible for turning off the water relented (he was the mayor by the way) and to everyone’s joy turned it back on.

For a short while people made a special effort to go go and see Gordon gargoyling, but very soon all the hoo hah was forgotten and everything went back to normal. The only people who would talk to him were the children, but Gordon didn’t really mind this, after all he quite liked the boys and girls.

The end.

The Canton cockerel stopped crowing some time ago. A shame really because I enjoyed hearing the sound. Perhaps someone who lived closer to it got a bit fed up though. Or maybe the urban foxes found it. But yesterday was a great day. Yesterday was the day the blackbirds came back into my life. They’ve been largely missing since I moved away from Balham. I used to be able to open the windows at the back of the flat and listen to the evening conversations of the blackbirds across the myriad Balham back gardens. Beautiful. And now they’ve found my garden in Canton. Let’s hope they don’t get chased away by the territorial magpie or either of the two cats who periodically fight over the privilege of sitting on my decking.

Walking back from doing my civic duty this morning I passed a chap struggling, one-handed, to manipulate a large wheelie bin along the pavement. In his other hand was a mobile phone, clamped to his ear.

Chap: “Oh aye, you’re off for a week now aren’t you ?”

Mobile phone: “I’M OFF FOR A WEEEEEEEEEK !!!!!!”

It made me smile

Looking north from the top of Slieau Ruy.

That place between sleep and full consciousness is a lovely one to savour. The dream hasn’t yet been forgotten and the usual neighbourhood morning activity outside is only starting to become apparent. Car doors slamming, engines starting up, rubbish vans reversing far too quickly up the one-way street beeping as they go, the odd bird jumping about on the slates above my head. This morning there was a cockerel. It wasn’t part of the dream, it was a proper, real, cockerel with as good a cock-a-doodle-doo as they get. I wonder if Cardiff City council are re-introducing them in an attempt to bring nature back to the inner city. Or perhaps it’s just another installation by the local art centre. Either way, it was good to hear. If it’s still there in six months in can add its voice to all the other birds (mostly seagulls) that wake me up at 4am every day.

Gannets and fulmars over
St Kilda. Pigeons on
Nelson’s Column.

If your room goes away again, there’s a spare here.

I’d taken the opportunity afforded by a flat, roadside patch of gravel to stop and capture the view back down the valley through the black clouds to the sunshine and blue sea in the distance below. I was in a buoyant mood having seen my first golden eagle an hour before. Heading back to the car I was approached by an old gentleman and his grandson who’d been quietly sitting in their car on the same patch of gravel, watching for wildlife through their binoculars.

“Have ye heard of the White Stag of Arran ?” (read with Scottish accent). I could hear the capital letters as he spoke. I fetched my own binoculars from the car and followed the line of his pointed finger past the white stones on the hillside opposite, and past the sheep until my eyes alighted upon a white(ish) red deer with a pair of the most enormous antlers I’d ever seen. Admittedly, they were probably the first set of antlers I’d ever seen that were still attached to their owner, and for this reason I was more impressed by the headware than the colour. I turned to the old gentleman who was by now heading back to his car, and gave him a smile and the thumbs up, and went on my way, his voice receding into the distance “Ye’re probably one of only a handful of people in the world (heavily rolled ‘r’) who’ve seen that’.

I checked later with people at the campsite, and it seems that albino red deer can be seen on Arran, but they are very rare. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to the gentleman, who deserved a more emphatically impressed response than he got.

A golden eagle and a very rare albino red deer within the space of an hour !

Remote though they are, even the Outer Hebrides are not far enough away to escape the far reaching tentacles of European legislation. It seems the quirky, rhomboid shape of the passing place sign has offended the Keepeurs of the Livre de Standards (see Note 1), who have dictated that they must be replaced by square signs, an example of which below.

Locals remain phlegmatic.

Note 1 – No attempt is being made to single out the French for blame, I just can’t do any of the other European languages very well.

Ubiquitous feature of travel in the Western Isles of Scotland. A transient meeting place of generosity, where people wait for oncoming vehicles to pass, or to allow people uninterested in photo opportunities to overtake. Invariably involves a smile, a wave, or a short, polite parp of the horn.

Feels like months, but it’s only really been 2 weeks. Five ferry trips and one uninflatable inflatable bed later and I’m in the pretty little village of Port Ellen on the South West part of Islay, with a sun tan that rivals the one I had after two weeks cycling in Vietnam. The sun’s out and the landscape is dramatic in its intensity of blues, browns, greens, purples (that’ll be the thistles) and yellows. The skies are very picturesque with huge cloud formations which change every minute in the blustery wind. Arran was controlled wildness. Gigha was small and friendly with spectacular white beaches. Islay is so far magnificent in its big open moors stretching miles. I drove past some men hand-cutting the peat for the Laphroaig disillery today, then saw it stacked up in the distillery itself. The next island will be Jura. That’s another kettle of fish. Big jagged mountains and lots of dark looming clouds. Happily, unlike the bed, the tent has taken everything thrown at it so far. Have bought a new one which needs checking out later. Photos at a later date when I’ve got them off the card.