Galashiels always reminds me of Jean, as it is her home town.
I originally met Jean during a drop-in at 219 West Street in Fareham, Hampshire - then a day services centre for people with mental health issues. It was of course her accent that drew my initial attention - a lovely, broad Border drawl.
Jean was not my worker, so we could afford to relate to one another on a different level as long as she worked there; though even if she had been, it would have been a special relationship. All her clients - me included, were routinely addressed as "bonny lad/lass," and all were made to feel special in an individual way.
She was not - and indeed, could not be - one of those workers who came to work wearing a hat bearing their job title. She came as Jean - the Jean that was married to Bill - a chief inspector in the MOD police, and the mother of Paul. They had lived all over the country - moving every few years with Bill's job; and indeed for a while we kept in touch after they left Portsmouth and moved north to Carlisle, where Bill had a posting: based at Longtown, but covering the whole of the north of England beyond the Mersey/Humber estuaries.
Like me, Jean is practically-minded, generous and yet also thrifty, a realist - and a natural rebel - always up for a laugh, especially if it was at the expense of management, or others in authority! She freely admitted that her professional approach had evolved over the years and there had been times when she and her colleagues had thought they were doing the right thing - but in a more enlightened age and with the gift of hindsight, she could see they most certainly were not. But she worked tirelessly, having founded and managed a Portsmouth day centre that broke all the usual rules and conventions about opening hours, and thought nothing of working late into the evening, at weekends and even on Christmas day if there was a need - which there usually was. Likewise, she had suffered her own demons, particularly with ME, and appreciated the need people often have for a 'wee cuddle' more than any other mental health professional I've ever known.
She was, quite simply, a very large part of my recovery process - just by being herself. Even when I felt at my most wretched, I knew I could turn up at the lunch club she ran, and somehow she'd manage to reach inside and soothe my hurt, where nothing or no-one else could - and I'd come away feeling better!
For a time, I visited Jean and Bill at Carlisle, usually on the return leg of my trips north; and on two occasions I was accompanied by other old pals. But as my father's health deteriorated sharply towards the close of 2002 and my visits had to become much more frequent, I usually travelled by air or sleeper train, and could not easily stopover at Carlisle.
By June 2003, when my father passed away and, perhaps more than ever before, I could have done with Jean's cuddles and cheerfulness; their phone number was no longer obtainable, and my cards and letters went unanswered. Last time I saw Jean, she was saying they might just have to make one more move before Bill's retirement, and while that does appear to have taken place, it does not explain why none of the people she kept in touch with ever heard from her again. For years, we have all compared notes, and nobody ever has.
Jean just isn't the sort of person to not get stay touch, no matter how long the absence. While it is possible her ME might have returned and rendered her physically or mentally incapable, no-one has heard from Bill either...
So if anybody knows the whereabouts of Jean and Bill Grainger, originally of Galashiels, who were living at Durdar village, Carlisle in 2002/3; please tell them their auld pals would love to know they're safe and well. And likewise, if you happen to know they're not - then please consider putting a lot of people out of their misery...
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Monday, 18 February 2008
Bordering on the Inaccessible!
The Scottish Borders region is a gem, largely by-passed and undiscovered by all but the most intrepid traveller. Largely devoid of its industrial past, its towns remain surprisingly busy and even prosperous - as is the beautiful, unspoilt countryside surrounding them, dotted with well-kept villages and historical houses, castles and abbeys. Right through the middle runs the mighty River Tweed - rising in the Moffat hills in the west, then flowing through Peebles, Innerleithen, Selkirk, Melrose, Kelso and Coldstream en route to the North Sea at Berwick - forming the actual English border for some of its' course. With the exception of the Teviot, most of its tributaries have the suffix, water, rather than the usual prefix, river...
The area is of course by-passed because of the lack of a decent road network, and the complete absence (since the 1960s) of a rail network. While there is talk of reinstating the latter south from Edinburgh to Tweedbank, between Galashiels and Melrose; and the A7 is signposted as a 'tourist route' to Edinburgh off the M6 near Carlisle and perhaps the A68 is also, from the Newcastle area; even the merest glance at a map reveals so many twists, turns and gradients - that few choose these routes after a lengthy drive from the more populous parts of England.
So you might have thought - given the ongoing absence of any railway link - there would be a decent bus terminal at Galashiels, the main town (as much because of its central position as anything else). Well - think again...
Now, lets take a moment get this into some kind of proper perspective - because when you consider the number of awful bus stations dotted around the country, this really takes some doing: Galashiels wins first prize, in my opinion, of the grottiest, most cramped, least user-friendly, most unfit for purpose and desperately needing replacement bus station - that I have ever come across...
The site is triangular - hemmed in by a town centre by-pass road (with room for a single track railway line on the far side, should the Borders Rail Link project ever come to fruition - that's surely what you call wishful thinking, on the part of the town planners!); a supermarket car park; and Gala Water - one of those rivers that aren't actually called rivers. Evidently, it also gets used as a bus depot these days, and most probably to encourage local youth to vent their frustrations of boredom elsewhere, the whole is fenced in by one of those metal grey, spiked affairs. Likewise, the windows in the single-storey chalet-type building are all covered with sturdy wire mesh...
You're not warming to it really, are you?
There are six stances arranged in a straight line in front of the building - which buses are required to reverse out of in the usual fashion. In itself, that would be fine - if there weren't spare buses parked in every available space - such as in all the corners, and parallel to the northern boundary fence - in what might otherwise be considered the reversing space. Hence most manouvres require multi-point turns, within the tightest of spaces!
Within the building are public toilets - which cost an exhorbitant 30p to enter (hence I usually go elsewhere in the town, for free), a drivers mess room, and a tiny waiting room - just enough space for four seats. The latter is usually closed. Outside is more seating - under cover, but only just! There isn't really any room to queue and pass at the same time - resulting in frequent collisions between would-be travellers. Above each stance is a metal sign which I imagine is supposed to tell you which buses call there - only, unless you happen to have some local knowledge, most of them do nothing of the sort!
Then the best bit - remembering there's no enquiry office of any description - is that there are no timetables. It doesn't even look as though there ever were, as there are no display cases - save for one at the end, which gives details of Munro's Border Courier services - one bus in each direction per day, Monday to Friday, between Peebles and Borders General Hospital, plus another from Eyemouth - that serves different villages on different days of the week. That's it!
So how, pray, are you meant to know which stance to wait at - and for how long - for the mostly 30-minute service to Edinburgh via Stow, or the 30-minute service to Edinburgh via Peebles, or the frequent services to Selkirk, Hawick, Carlisle, and Melrose - running by several different routes? Not to mention the very frequent town services, or the hourly services to Earlston and St Boswells - with their various extensions to Lauder, Oxton, Duns, Berwick, Kelso and Jedburgh; or even the daily National Express service to Wrexham (yes, I did say Wrexham)!
Fortunately, I did know that my number 60 bus departed from the 'via Melrose' stance, and sure enough, our bus emerged from a corner parallel to the building, pulled forward, then back, then forward, then back again - and a total of eleven points later, eventually pulled into the correct bay! What I didn't know was which route it took 'via Melrose' however - and it was just as well I resisted my thought to pick it up from what I thought was it's first stop on the way out of town, as it didn't go that way at all! Instead, we took a pleasant run along the north bank of the Tweed, crossing the river by a single-track arched bridge just east of Tweedbank, before looping through the grounds of the relatively new Borders General Hospital...
Melrose - whose parish is home to some of my earliest traceable ancestors - is a pleasant town indeed. Of all the border abbeys, Melrose's is the most complete, and there's the added attraction of half the former railway station to look at, too! We then passed through the village of Newstead, scarcely fitting through its steep, narrow main street; before emerging on the A6091 just short of Leaderfoot roundabout - named of course, after the famous (former) railway viaduct which crosses the Tweed valley just to the north - at its' confluence with the Leader Water - which gives its name to Lauderdale, and the town of Lauder, of common riding fame...
A few miles up the A68 - now largely built upon the former Berwickshire Railway trackbed; we passed though the attractive village of Earlston - where it is possible to connect with of of Munro's awful vehicles to Edinburgh, Jedburgh or Kelso. If Gala's bus station is the worst-ever, then Munro of Jedburgh's single-deck buses are the worst-ever vehicles - rendering the Borders an even less atractive proposition to would-be daytrippers. They are the usual modern low-floor affairs - inoffensive enough to look at - but boy, that all changes when you try to find a seat you can actually fit into...
Now, these are not busy services. Apart from Edinburgh and Dalkeith, none of the communities they serve have a population much greater than six or seven thousand. So why, oh why, do they feel the need to squeeze in as many of those horrid, hard, narrow seats as they possibly can? I may be quite tall, but my thighs are short in proportion to the rest of my body - and there are just two places in those vehicles I can sit with any semblance of comfort - right at the front, or right at the back! In any other part of the bus, I need an aisle seat - so that I can put one knee out in the aisle itself, and point the other towards the window. There is absolutely no way I can sit forward at all - and when you consider a goor proportion of the passengers using these routes are people younger than I - most of whom are considerably taller; that's nothing sort of totally ridiculous...!
East of Earlston was new territory for me - at least on the west to east axis. I'd been down the A697 north to south road a couple of times in the late 1970s, but apart from that, the former county of Berwickshire had simply proved too difficult to get to.
Note the name - Berwickshire. Always a Scottish county, the town whose name it bears has of course been part of England since 1482 - though a recent local referendum has shown that over 70% of Berwick Upon Tweed's population wants the town to return to Scottish jurisdiction again! Absolutely everybody's talking about it!!
Our bus passed through two of its subsequent administrative centres, and if the most recent - the attractive but tiny, market town of Duns - seems unlikely; that's nothing when compared to Greenlaw! http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/greenlaw/greenlaw/index.html tells the story far more eloquently that I could - and shows the 'town hall' in a rather better state than it now appears - fenced off, boarded up, with weeds growing out of the masonry...
Duns is also terminus of two further bus routes to and from Berwick - and very occasional weekday journeys to places such as Coldstream, and Kelso. Indeed, one of the thrice-daily 34s was awaiting our arrival - giving a connection for Coldingham, Ayton and Eyemouth; and we met one of the 260s travelling in the opposite direction as we passed through the large village of Chirnside, which generated more passengers than everywhere else put together!
The area is of course by-passed because of the lack of a decent road network, and the complete absence (since the 1960s) of a rail network. While there is talk of reinstating the latter south from Edinburgh to Tweedbank, between Galashiels and Melrose; and the A7 is signposted as a 'tourist route' to Edinburgh off the M6 near Carlisle and perhaps the A68 is also, from the Newcastle area; even the merest glance at a map reveals so many twists, turns and gradients - that few choose these routes after a lengthy drive from the more populous parts of England.
So you might have thought - given the ongoing absence of any railway link - there would be a decent bus terminal at Galashiels, the main town (as much because of its central position as anything else). Well - think again...
Now, lets take a moment get this into some kind of proper perspective - because when you consider the number of awful bus stations dotted around the country, this really takes some doing: Galashiels wins first prize, in my opinion, of the grottiest, most cramped, least user-friendly, most unfit for purpose and desperately needing replacement bus station - that I have ever come across...
The site is triangular - hemmed in by a town centre by-pass road (with room for a single track railway line on the far side, should the Borders Rail Link project ever come to fruition - that's surely what you call wishful thinking, on the part of the town planners!); a supermarket car park; and Gala Water - one of those rivers that aren't actually called rivers. Evidently, it also gets used as a bus depot these days, and most probably to encourage local youth to vent their frustrations of boredom elsewhere, the whole is fenced in by one of those metal grey, spiked affairs. Likewise, the windows in the single-storey chalet-type building are all covered with sturdy wire mesh...
You're not warming to it really, are you?
There are six stances arranged in a straight line in front of the building - which buses are required to reverse out of in the usual fashion. In itself, that would be fine - if there weren't spare buses parked in every available space - such as in all the corners, and parallel to the northern boundary fence - in what might otherwise be considered the reversing space. Hence most manouvres require multi-point turns, within the tightest of spaces!
Within the building are public toilets - which cost an exhorbitant 30p to enter (hence I usually go elsewhere in the town, for free), a drivers mess room, and a tiny waiting room - just enough space for four seats. The latter is usually closed. Outside is more seating - under cover, but only just! There isn't really any room to queue and pass at the same time - resulting in frequent collisions between would-be travellers. Above each stance is a metal sign which I imagine is supposed to tell you which buses call there - only, unless you happen to have some local knowledge, most of them do nothing of the sort!
Then the best bit - remembering there's no enquiry office of any description - is that there are no timetables. It doesn't even look as though there ever were, as there are no display cases - save for one at the end, which gives details of Munro's Border Courier services - one bus in each direction per day, Monday to Friday, between Peebles and Borders General Hospital, plus another from Eyemouth - that serves different villages on different days of the week. That's it!
So how, pray, are you meant to know which stance to wait at - and for how long - for the mostly 30-minute service to Edinburgh via Stow, or the 30-minute service to Edinburgh via Peebles, or the frequent services to Selkirk, Hawick, Carlisle, and Melrose - running by several different routes? Not to mention the very frequent town services, or the hourly services to Earlston and St Boswells - with their various extensions to Lauder, Oxton, Duns, Berwick, Kelso and Jedburgh; or even the daily National Express service to Wrexham (yes, I did say Wrexham)!
Fortunately, I did know that my number 60 bus departed from the 'via Melrose' stance, and sure enough, our bus emerged from a corner parallel to the building, pulled forward, then back, then forward, then back again - and a total of eleven points later, eventually pulled into the correct bay! What I didn't know was which route it took 'via Melrose' however - and it was just as well I resisted my thought to pick it up from what I thought was it's first stop on the way out of town, as it didn't go that way at all! Instead, we took a pleasant run along the north bank of the Tweed, crossing the river by a single-track arched bridge just east of Tweedbank, before looping through the grounds of the relatively new Borders General Hospital...
Melrose - whose parish is home to some of my earliest traceable ancestors - is a pleasant town indeed. Of all the border abbeys, Melrose's is the most complete, and there's the added attraction of half the former railway station to look at, too! We then passed through the village of Newstead, scarcely fitting through its steep, narrow main street; before emerging on the A6091 just short of Leaderfoot roundabout - named of course, after the famous (former) railway viaduct which crosses the Tweed valley just to the north - at its' confluence with the Leader Water - which gives its name to Lauderdale, and the town of Lauder, of common riding fame...
A few miles up the A68 - now largely built upon the former Berwickshire Railway trackbed; we passed though the attractive village of Earlston - where it is possible to connect with of of Munro's awful vehicles to Edinburgh, Jedburgh or Kelso. If Gala's bus station is the worst-ever, then Munro of Jedburgh's single-deck buses are the worst-ever vehicles - rendering the Borders an even less atractive proposition to would-be daytrippers. They are the usual modern low-floor affairs - inoffensive enough to look at - but boy, that all changes when you try to find a seat you can actually fit into...
Now, these are not busy services. Apart from Edinburgh and Dalkeith, none of the communities they serve have a population much greater than six or seven thousand. So why, oh why, do they feel the need to squeeze in as many of those horrid, hard, narrow seats as they possibly can? I may be quite tall, but my thighs are short in proportion to the rest of my body - and there are just two places in those vehicles I can sit with any semblance of comfort - right at the front, or right at the back! In any other part of the bus, I need an aisle seat - so that I can put one knee out in the aisle itself, and point the other towards the window. There is absolutely no way I can sit forward at all - and when you consider a goor proportion of the passengers using these routes are people younger than I - most of whom are considerably taller; that's nothing sort of totally ridiculous...!
East of Earlston was new territory for me - at least on the west to east axis. I'd been down the A697 north to south road a couple of times in the late 1970s, but apart from that, the former county of Berwickshire had simply proved too difficult to get to.
Note the name - Berwickshire. Always a Scottish county, the town whose name it bears has of course been part of England since 1482 - though a recent local referendum has shown that over 70% of Berwick Upon Tweed's population wants the town to return to Scottish jurisdiction again! Absolutely everybody's talking about it!!
Our bus passed through two of its subsequent administrative centres, and if the most recent - the attractive but tiny, market town of Duns - seems unlikely; that's nothing when compared to Greenlaw! http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/greenlaw/greenlaw/index.html tells the story far more eloquently that I could - and shows the 'town hall' in a rather better state than it now appears - fenced off, boarded up, with weeds growing out of the masonry...
Duns is also terminus of two further bus routes to and from Berwick - and very occasional weekday journeys to places such as Coldstream, and Kelso. Indeed, one of the thrice-daily 34s was awaiting our arrival - giving a connection for Coldingham, Ayton and Eyemouth; and we met one of the 260s travelling in the opposite direction as we passed through the large village of Chirnside, which generated more passengers than everywhere else put together!
I'd never stopped in Berwick Upon Tweed before, but I shall certainly return - what a beautiful town! Built on quite a steep hill, the lower part is fortified against the once frequent English/Scottish raids and indeed, much of the enormous ramparts are walkable. Traffic on the main street also passes through a town gate, which is a rare feature indeed this far north. At the foot of the busy, but relatively uninspiring shopping area is the spired town hall - with roads passing on all sides; and below that are numerous narrow, winding roads leading to either the old town bridge or harbour - both of which are still in use. Many of the buildings are Georgian and pastel-painted - always a feature I've appreicated, as it really does brighten up what would otherwise be a fairly drab scene. There are also riverside walks at various levels, not to mention sandy coves and very Scottish-looking golf links!
Indeed, there are Scottish accents everywhere. The banks are Scottish, people are purchasing their goods with Scottish banknotes, they attend Scottish churches and Scottish league football matches - English voices seem very much in a minority. So perhaps it is little wonder the locals are voting to return to Her Majesty's northern kingdom, once more.
On the down side, I couldn't find Chapel Street. The main bus stops in Golden Square - not so much a square as a part of the road leading to the Royal Tweed Bridge (that's the concrete one built in the late 1920s) said in their timetable cases that Eyemouth & Edinburgh buses left from Chapel Street - but gave no indication of how to get there; and neither did any of the tourist town trail signs reveal where Chapel Street might be. So I walked up to the top of the hill, near the railway station (yes - it does have one, being on the main line south; and thinking of it, if they did restore Berwick Borough to its former Scottish county, the Scottish Borders council area would no longer be bereft of a railway station - that'd be much cheaper than reopening the line to Tweedbank! I do hope nobody thinks of that...), and caught my next bus there...
Eyemouth is in some respects a smaller version of Berwick - vaguely reminiscent of West Cowes and Lynmouth too - I guess because of its' slightly north-easterly facing aspect, and the fact that its' docks straddle the mouth of a river. As a mark of respect to its tragic history of losing large numbers of fishermen to rough seas, I had a piece of fish from the chippie - with most of the batter removed, as per my eating regime - and lovely it was too. Then I walked along the stunning cliff-top coastal path as far as beautiful Coldingham Bay, and into historic Coldingham village, where I caught the last 253 of the day home to Edinburgh.
So of Berwick and Berwickshire I can only say, make the effort to go there and spend some time there - you won't be disappointed! As for me, I shall be back...
Friday, 15 February 2008
Diet? What diet??
Yesterday, I broke my new eating plan - there are times when only some serious carbohydrate intake hits the spot!
I'm not beating myself up about it though. I've so far lost 10lbs in three weeks after all. Rome wasn't built in a day...
I'm not beating myself up about it though. I've so far lost 10lbs in three weeks after all. Rome wasn't built in a day...
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Takin' over a new asylum!
Having developed and for several years managed a unique service user involvement group within Fareham & Gosport's adult mental health community, I have been very pleased in recent weeks to have been offered opportunities to transfer these skills and experience to the development of service user initiatives within Edinburgh's employability sector.
This morning, I attended a meeting - and gave a short presentation about my journey, which I've entitled, Institution to Employment, within a large gathering of (mostly) voluntary sector agencies. The feedback and support I received was very positive indeed - and without too much effort, I succeeded in getting two major items on the agenda, as well as making a significant impression for the need for a complete overhaul of the values, beliefs and practices widely held within the Scottish employability sector, in relation to service users and service user involvement!
Tomorrow, I am due to co-present at another, much larger conference, which will include a number of statutory sector agents and service commissioners. As a number of the people present today will also be there, it seems likely that even greater weight could be added to my proposals - which incidentally, have already attracted suggested funding resources.
So I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself right now!!
This morning, I attended a meeting - and gave a short presentation about my journey, which I've entitled, Institution to Employment, within a large gathering of (mostly) voluntary sector agencies. The feedback and support I received was very positive indeed - and without too much effort, I succeeded in getting two major items on the agenda, as well as making a significant impression for the need for a complete overhaul of the values, beliefs and practices widely held within the Scottish employability sector, in relation to service users and service user involvement!
Tomorrow, I am due to co-present at another, much larger conference, which will include a number of statutory sector agents and service commissioners. As a number of the people present today will also be there, it seems likely that even greater weight could be added to my proposals - which incidentally, have already attracted suggested funding resources.
So I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself right now!!
Monday, 11 February 2008
Understanding youth crime...
I spent most of yesterday afternoon responding to one of those internet forum threads, which was on the subject of coming down heavy on young people who get into trouble, and ressurecting the old borstal system.
Now don't get me wrong - I'm very much of the opinion that there are currently far too few boundaries available to young people in this country, and something clearly needs to be done about that sooner rather than later. Unlike a lot of people - who seem to think that the existence of boundaries for young people will help protect their interests; I'm very much of the opinion that the existence of boundaries helps young people's interests...
The fact is, human nature has a lot to answer for. As small children, most of us will have learned the hard way why our mothers told us not to do or touch a particular thing - in one way or another, it hurt! But before we experienced hurt, we had no way of understanding why it was such a bad thing, to be avoided at all costs - or why our mothers (or whoever) didn't want us to experience hurt. There are some things in life we just have to try, to satisfy ourselves whether they really are or are not a good idea!
Of course, the first crucial point is, hurt need not be physical. Boundaries need not be physical. Taking an eye for an eye is never justified! Take something the offender values by all means and in the case of a younger person, still on his or her journey of learning what is and is not acceptable behaviour to society, take something they value for a period of time - but return it, later. Provide them with a means of learning that in order to have what they value all the time, there are certain boundaries that they must not cross, because if they do, they'll be deprived of something they value, for a while - and actually, that hurts...
The second crucial point is this: don't automatically assume that their values are the same as your own! Don't reach for a leather belt or willow cane and aim for their backsides - they might not like it very much, but it won't necessarily hurt them as much as it hurts you. And don't just lock them up either - don't assume their experiences of life are the same as your own!!
I'm going to reproduce here what I wrote yesterday, to explain why:
I was one of the last people in Scotland ever to be sentenced to borstal training in November 1981 - the system was phased out a few months later. So for the benefit of those not so much in the know, let's define exactly what the old borstal systems were. I say systems, because they differed between England & Scotland.
From what I understand, the English system was something vaguely reminiscent to what you might now call a boot camp - early rising, early to bed, cold showers, lots of PT and drilling and fairly menial work in between - it lasted six months, and you could be sentenced to it up to three times. I don't think there was any intermediate sentence between borstal and approved schools.
In my view, the Scottish system was better thought out. At that time we had what were known as 'list D schools', which were normally residential units for young teenagers who'd broken the law; but for those aged 16 or 17, there were detention centres where the approach was one of short, sharp, shock: six weeks of what most people would consider hell, basically.
The detention centres were an alternative sentence however, as not all borstal boys (and I don't think any borstal girls) went there - though it has to be said, the majority did - more of which in a minute. Borstal was a single-sentence option in Scotland, with a minimum tarriff of nine months - extendable by the prison governor up to a maximum of two years, depending on the behaviour of the inmate during his/her sentence. Any time previously spent on remand was NOT deducted...
All boys spent their first six weeks in the assessment wing at Polmont (which was officially called HMI Brightons), near Falkirk - a closed, traditional Victorian-style prison hall with a couple of dormitories on the ground floor, but mostly single cells around upper galleries, known there as 'flats'. (By the time I was in the system, the former girls' borstal at Greenock had closed, and the few female borstal trainees that existed were housed in a wing of the relatively new Cornton Vale women's prison, at Stirling). The purpose of the assessment centre was to push inmates as far as possible, to discover where their tolerance limits lay (they didn't have to push me very hard - I was being escorted to the cell block within ten minutes of my arrival; as a result of which I inadvertantly earned myself a great deal of respect amongst the other boys!!). It was as I think a lot of us would imagine borstal to be - early mornings, cold showers, PT three times a day, drill, parades, scrubbing floors on hands and knees, cleaning dirty toilets - and a great deal of rough justice and verbal abuse by staff.
At the end of the assessment period, you were interviewed by your wing governor and a panel of others (medics, social workers, officers and official prison visitors) and considered for one of three options. Probably around 40% of boys (those who'd survived the harsh conditions of the past six weeks relatively unscathed, not been on report for anything, and just accepted their lots), were sent to one of the two open borstals that existed at the time - Castle Huntly, near Dundee, or Noranside, up in the Angus glens. There they did maintenance or catering work, or agricultural or forestry labouring, to pass their days...
The lion's share of the others (including yours truly) were sent to one of the other wings at Polmont, which was a secure institution - and employed in either the joiners or welders workshops, the kitchens, or on one of the maintenance teams. A very small number - just two or three individuals every couple of months - was sent to Carrick House in the grounds of Polmont. This was what might now be known as the Muppet Wing, or something similar - a very small (capacity around 10) 'house' with a very high staff ratio including females (at that time, apart from wing Matrons, who were responsible for catering and laundry arrangements, screws were invariably male in male prisons) - and it was run on something akin to a therapeutic model, with rewards for good behaviour and so on.
Wherever you ended up in the system though, you were expected to perform a number of regular tasks, including pristine maintenance of your appearance, that of your room and its contents - all of which were strictly monitored and frequently inspected, both by wing officers and the governor. This involved regular scrubbing, washing and polishing of both floor surfaces and boots - and if you got the slightest mark on either, you had to start all over again. The items you were allowed in your room were strictly controlled, and had to be arranged in a certain way - as did your bedding and furnishings. You had to address the officers (who did not wear uniform - which I suspect was a deliberate ploy to make inmates feel even less human and individual) as 'Sir' at all times, and use only your prison number and surname to describe yourself.
Work ran from about 7.30am until 4.30pm with breaks for lunch and tea; recreation was limited to an hour and a half on weekday evenings, and on Saturday afternoons unless you had a visit (visits were once a month); and apart from Sunday morning church attendance - which wasn't compulsory, but most boys opted to go, if only to avoid the alternative - you spent the rest of your time in the solitary confinement of your room.
Everyone wore prison uniform at all times - at the start of your sentence you were issued with a pair of rough, itchy black serge trousers and matching jacket - which you kept as best, as well as a pair of work shoes and a pair of 'soft' shoes; and each week you were issued with two shirts, two vests, two pairs of underpants, a pair of homemade denim jeans and a matching jacket for work; and you got clean socks every other weekday. For the first five months, everyone wore red striped shirts, but at that stage (and every subsequent month thereafter) you were assessed for promotion to 'your shirt', which meant you wore blue stripes instead - but this could be and frequently was revoked for inappropriate behaviour. Blue shirts had more privileges, better jobs, were allowed outside (but still within the perimeter fence) to play football in summer months, and got higher wages for their work (something like £2.95 a week, instead of the £2.72 the red shirts got), which could be spent on sweets, tobacco and toiletries, or saved up for release - which was always four months after they'd been awarded their shirt - assuming they kept their noses out of trouble.
As you can probably tell, borstal made a deep impression on me. I went in an immature boy and emerged a young man on the road towards some kind of recovery - but I have to say, I was the exception. With the greatest of respect, I don't honestly believe that any of you who have not had a connection with the youth offender system at some point in your lives could possibly even begin to appreciate the extent of what I'm about to say - however much you may feel you want to...
Almost all young offenders are career-offenders. Out of the dozens of inmates I came into contact with, I was the only one who had never had dealings with any part of the penal system before. I was the only one I can recall who had attended a normal school, rather than a residential, bad-boys' institution. And what's more - I had attended it too; whereas left to their own devices, most of them had been perpetual truants!
I was also the only one with a stable family background. Not only were my parents married to each other, but neither had ever strayed outside that relationship. Both went out to work to ensure we had a comfortable style of living. They frowned upon people who squandered their money on alcoholic drink, tobacco and adult entertainments, leaving their kids wanting - they'd both had such experiences as children themselves, and were determined to ensure that I did not; and, despite everything that had happenned, they always stood by me and did their best for me. Also, I was the only member of my family ever to have been in jail!
I was also in quite a small minority of inmates that could actually read and write; and think a stage or two ahead - the vast majority were semi-illiterate, and from broken or abusive homes, mostly eeking out a meagre existence on some run-down estate in Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Dundee - or one of the grim, former industrial towns such as Motherwell, Wishaw, or Coatbridge. All the men folk they'd ever known spent their lives in and out of prison - while their mothers, aunts and sisters spent all their weekends visiting different husbands, fathers, brothers and sons in different jails! Prison was as much a part of those families' lives as chapel is a part of the life of monks and nuns - I kid you not - I use no form of exaggeration at all...
Employment wasn't so much a swear word, as just something that only other people seemed to have access to. None of them had ever known it - not in living memory anyway; nor had any of the others they were in regular contact with. In most of these places, even the official unemployment figures were between 15-25% at the time - so with the wrong address, any sort of record, and without any decent sort of education, they'd not a hope in hell - and they knew it. Poverty was a way of life, as was drinking, as was crime...
At breaktimes, we'd sit round in large circles, and there was just two lines of conversation (well, three when I was around actually, as I'd decided to come out - but that's another matter). Girlfriends and future plans. All told in a very macho, trying to outdo and impress each other sort of way...!
The 'what I'm going to do when I get released' conversations were very interesting. Invariably they included consuming copious amounts of alcohol, doing unspeakable things with their birds and - nine times out of ten - ending up in Glenochil (Young Offenders Institution - the next step on the prison system ladder) - usually within about a fortnight.
Honestly - that went for almost everybody there - they had ambitions lasting two weeks at best. In practice, I'd imagine the majority of them would have struggled to make it past their first drinking binge, to be perfectly honest...
Life on the outside was like a fairground ride to them - something you went on occasionally, for a quick thrill.
One or two of them even openly described how they looked forward to what seemed like the inevitability of an eventual life-sentence - because then they'd be king of their own bits of the castle, and have rights to such luxuries as tv sets in their cells.
Have you any idea just how sad that is, folks? Can you even put it into words? These were 17 and 18-year olds, whose entire experience of life suggested that the best they could expect from life was the occasional shag and drinking binge between prison sentences! Every last one of their role models had gone that way - every single one; and nobody they'd ever known lived in anything other that abject poverty - relieved only by the proceeds of crime!
Not one person in their lives had ever taken the trouble to try to get to know them as the individuals they were. Everybody related to the roles they played, or to the labels they'd received - thief, burglar, drunkard, layabout, irritating little bastard. They'd not have known love if it had hit them in the face - at best, they were an inconvenience that had once been cute kids, that their mothers visited grudgingly, out of a sense of duty. Most of them had never experienced any of the good things in life - never been outside of the city, or away on holiday. They had to conform to the standards of their families and neighbourhoods too - for any attempt to even consider alternatives resulted in bullying, beating and absolute ostracisation from the only communities they ever knew, or felt any sense of belonging to.
Is the penny dropping for you yet? Yes, you're right - the reason these guys keep offending and getting themselves locked up is because jail offers them a means of escape from this awful world! No matter how bad conditions are inside, at least they know at the end of the day there will always be somebody to talk to, who won't judge them, and who will relate to them as the individuals each of them is! There is a ready source of friends, of sporting chums and rivals - which helps a lot if the regime is tough, as they chivvy each other along by ridiculing those of their number that can't make it!
Prison is the only place in the world where they can expect to have some kind of work to occupy their days - and give them a sense of place, and belonging! They don't have to worry where their next meal is coming from, or the rent money; and they know they'll have a warm bed to sleep in! By making jail their home - they do get 'holidays' - those occasional, short periods they spend outside. It gives them something to look forward to, somthing to talk about, something to work towards...
To those of you who advocate locking up youth offenders, can I just ask - how much of this picture I've been painting, of such people's lives, were you aware of? Had you any inkling at all that the world we live in has such huge inequalities - even within our own country? Can you honestly say you knew that, for many youngsters, it is such a fucking diabolical place where all you get is hurt, fucked up, shit all over and then hurt, fucked up and shit on again and again - that actually, they'd rather spend their lives in jail where at least there are some positive certainties? And if not - do you still think as a nation, we should be punishing those individuals for what can only be their best efforts to express the inexpressible hatred and contempt for a society that constantly turns a blind eye to their awful plights - or are you thinking that the real problem - that is the root cause of it all - might just lie outside of the prison gates - and maybe we should be making a damn sight more effort to make that a better place to be?
I rest my case. Thanks for reading.
I fear there are far too many people in the world who don't have the faintest clue what they're talking about, and expousing opinions about. I just pray that by sharing a little of my story, I might persuade a few of them to think again.
Now don't get me wrong - I'm very much of the opinion that there are currently far too few boundaries available to young people in this country, and something clearly needs to be done about that sooner rather than later. Unlike a lot of people - who seem to think that the existence of boundaries for young people will help protect their interests; I'm very much of the opinion that the existence of boundaries helps young people's interests...
The fact is, human nature has a lot to answer for. As small children, most of us will have learned the hard way why our mothers told us not to do or touch a particular thing - in one way or another, it hurt! But before we experienced hurt, we had no way of understanding why it was such a bad thing, to be avoided at all costs - or why our mothers (or whoever) didn't want us to experience hurt. There are some things in life we just have to try, to satisfy ourselves whether they really are or are not a good idea!
Of course, the first crucial point is, hurt need not be physical. Boundaries need not be physical. Taking an eye for an eye is never justified! Take something the offender values by all means and in the case of a younger person, still on his or her journey of learning what is and is not acceptable behaviour to society, take something they value for a period of time - but return it, later. Provide them with a means of learning that in order to have what they value all the time, there are certain boundaries that they must not cross, because if they do, they'll be deprived of something they value, for a while - and actually, that hurts...
The second crucial point is this: don't automatically assume that their values are the same as your own! Don't reach for a leather belt or willow cane and aim for their backsides - they might not like it very much, but it won't necessarily hurt them as much as it hurts you. And don't just lock them up either - don't assume their experiences of life are the same as your own!!
I'm going to reproduce here what I wrote yesterday, to explain why:
I was one of the last people in Scotland ever to be sentenced to borstal training in November 1981 - the system was phased out a few months later. So for the benefit of those not so much in the know, let's define exactly what the old borstal systems were. I say systems, because they differed between England & Scotland.
From what I understand, the English system was something vaguely reminiscent to what you might now call a boot camp - early rising, early to bed, cold showers, lots of PT and drilling and fairly menial work in between - it lasted six months, and you could be sentenced to it up to three times. I don't think there was any intermediate sentence between borstal and approved schools.
In my view, the Scottish system was better thought out. At that time we had what were known as 'list D schools', which were normally residential units for young teenagers who'd broken the law; but for those aged 16 or 17, there were detention centres where the approach was one of short, sharp, shock: six weeks of what most people would consider hell, basically.
The detention centres were an alternative sentence however, as not all borstal boys (and I don't think any borstal girls) went there - though it has to be said, the majority did - more of which in a minute. Borstal was a single-sentence option in Scotland, with a minimum tarriff of nine months - extendable by the prison governor up to a maximum of two years, depending on the behaviour of the inmate during his/her sentence. Any time previously spent on remand was NOT deducted...
All boys spent their first six weeks in the assessment wing at Polmont (which was officially called HMI Brightons), near Falkirk - a closed, traditional Victorian-style prison hall with a couple of dormitories on the ground floor, but mostly single cells around upper galleries, known there as 'flats'. (By the time I was in the system, the former girls' borstal at Greenock had closed, and the few female borstal trainees that existed were housed in a wing of the relatively new Cornton Vale women's prison, at Stirling). The purpose of the assessment centre was to push inmates as far as possible, to discover where their tolerance limits lay (they didn't have to push me very hard - I was being escorted to the cell block within ten minutes of my arrival; as a result of which I inadvertantly earned myself a great deal of respect amongst the other boys!!). It was as I think a lot of us would imagine borstal to be - early mornings, cold showers, PT three times a day, drill, parades, scrubbing floors on hands and knees, cleaning dirty toilets - and a great deal of rough justice and verbal abuse by staff.
At the end of the assessment period, you were interviewed by your wing governor and a panel of others (medics, social workers, officers and official prison visitors) and considered for one of three options. Probably around 40% of boys (those who'd survived the harsh conditions of the past six weeks relatively unscathed, not been on report for anything, and just accepted their lots), were sent to one of the two open borstals that existed at the time - Castle Huntly, near Dundee, or Noranside, up in the Angus glens. There they did maintenance or catering work, or agricultural or forestry labouring, to pass their days...
The lion's share of the others (including yours truly) were sent to one of the other wings at Polmont, which was a secure institution - and employed in either the joiners or welders workshops, the kitchens, or on one of the maintenance teams. A very small number - just two or three individuals every couple of months - was sent to Carrick House in the grounds of Polmont. This was what might now be known as the Muppet Wing, or something similar - a very small (capacity around 10) 'house' with a very high staff ratio including females (at that time, apart from wing Matrons, who were responsible for catering and laundry arrangements, screws were invariably male in male prisons) - and it was run on something akin to a therapeutic model, with rewards for good behaviour and so on.
Wherever you ended up in the system though, you were expected to perform a number of regular tasks, including pristine maintenance of your appearance, that of your room and its contents - all of which were strictly monitored and frequently inspected, both by wing officers and the governor. This involved regular scrubbing, washing and polishing of both floor surfaces and boots - and if you got the slightest mark on either, you had to start all over again. The items you were allowed in your room were strictly controlled, and had to be arranged in a certain way - as did your bedding and furnishings. You had to address the officers (who did not wear uniform - which I suspect was a deliberate ploy to make inmates feel even less human and individual) as 'Sir' at all times, and use only your prison number and surname to describe yourself.
Work ran from about 7.30am until 4.30pm with breaks for lunch and tea; recreation was limited to an hour and a half on weekday evenings, and on Saturday afternoons unless you had a visit (visits were once a month); and apart from Sunday morning church attendance - which wasn't compulsory, but most boys opted to go, if only to avoid the alternative - you spent the rest of your time in the solitary confinement of your room.
Everyone wore prison uniform at all times - at the start of your sentence you were issued with a pair of rough, itchy black serge trousers and matching jacket - which you kept as best, as well as a pair of work shoes and a pair of 'soft' shoes; and each week you were issued with two shirts, two vests, two pairs of underpants, a pair of homemade denim jeans and a matching jacket for work; and you got clean socks every other weekday. For the first five months, everyone wore red striped shirts, but at that stage (and every subsequent month thereafter) you were assessed for promotion to 'your shirt', which meant you wore blue stripes instead - but this could be and frequently was revoked for inappropriate behaviour. Blue shirts had more privileges, better jobs, were allowed outside (but still within the perimeter fence) to play football in summer months, and got higher wages for their work (something like £2.95 a week, instead of the £2.72 the red shirts got), which could be spent on sweets, tobacco and toiletries, or saved up for release - which was always four months after they'd been awarded their shirt - assuming they kept their noses out of trouble.
As you can probably tell, borstal made a deep impression on me. I went in an immature boy and emerged a young man on the road towards some kind of recovery - but I have to say, I was the exception. With the greatest of respect, I don't honestly believe that any of you who have not had a connection with the youth offender system at some point in your lives could possibly even begin to appreciate the extent of what I'm about to say - however much you may feel you want to...
Almost all young offenders are career-offenders. Out of the dozens of inmates I came into contact with, I was the only one who had never had dealings with any part of the penal system before. I was the only one I can recall who had attended a normal school, rather than a residential, bad-boys' institution. And what's more - I had attended it too; whereas left to their own devices, most of them had been perpetual truants!
I was also the only one with a stable family background. Not only were my parents married to each other, but neither had ever strayed outside that relationship. Both went out to work to ensure we had a comfortable style of living. They frowned upon people who squandered their money on alcoholic drink, tobacco and adult entertainments, leaving their kids wanting - they'd both had such experiences as children themselves, and were determined to ensure that I did not; and, despite everything that had happenned, they always stood by me and did their best for me. Also, I was the only member of my family ever to have been in jail!
I was also in quite a small minority of inmates that could actually read and write; and think a stage or two ahead - the vast majority were semi-illiterate, and from broken or abusive homes, mostly eeking out a meagre existence on some run-down estate in Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Dundee - or one of the grim, former industrial towns such as Motherwell, Wishaw, or Coatbridge. All the men folk they'd ever known spent their lives in and out of prison - while their mothers, aunts and sisters spent all their weekends visiting different husbands, fathers, brothers and sons in different jails! Prison was as much a part of those families' lives as chapel is a part of the life of monks and nuns - I kid you not - I use no form of exaggeration at all...
Employment wasn't so much a swear word, as just something that only other people seemed to have access to. None of them had ever known it - not in living memory anyway; nor had any of the others they were in regular contact with. In most of these places, even the official unemployment figures were between 15-25% at the time - so with the wrong address, any sort of record, and without any decent sort of education, they'd not a hope in hell - and they knew it. Poverty was a way of life, as was drinking, as was crime...
At breaktimes, we'd sit round in large circles, and there was just two lines of conversation (well, three when I was around actually, as I'd decided to come out - but that's another matter). Girlfriends and future plans. All told in a very macho, trying to outdo and impress each other sort of way...!
The 'what I'm going to do when I get released' conversations were very interesting. Invariably they included consuming copious amounts of alcohol, doing unspeakable things with their birds and - nine times out of ten - ending up in Glenochil (Young Offenders Institution - the next step on the prison system ladder) - usually within about a fortnight.
Honestly - that went for almost everybody there - they had ambitions lasting two weeks at best. In practice, I'd imagine the majority of them would have struggled to make it past their first drinking binge, to be perfectly honest...
Life on the outside was like a fairground ride to them - something you went on occasionally, for a quick thrill.
One or two of them even openly described how they looked forward to what seemed like the inevitability of an eventual life-sentence - because then they'd be king of their own bits of the castle, and have rights to such luxuries as tv sets in their cells.
Have you any idea just how sad that is, folks? Can you even put it into words? These were 17 and 18-year olds, whose entire experience of life suggested that the best they could expect from life was the occasional shag and drinking binge between prison sentences! Every last one of their role models had gone that way - every single one; and nobody they'd ever known lived in anything other that abject poverty - relieved only by the proceeds of crime!
Not one person in their lives had ever taken the trouble to try to get to know them as the individuals they were. Everybody related to the roles they played, or to the labels they'd received - thief, burglar, drunkard, layabout, irritating little bastard. They'd not have known love if it had hit them in the face - at best, they were an inconvenience that had once been cute kids, that their mothers visited grudgingly, out of a sense of duty. Most of them had never experienced any of the good things in life - never been outside of the city, or away on holiday. They had to conform to the standards of their families and neighbourhoods too - for any attempt to even consider alternatives resulted in bullying, beating and absolute ostracisation from the only communities they ever knew, or felt any sense of belonging to.
Is the penny dropping for you yet? Yes, you're right - the reason these guys keep offending and getting themselves locked up is because jail offers them a means of escape from this awful world! No matter how bad conditions are inside, at least they know at the end of the day there will always be somebody to talk to, who won't judge them, and who will relate to them as the individuals each of them is! There is a ready source of friends, of sporting chums and rivals - which helps a lot if the regime is tough, as they chivvy each other along by ridiculing those of their number that can't make it!
Prison is the only place in the world where they can expect to have some kind of work to occupy their days - and give them a sense of place, and belonging! They don't have to worry where their next meal is coming from, or the rent money; and they know they'll have a warm bed to sleep in! By making jail their home - they do get 'holidays' - those occasional, short periods they spend outside. It gives them something to look forward to, somthing to talk about, something to work towards...
To those of you who advocate locking up youth offenders, can I just ask - how much of this picture I've been painting, of such people's lives, were you aware of? Had you any inkling at all that the world we live in has such huge inequalities - even within our own country? Can you honestly say you knew that, for many youngsters, it is such a fucking diabolical place where all you get is hurt, fucked up, shit all over and then hurt, fucked up and shit on again and again - that actually, they'd rather spend their lives in jail where at least there are some positive certainties? And if not - do you still think as a nation, we should be punishing those individuals for what can only be their best efforts to express the inexpressible hatred and contempt for a society that constantly turns a blind eye to their awful plights - or are you thinking that the real problem - that is the root cause of it all - might just lie outside of the prison gates - and maybe we should be making a damn sight more effort to make that a better place to be?
I rest my case. Thanks for reading.
I fear there are far too many people in the world who don't have the faintest clue what they're talking about, and expousing opinions about. I just pray that by sharing a little of my story, I might persuade a few of them to think again.
Sunday, 10 February 2008
And come to think of it...
Today would have been my parents' 46th wedding anniversary.
Ten years ago there was no reason to suppose they'd not be in the running for breaking marriage records - they'd both married young - she was 19 and he was 21; and I was already having thoughts about Golden Wedding presents - as I'd not had the means to offer much at their Silver event.
That they might just scrape past 41 years together before one of them passed away was completely unthinkable...
Please spare a prayer for my mother - who has probably had quite a bad night, and will have another tonight - she doesn't sleep well at the best of times. Thank-you.
Ten years ago there was no reason to suppose they'd not be in the running for breaking marriage records - they'd both married young - she was 19 and he was 21; and I was already having thoughts about Golden Wedding presents - as I'd not had the means to offer much at their Silver event.
That they might just scrape past 41 years together before one of them passed away was completely unthinkable...
Please spare a prayer for my mother - who has probably had quite a bad night, and will have another tonight - she doesn't sleep well at the best of times. Thank-you.
Two very special people
I had visitors yesterday - my dear friends John and Mary Coard, from Gosport.
Like myself, Mary is a native Scot, and loves being here. Unlike me, she's never had many opportunities to explore and get to know many places in Scotland...
She describes a childhood of almost unimaginable poverty, in Cowdenbeath, Fife, in the 1940s. Hers was one of the poorest families in town: they never had money to do anything or go anywhere, and highlight of their week was to go and get a plateful of hot potatoes and peas from the nearby Salvation Army hall every Saturday morning.
Perhaps because of this, Mary values her family higher than anything else. John, and Englishman, was in the Navy and stationed at nearby Rosyth when they met - which explains how they came to settle in Gosport; and they remain there to be close to their only daughter and her husband, taking the view that, "if God sees fit to give us a beautiful child, then it's our responsibility to look after her and put her above all other considerations." If it wasn't for this particularly strong devotion, they'd move back to Scotland tomorrow...
They've been here three times in the last three months - but the first two were flying visits for family events - this is their first holiday here for more than a year. But there's still precious little time for exploring - amidst the endless round of visiting family members and laying flowers on the graves of those now departed. So it really was quite something that they managed to take some time out alone to come and visit me in Edinburgh!
Fortunately, Edinburgh looked its' best for them, as it was a mild, clear and sunny day. But where do you start with a couple who've never even set eyes upon the Royal Mile, or any of its' attractions? So we went firstly for a pot of tea at one of my favourite cafes - the one inside the Scottish National Portrait Gallery in Queen Street, conveniently just around the corner from the bus station, where I went to meet them. Honestly! Before we'd even got throught the door, the two of them were gasping at the wall tableaux in the entrance hall, depicting all the famous Scottish characters over the ages, as if they were inside some never before discovered Egyptian tomb!! They are a joyful lesson to be with, as I've breezed past these paintings many times without even affording them a second glance...!
And the tea - that was the next thing. You would never believe that a perfectly ordinary pot of tea could possibly offer so much joy. Now, admittedly, one of the reasons I like that cafe is because you do get real - that is to say loose tea, that's not bound up in cheap soggy bags; and to me, that kind of thing adds to the pleasure of taking tea in a cafe - as do the accompanying tea strainers and of course real milk - none of those horrid little carton affairs - and things like big picture windows that allow natural light to flood through, and an aspidistra or three. But oh, it was just so lovely - she was thinking of going back to using real tea at home anyway - and this just settled it, she was definitely going to do it now - as everytime they had tea it would remind them of this place... And as for the scones and cakes - well, had it not been for my diet, I expect we'd still have been in there scoffing at closing time!
My next suggestion was to go on one of the open top city tours - we could always sit downstairs if its too cold - though some of the buses are covered at the front upstairs, I added in a helpful tone. Well - I don't get the impression it would have mattered if we'd had to stand in open cattle trucks, such was their eagerness to get there - no sooner had we seen such a vehicle in service as we approached Princes Street from St Andrew Square, John was worrying that the bus stop adjacent to it (which in any case it would not serve) was closed due to road works... As it happened we got the last three seats on the top deck of a guided tour - Mary insisting I sat with John while she sat some distance behind.
Their silence said it all - the two of them were just completely overwhelmed. Now, don't get me wrong, Edinburgh's tourist circuit is fascinating indeed, and there is something to look at in every direction - but, talk about children in sweetie shops!
Although we had all-day tickets, they'd not arrived until 11am, they'd arranged to meet Mary's sister back at the Park & Ride in Fife at 4pm, and we'd still not had lunch - so we just did one complete circuit without using the jump on-jump off facility. Practically in tears, all Mary could manage was, "Well, I'm definitely doing this again next time we're here - and we'll make sure we're here early, so we have all day and can get off at some of those places (that's the Anglicised version, by the way - as those of you who know here will realise, she has quite a broad Scots tongue!)
The tour guide's final comments had been about Jenners department store - so it was off to their restaurant now, for lunch. Again, this took some time to achieve because they just wanted to stop and marvel at every detail in the ceiling plasterwork, the door handles and big carved lions on the stair bannisters - and once they'd noticed the traditional galleried hall - well that was it! For the first time, I broke my new eating plan and had roast pork on a "green day," as there wasn't a huge choice - though I did think afterwards I could have asked for some of the roast vegetables that were sat next to the joint that I'd assumed must just be for display purposes when I'd not been offered any of them. And we'd a lovely scone too, for afters! This probably isn't the best place in town to eat, but it is reasonably quick if time's at a premium - and there are lovely views out over the Scott Mounment, and towards Arthur's Seat beyond.
Every department we walked through produced the same sort of 'wow!' reactions. Making one or two small purchases in the Scottish gifts department, she quite honestly declared she could spend all week in there - not to mention a small fortune too. And as for the lighting department - I think they seriously thought they'd just died and gone to heaven, at that point...
We ended our time together with a stroll along Princes Street - but not before John noticed the live lingerie fashion show in the corner window - complete with a large crowd of men taking photographs! Almost in a state of clinical shock, Mary stood between John and the window and declared, "I would be absolutely mortified - how can they possibly stand there wearing next to no clothes with all these lads watching, cheering and taking photographs? Where's their pride...?"
Last time I parted with John and Mary, she and I both cried. It was at Southampton Airport, where they'd dropped me early in the morning of Saturday 10th March last year - the day I moved back to Scotland. Yesterday, we had quite a struggle to avoid a repeat performance...
Fighting back the tears, Mary swallowed hard and said, "I know we're not supposed to envy - but I'll admit, I do envy you for where you live and for the life you have. John's life won't be worth living for the next few weeks - until I settle down again."
I'm not sure what it is about those two, or me, that makes us so close. It's funny how, in life, you do encounter people from time to time that you just can't see enough of. I think for me, they're all that I'd have liked my parents to be - had there been any choice in the matter. Don't get me wrong - my parents have loved and related to me in their own ways, indeed, my mother still does - and I don't wish to draw any comparisons; but it is so lovely and so refreshing to spend some good quality time with people of my parents' generation who actually share my interests and in particular, share my eye for small detail, express the pleasure they derive from them and even converse about it all.
I'm afraid I never really had such common interests with my parents, and while I must say my mother does try hard to not have me trudge round Marks & Spencer's and listen to her moaning about what they haven't got every time she visits - we invariably end up spending at least part of our time together doing just that; and while I try to think of it as a service to her, I'm afraid it is a chore, and I could hardly describe it as the kind of pleasure that John & Mary's company is...
I guess it's a question of attitude to life really - and as I'm certain my mother would point out, there's no fun in anything when you're on your own. She reckons its different for people like me of course - because I've always been on my own. I'm not so sure about that - though as I can at least crawl out of my lonely shell and experience real pleasure in the company of others, maybe she's right.
Methinks a 'thank-you for visiting me card' is in order for John & Mary. That'll really get the waterworks flowing right enough - but crying's cathartic too. I really wanted to sit down and howl after they'd gone yesterday - and I might yet do so...
Like myself, Mary is a native Scot, and loves being here. Unlike me, she's never had many opportunities to explore and get to know many places in Scotland...
She describes a childhood of almost unimaginable poverty, in Cowdenbeath, Fife, in the 1940s. Hers was one of the poorest families in town: they never had money to do anything or go anywhere, and highlight of their week was to go and get a plateful of hot potatoes and peas from the nearby Salvation Army hall every Saturday morning.
Perhaps because of this, Mary values her family higher than anything else. John, and Englishman, was in the Navy and stationed at nearby Rosyth when they met - which explains how they came to settle in Gosport; and they remain there to be close to their only daughter and her husband, taking the view that, "if God sees fit to give us a beautiful child, then it's our responsibility to look after her and put her above all other considerations." If it wasn't for this particularly strong devotion, they'd move back to Scotland tomorrow...
They've been here three times in the last three months - but the first two were flying visits for family events - this is their first holiday here for more than a year. But there's still precious little time for exploring - amidst the endless round of visiting family members and laying flowers on the graves of those now departed. So it really was quite something that they managed to take some time out alone to come and visit me in Edinburgh!
Fortunately, Edinburgh looked its' best for them, as it was a mild, clear and sunny day. But where do you start with a couple who've never even set eyes upon the Royal Mile, or any of its' attractions? So we went firstly for a pot of tea at one of my favourite cafes - the one inside the Scottish National Portrait Gallery in Queen Street, conveniently just around the corner from the bus station, where I went to meet them. Honestly! Before we'd even got throught the door, the two of them were gasping at the wall tableaux in the entrance hall, depicting all the famous Scottish characters over the ages, as if they were inside some never before discovered Egyptian tomb!! They are a joyful lesson to be with, as I've breezed past these paintings many times without even affording them a second glance...!
And the tea - that was the next thing. You would never believe that a perfectly ordinary pot of tea could possibly offer so much joy. Now, admittedly, one of the reasons I like that cafe is because you do get real - that is to say loose tea, that's not bound up in cheap soggy bags; and to me, that kind of thing adds to the pleasure of taking tea in a cafe - as do the accompanying tea strainers and of course real milk - none of those horrid little carton affairs - and things like big picture windows that allow natural light to flood through, and an aspidistra or three. But oh, it was just so lovely - she was thinking of going back to using real tea at home anyway - and this just settled it, she was definitely going to do it now - as everytime they had tea it would remind them of this place... And as for the scones and cakes - well, had it not been for my diet, I expect we'd still have been in there scoffing at closing time!
My next suggestion was to go on one of the open top city tours - we could always sit downstairs if its too cold - though some of the buses are covered at the front upstairs, I added in a helpful tone. Well - I don't get the impression it would have mattered if we'd had to stand in open cattle trucks, such was their eagerness to get there - no sooner had we seen such a vehicle in service as we approached Princes Street from St Andrew Square, John was worrying that the bus stop adjacent to it (which in any case it would not serve) was closed due to road works... As it happened we got the last three seats on the top deck of a guided tour - Mary insisting I sat with John while she sat some distance behind.
Their silence said it all - the two of them were just completely overwhelmed. Now, don't get me wrong, Edinburgh's tourist circuit is fascinating indeed, and there is something to look at in every direction - but, talk about children in sweetie shops!
Although we had all-day tickets, they'd not arrived until 11am, they'd arranged to meet Mary's sister back at the Park & Ride in Fife at 4pm, and we'd still not had lunch - so we just did one complete circuit without using the jump on-jump off facility. Practically in tears, all Mary could manage was, "Well, I'm definitely doing this again next time we're here - and we'll make sure we're here early, so we have all day and can get off at some of those places (that's the Anglicised version, by the way - as those of you who know here will realise, she has quite a broad Scots tongue!)
The tour guide's final comments had been about Jenners department store - so it was off to their restaurant now, for lunch. Again, this took some time to achieve because they just wanted to stop and marvel at every detail in the ceiling plasterwork, the door handles and big carved lions on the stair bannisters - and once they'd noticed the traditional galleried hall - well that was it! For the first time, I broke my new eating plan and had roast pork on a "green day," as there wasn't a huge choice - though I did think afterwards I could have asked for some of the roast vegetables that were sat next to the joint that I'd assumed must just be for display purposes when I'd not been offered any of them. And we'd a lovely scone too, for afters! This probably isn't the best place in town to eat, but it is reasonably quick if time's at a premium - and there are lovely views out over the Scott Mounment, and towards Arthur's Seat beyond.
Every department we walked through produced the same sort of 'wow!' reactions. Making one or two small purchases in the Scottish gifts department, she quite honestly declared she could spend all week in there - not to mention a small fortune too. And as for the lighting department - I think they seriously thought they'd just died and gone to heaven, at that point...
We ended our time together with a stroll along Princes Street - but not before John noticed the live lingerie fashion show in the corner window - complete with a large crowd of men taking photographs! Almost in a state of clinical shock, Mary stood between John and the window and declared, "I would be absolutely mortified - how can they possibly stand there wearing next to no clothes with all these lads watching, cheering and taking photographs? Where's their pride...?"
Last time I parted with John and Mary, she and I both cried. It was at Southampton Airport, where they'd dropped me early in the morning of Saturday 10th March last year - the day I moved back to Scotland. Yesterday, we had quite a struggle to avoid a repeat performance...
Fighting back the tears, Mary swallowed hard and said, "I know we're not supposed to envy - but I'll admit, I do envy you for where you live and for the life you have. John's life won't be worth living for the next few weeks - until I settle down again."
I'm not sure what it is about those two, or me, that makes us so close. It's funny how, in life, you do encounter people from time to time that you just can't see enough of. I think for me, they're all that I'd have liked my parents to be - had there been any choice in the matter. Don't get me wrong - my parents have loved and related to me in their own ways, indeed, my mother still does - and I don't wish to draw any comparisons; but it is so lovely and so refreshing to spend some good quality time with people of my parents' generation who actually share my interests and in particular, share my eye for small detail, express the pleasure they derive from them and even converse about it all.
I'm afraid I never really had such common interests with my parents, and while I must say my mother does try hard to not have me trudge round Marks & Spencer's and listen to her moaning about what they haven't got every time she visits - we invariably end up spending at least part of our time together doing just that; and while I try to think of it as a service to her, I'm afraid it is a chore, and I could hardly describe it as the kind of pleasure that John & Mary's company is...
I guess it's a question of attitude to life really - and as I'm certain my mother would point out, there's no fun in anything when you're on your own. She reckons its different for people like me of course - because I've always been on my own. I'm not so sure about that - though as I can at least crawl out of my lonely shell and experience real pleasure in the company of others, maybe she's right.
Methinks a 'thank-you for visiting me card' is in order for John & Mary. That'll really get the waterworks flowing right enough - but crying's cathartic too. I really wanted to sit down and howl after they'd gone yesterday - and I might yet do so...
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Still on the disclosure trail...
It seems somebody has been telling me porkies!
I actually spoke to Disclosure Scotland today - having got their phone number from my employer's HR department - and it seems that my disclosure is still with their vetting team, and not on its way to me yet, at all!
"After all, Enhanced Disclosures can take up to six weeks," the operator smugly informed me - adding, "When did you say you sent the application into us?"
"On the 26th November," I replied.
Pregnant pause...
"Ah. Well, it looks as if there's been a short delay in this case."
I resisted the temptation to ask him what his definition of 'short' is. I mean, he probably uses it to describe various bits of his anatomy; and it wouldn't be right to be so insensitive!
I actually spoke to Disclosure Scotland today - having got their phone number from my employer's HR department - and it seems that my disclosure is still with their vetting team, and not on its way to me yet, at all!
"After all, Enhanced Disclosures can take up to six weeks," the operator smugly informed me - adding, "When did you say you sent the application into us?"
"On the 26th November," I replied.
Pregnant pause...
"Ah. Well, it looks as if there's been a short delay in this case."
I resisted the temptation to ask him what his definition of 'short' is. I mean, he probably uses it to describe various bits of his anatomy; and it wouldn't be right to be so insensitive!
Monday, 4 February 2008
Where's my disclosure??
As anyone who knows me in person would probably verify, I am quite a patient man.
But you know, even I'm only human; and I'm getting seriously fed-up with Disclosure Scotland!
Having waited for word since last November, I rang their HR department in Glasgow to find out what the hold-up was and, as I expected, it was the ongoing lack of disclosure paperwork. There had been a slight query about my drving licence number, but they took the information over the phone, relayed it to Disclosure Scotland - who promised they'd phone me at the end of the week if there was any further news. To my amazement, they did precisely that, a week past Friday now, assuring me I'd have my disclosure "by the middle of the week".
I'm still waiting.
I mean - what exactly is it with those people? As far as I can work out, they just take as long as they take - because they can. Never mind my ongoing lack of occupation or life structure - or even the fact that the longer this goes on, the more likely I am to get depressed and not be able to do the job I've worked hard to get! And what about the employers? Surely it is a disincentive to them, to employ people who do not possess previous disclosure documentation (the existence of which makes a new application much quicker, as they only dig back to the date on the previous form)...
And you know the worst part of it? People keep asking if you're working yet - and you feel so stupid to tell them, no, you're still waiting for your disclosure to come through! I'm sure half of them must think I'm some master criminal with a dozen aliases - and most probably no job!!
Apparently, it takes longer if you've moved around a bit. People on the course who applied the same time as I did, who have only ever lived in Scotland, receieved theirs weeks ago. Alas, I am suffering because I lived in England for 25 years. It is after all only another part of the UK, which uses the same language, currency and communication systems - so you'd have thought they might have managed to speak to each other by now!
And spare a thought for John, who was also on my course. John used to be in the army, and has visited umpteen countries in consequence - and he's been told to expect to wait at least 3 months... I mean, hello - army - that's an official government entity with its own pretty robust security screening arrangements - why exactly do you need to mistrust their investigations - I don't think John was ever at Deepcut...
I wouldn't mind, but by the time I've done Enable's induction training, and am therefore available to start actually working, it'll be at least six months after the end of the last course - by which time I shall have forgotten half of that through lack of any opportunity to practically apply the theory - and that's a complete waste of other people's time and resources too.
Oh well... Rant over - for now!
But you know, even I'm only human; and I'm getting seriously fed-up with Disclosure Scotland!
Having waited for word since last November, I rang their HR department in Glasgow to find out what the hold-up was and, as I expected, it was the ongoing lack of disclosure paperwork. There had been a slight query about my drving licence number, but they took the information over the phone, relayed it to Disclosure Scotland - who promised they'd phone me at the end of the week if there was any further news. To my amazement, they did precisely that, a week past Friday now, assuring me I'd have my disclosure "by the middle of the week".
I'm still waiting.
I mean - what exactly is it with those people? As far as I can work out, they just take as long as they take - because they can. Never mind my ongoing lack of occupation or life structure - or even the fact that the longer this goes on, the more likely I am to get depressed and not be able to do the job I've worked hard to get! And what about the employers? Surely it is a disincentive to them, to employ people who do not possess previous disclosure documentation (the existence of which makes a new application much quicker, as they only dig back to the date on the previous form)...
And you know the worst part of it? People keep asking if you're working yet - and you feel so stupid to tell them, no, you're still waiting for your disclosure to come through! I'm sure half of them must think I'm some master criminal with a dozen aliases - and most probably no job!!
Apparently, it takes longer if you've moved around a bit. People on the course who applied the same time as I did, who have only ever lived in Scotland, receieved theirs weeks ago. Alas, I am suffering because I lived in England for 25 years. It is after all only another part of the UK, which uses the same language, currency and communication systems - so you'd have thought they might have managed to speak to each other by now!
And spare a thought for John, who was also on my course. John used to be in the army, and has visited umpteen countries in consequence - and he's been told to expect to wait at least 3 months... I mean, hello - army - that's an official government entity with its own pretty robust security screening arrangements - why exactly do you need to mistrust their investigations - I don't think John was ever at Deepcut...
I wouldn't mind, but by the time I've done Enable's induction training, and am therefore available to start actually working, it'll be at least six months after the end of the last course - by which time I shall have forgotten half of that through lack of any opportunity to practically apply the theory - and that's a complete waste of other people's time and resources too.
Oh well... Rant over - for now!
Sunday, 3 February 2008
On the discovery trail
As I was free all day yesterday, and as the weather forecast suggested it might be mainly cold and dry with a bit of snow on the hills, the wee boy in me made an appearance, and demanded to be taken out in search of some of this white stuff!
I therefore got the first bus of the day from Edinburgh to Stirling, where I stopped for an hour's window shopping; and then a number 11 to Balfron, on which I was fortunate enough to get the front upstairs seat with its nice view ahead and tons of legroom! This is one of several interconnecting routes I'd wanted to do for many years - at one time they were all variations of Striling-Glasgow routes via balfron and various other combinations of places; but now most of them run between Stirling or Glasgow and Balfron only, where they connect with each other to permit through travel...
Stirling is a remarkably compact city, the western side of the castle being literally out in the country, and soon we were running along the A811, parallel to the former Forth & Clyde railway - the remains of which is clearly visible on the right-hand side. (Former railway spotting has long been a pastime of mine, as I am interested in railway history). The first deviation was in and out of Gargunnock - a village that an uncle of mine spends a great deal of time in (something to do with it being home of the girlfriend I think). But I could see why he likes it there, the village and its surroundings not being entirely dissimilar to Almondbank, where he himself grew up and lived until not too many years ago. There were also many potential walks in evidence - that's another of his passions. Not much is left of Gargunnock's railway station - on the right of the main road a few hundred yards before you turn left into the village proper; though as the foilage was at its annual lowest, it was possible to see mounds where platforms and loading bays may once have existed - it is over 40 years since the track was finally lifted, after all.
The next station - also to the right but a little further away astride what now seems to be a sawmill - seemed a little more complete and even sported what looked like a former signalbox! This might be a place to return in good weather for a bit of exploration on foot, I thought to myself. The village it served - Kippen, did not disappoint either. Slightly further off the road than Gargunnock - and up a rather steep hill (it is easy to see why motor buses managed to syphon passenger traffic away from the railway as early as 1933, when the passenger service ceased), Kippen is more substantial. Not so long ago it probably had several shops, more than one church and maybe even a secondary modern, as well as a primary school. With lots of attractive cottages and lofty hillside views, this is definitely somewhere to alight from the bus on a warmer day - and maybe catch the next one onwards.
Until now, the road is very flat, but as it begins to rise, a valley drops away to the right as you head west - and here road and former railway part company for a while. Passing Arnprior - one of those typically Scottish road junctions with a few houses and a redundant kirk that for some reason still gets called a village, and then Buchlyvie - a really rather attractive roadside village with a pharmacy occupying a former church building; the top of the hill is just reached when the bus turns left and, having negotiated some pretty steep, sharp bends that must make for some interesting driving on clear winter mornings, enters the large village (or is it a small town) of Balfron.
It's funny how you picture places you've never been in your mind. Knowing that it has a roughly triangular shape on the map and that it was slightly larger than most of the surrounding villages, a bus-interchange point and some considerable distance from its former railway station; I always imagined Balfron to be a pretty, chocolate-box concoction of single storey cottages opening onto a wide, flat main street, with the junctions of the two other roads forming the triangle round the village both visible from the bus terminus. I imagined a few discreet gift or maybe even tea shops occupying some of the roadside cottages in the vicinity...
Now don't get me wrong, Balfron is quite a pretty place - but isn't even vaguely as I imagined! Apart from a 1950s 'scheme' (that's council estate for those of you from south of the border) at the top of the village - which the bus enters briefly, the lengthy main street is on a steep gradient; and most of the buildings are two-storey - and not a few gaps are partially filled with light-industrial and other premises set back from the road! As I expected, there is evidence of various public services such as a library, health centre, council office and public toilets - much of which is in my expected pink-marled 1930s style; but quite a few more modern furnishings and illuminated signs also exist, sadly.
The bus interchange predictably consists of a shelter either side of the road at the top of the hill - but all seems to work remarkably well! No sooner had we arrived but two other double-deck buses (a somewhat generous provision for the intending number of passengers) appeared - one for Balloch and the other for Glasgow! (At certain times in the day, it is also possible to connect for Aberfoyle, or even a direct service to Drymen - not going via Killearn first!) Leaving my nice warm and comfortable front upstairs seat I was pleased to get the same seat on the Glasgow bus, even though it was somewhat harder and in a decidedly cold and damp vehicle! And soon we were off - followed, to my surprise, by the Balloch bus, all the way to Killearn - the next fairly subtantial but somewhat prettier (than Balfron) village.
Before we'd even descended the hill, the main A81 road and the former Aberfoyle railway trackbed could be seen in the valley below. This was not part of the Forth & Clyde Junction railway - which itself ran between Stirling and Balloch and, in common with many railways, was primarily intended to transport coal - in this case between Fife and the heavy industries of the north Clyde; though it did connect with it at Buchlyvie Junction - which like most of the other stations on these lines, was some distance from the village of the same name and no doubt, this oversight would have contributed to the later debates about the lines' viability. I mean, think about it - you're 86 and riddled with arthritis, or even 26 and carrying your shopping and supervising three kids. Do you take the train and walk a mile and three-quarters down a narrow, dark, twisty road, or do you get the bus to your door? I know which I'd choose...
Two more buses passed in either direction on the main road - single deck ones this time. I suspect these were on a route straddling the Kirkintilloch-Lennoxtown-Strathblane-Drymen-Balfron roads...
Killearn is one of those names that sticks out of your childhood memory box for some really obscure reason. There used to be a big hospital here - one of the half dozen or so prefabricated affairs built around the country in readiness for second world war casualties - that in the event, remained open for many years after the war. (There was another at Bridge of Earn, which I'd visited a number of times; and others at Stracathro, near Brechin, Peel - a few miles outside Galashiels, Bangour - next to the mental hopsital in West Lothian, and Ballochmyle in Ayrshire. Strathcathro, Peel and Killearn were built in really rather unlikely, rural locations! Anyway, what sticks in my mind was the campaign led by the Daily Record in the early 1970s, to fight Killearn's closure. I think it had developed some really good specialities - which were eventually relocated in some of Glasgow's hospitals, if my memory serves me correctly.
Blanefield is the next village - though as soon as you get up the hill you realise that the modern blocks of flats on the top aren't as out-of-place as they look because, less than a stone's throw away is the larger settlement of Strathblane. Having disappeared round the back of Blanefield - where I think there was a station, there's now no evidence of a railway having ever existed - and large, mostly detached houses, almost as far as the eye can see! The tall flat blocks of Glasgow now dominate the distant horizon, and, despite a couple of not-terribly-natural-looking roadside nature reserves and a large reservoir, continuous street lighting and an irritating 30mph speed limit herald the outskirts of Milngavie, and then of Glasgow.
This route had one unexpected, if rather subdued, thrill for me, as it traverses Maryhill Road into the centre of Glasgow. A century ago, many of my ancestors lived here, and I'd had it in mind for some time to come and explore the area, and see if I could identify exactly where they had lived and worked. Alas, not a chance - all that remains of New City Road is a stopped-up, recently redeveloped street sandwiched between bits of motorway junction; while numbers 450 or thereabouts to 780 or thereabouts (and quite a lot besides) have been demolished and their sites landscaped; and there is no indication as to which part of Maryhill Road was known as Gairbraid Street - that information was presumably attached to long-gone buildings! Also gone and almost forgotten are the area's railways - the existing 'Maryhill' station having opened as recently as 1987, some twenty or so years after the original Maryhill stations and lines had been closed and redeveloped. The Forth & Clyde Canal and it's basin and aqueduct over the road remain - somewhat bare and forlorn. I imagine my grandfathers and their siblings must have loitered here and perhaps been chased away by workmen as youngsters; while the womenfolk cared for their younger children high up in squalid, red sandstone tenement flats.
I got off the bus a few stops short of the bus station and walked along Sauchiehall Street to Charing Cross, then up trough the Woodlands terraces to the very grand, broad avenues of Kelvingrove Park, before returning via Argyle and Buchanan Streets in light rain, for the 1600 departure to Edinburgh.
Needless to say, I was absolutely shattered last night - but, Kippen, Balfron, Drymen, Balloch - never fear, I will be back to explore some more; hopefully in more inclement climes!
I therefore got the first bus of the day from Edinburgh to Stirling, where I stopped for an hour's window shopping; and then a number 11 to Balfron, on which I was fortunate enough to get the front upstairs seat with its nice view ahead and tons of legroom! This is one of several interconnecting routes I'd wanted to do for many years - at one time they were all variations of Striling-Glasgow routes via balfron and various other combinations of places; but now most of them run between Stirling or Glasgow and Balfron only, where they connect with each other to permit through travel...
Stirling is a remarkably compact city, the western side of the castle being literally out in the country, and soon we were running along the A811, parallel to the former Forth & Clyde railway - the remains of which is clearly visible on the right-hand side. (Former railway spotting has long been a pastime of mine, as I am interested in railway history). The first deviation was in and out of Gargunnock - a village that an uncle of mine spends a great deal of time in (something to do with it being home of the girlfriend I think). But I could see why he likes it there, the village and its surroundings not being entirely dissimilar to Almondbank, where he himself grew up and lived until not too many years ago. There were also many potential walks in evidence - that's another of his passions. Not much is left of Gargunnock's railway station - on the right of the main road a few hundred yards before you turn left into the village proper; though as the foilage was at its annual lowest, it was possible to see mounds where platforms and loading bays may once have existed - it is over 40 years since the track was finally lifted, after all.
The next station - also to the right but a little further away astride what now seems to be a sawmill - seemed a little more complete and even sported what looked like a former signalbox! This might be a place to return in good weather for a bit of exploration on foot, I thought to myself. The village it served - Kippen, did not disappoint either. Slightly further off the road than Gargunnock - and up a rather steep hill (it is easy to see why motor buses managed to syphon passenger traffic away from the railway as early as 1933, when the passenger service ceased), Kippen is more substantial. Not so long ago it probably had several shops, more than one church and maybe even a secondary modern, as well as a primary school. With lots of attractive cottages and lofty hillside views, this is definitely somewhere to alight from the bus on a warmer day - and maybe catch the next one onwards.
Until now, the road is very flat, but as it begins to rise, a valley drops away to the right as you head west - and here road and former railway part company for a while. Passing Arnprior - one of those typically Scottish road junctions with a few houses and a redundant kirk that for some reason still gets called a village, and then Buchlyvie - a really rather attractive roadside village with a pharmacy occupying a former church building; the top of the hill is just reached when the bus turns left and, having negotiated some pretty steep, sharp bends that must make for some interesting driving on clear winter mornings, enters the large village (or is it a small town) of Balfron.
It's funny how you picture places you've never been in your mind. Knowing that it has a roughly triangular shape on the map and that it was slightly larger than most of the surrounding villages, a bus-interchange point and some considerable distance from its former railway station; I always imagined Balfron to be a pretty, chocolate-box concoction of single storey cottages opening onto a wide, flat main street, with the junctions of the two other roads forming the triangle round the village both visible from the bus terminus. I imagined a few discreet gift or maybe even tea shops occupying some of the roadside cottages in the vicinity...
Now don't get me wrong, Balfron is quite a pretty place - but isn't even vaguely as I imagined! Apart from a 1950s 'scheme' (that's council estate for those of you from south of the border) at the top of the village - which the bus enters briefly, the lengthy main street is on a steep gradient; and most of the buildings are two-storey - and not a few gaps are partially filled with light-industrial and other premises set back from the road! As I expected, there is evidence of various public services such as a library, health centre, council office and public toilets - much of which is in my expected pink-marled 1930s style; but quite a few more modern furnishings and illuminated signs also exist, sadly.
The bus interchange predictably consists of a shelter either side of the road at the top of the hill - but all seems to work remarkably well! No sooner had we arrived but two other double-deck buses (a somewhat generous provision for the intending number of passengers) appeared - one for Balloch and the other for Glasgow! (At certain times in the day, it is also possible to connect for Aberfoyle, or even a direct service to Drymen - not going via Killearn first!) Leaving my nice warm and comfortable front upstairs seat I was pleased to get the same seat on the Glasgow bus, even though it was somewhat harder and in a decidedly cold and damp vehicle! And soon we were off - followed, to my surprise, by the Balloch bus, all the way to Killearn - the next fairly subtantial but somewhat prettier (than Balfron) village.
Before we'd even descended the hill, the main A81 road and the former Aberfoyle railway trackbed could be seen in the valley below. This was not part of the Forth & Clyde Junction railway - which itself ran between Stirling and Balloch and, in common with many railways, was primarily intended to transport coal - in this case between Fife and the heavy industries of the north Clyde; though it did connect with it at Buchlyvie Junction - which like most of the other stations on these lines, was some distance from the village of the same name and no doubt, this oversight would have contributed to the later debates about the lines' viability. I mean, think about it - you're 86 and riddled with arthritis, or even 26 and carrying your shopping and supervising three kids. Do you take the train and walk a mile and three-quarters down a narrow, dark, twisty road, or do you get the bus to your door? I know which I'd choose...
Two more buses passed in either direction on the main road - single deck ones this time. I suspect these were on a route straddling the Kirkintilloch-Lennoxtown-Strathblane-Drymen-Balfron roads...
Killearn is one of those names that sticks out of your childhood memory box for some really obscure reason. There used to be a big hospital here - one of the half dozen or so prefabricated affairs built around the country in readiness for second world war casualties - that in the event, remained open for many years after the war. (There was another at Bridge of Earn, which I'd visited a number of times; and others at Stracathro, near Brechin, Peel - a few miles outside Galashiels, Bangour - next to the mental hopsital in West Lothian, and Ballochmyle in Ayrshire. Strathcathro, Peel and Killearn were built in really rather unlikely, rural locations! Anyway, what sticks in my mind was the campaign led by the Daily Record in the early 1970s, to fight Killearn's closure. I think it had developed some really good specialities - which were eventually relocated in some of Glasgow's hospitals, if my memory serves me correctly.
Blanefield is the next village - though as soon as you get up the hill you realise that the modern blocks of flats on the top aren't as out-of-place as they look because, less than a stone's throw away is the larger settlement of Strathblane. Having disappeared round the back of Blanefield - where I think there was a station, there's now no evidence of a railway having ever existed - and large, mostly detached houses, almost as far as the eye can see! The tall flat blocks of Glasgow now dominate the distant horizon, and, despite a couple of not-terribly-natural-looking roadside nature reserves and a large reservoir, continuous street lighting and an irritating 30mph speed limit herald the outskirts of Milngavie, and then of Glasgow.
This route had one unexpected, if rather subdued, thrill for me, as it traverses Maryhill Road into the centre of Glasgow. A century ago, many of my ancestors lived here, and I'd had it in mind for some time to come and explore the area, and see if I could identify exactly where they had lived and worked. Alas, not a chance - all that remains of New City Road is a stopped-up, recently redeveloped street sandwiched between bits of motorway junction; while numbers 450 or thereabouts to 780 or thereabouts (and quite a lot besides) have been demolished and their sites landscaped; and there is no indication as to which part of Maryhill Road was known as Gairbraid Street - that information was presumably attached to long-gone buildings! Also gone and almost forgotten are the area's railways - the existing 'Maryhill' station having opened as recently as 1987, some twenty or so years after the original Maryhill stations and lines had been closed and redeveloped. The Forth & Clyde Canal and it's basin and aqueduct over the road remain - somewhat bare and forlorn. I imagine my grandfathers and their siblings must have loitered here and perhaps been chased away by workmen as youngsters; while the womenfolk cared for their younger children high up in squalid, red sandstone tenement flats.
I got off the bus a few stops short of the bus station and walked along Sauchiehall Street to Charing Cross, then up trough the Woodlands terraces to the very grand, broad avenues of Kelvingrove Park, before returning via Argyle and Buchanan Streets in light rain, for the 1600 departure to Edinburgh.
Needless to say, I was absolutely shattered last night - but, Kippen, Balfron, Drymen, Balloch - never fear, I will be back to explore some more; hopefully in more inclement climes!
Friday, 1 February 2008
Taking a breather...
In Scotland, today is designated Breathing Space Day 2008. The organisation's website invites "everyone in Scotland to mark 1st February in their diary as a time to STOP and take some breathing space away from the stresses and strains of modern living," and you know, I reckon that's a pretty good idea myself. (I'd also like to extend the invitation to those of you not in Scotland as well...)
I only found out about it on Tuesday, at a short act of worship following a drop-in I go to, organised by the local community mental health chaplaincy service, led on that occasion by my friend, Maxwell Reay. As he pointed out then, many of the psalms are interrupted at various points by the word 'Selah' - the precise meaning of which is obscure - but it tends to be interpreted as a suggestion that we pause in our reading and just digest what's being said to us, and reflect a little, before we carry on to the next bit; and I reckon that makes a good deal of sense too.
As it happens, we have a little prayer meeting on Friday mornings at Gorgie Salvation Army, which we usually open with a bible reading of some description, and as we're normally all invited to suggest such readings, I suggested psalm 66, which we used and, together with the invitation described above, seemed to help prompt an unusually large volume of prayer - not all of which were of the terribly parochial variety - which, though valid and important, often put me off such meetings, as any outsider who chances by could justifiably observe that our group seems insular, exclusive and possibly not even too interested in including others - which of course, couldn't be further from the truth...!
We should guard against praying with a shopping list filled with only those people whom we know personally. Sometimes it's better to simply ask God to read our thoughts and make prayers from them - which he does anyway; and instead allow ourselves to pray for those people and situations our minds invariably stray towards; or even just shut up and listen to what God has to say to us! Go on, indulge me - contemplate!!
I only found out about it on Tuesday, at a short act of worship following a drop-in I go to, organised by the local community mental health chaplaincy service, led on that occasion by my friend, Maxwell Reay. As he pointed out then, many of the psalms are interrupted at various points by the word 'Selah' - the precise meaning of which is obscure - but it tends to be interpreted as a suggestion that we pause in our reading and just digest what's being said to us, and reflect a little, before we carry on to the next bit; and I reckon that makes a good deal of sense too.
As it happens, we have a little prayer meeting on Friday mornings at Gorgie Salvation Army, which we usually open with a bible reading of some description, and as we're normally all invited to suggest such readings, I suggested psalm 66, which we used and, together with the invitation described above, seemed to help prompt an unusually large volume of prayer - not all of which were of the terribly parochial variety - which, though valid and important, often put me off such meetings, as any outsider who chances by could justifiably observe that our group seems insular, exclusive and possibly not even too interested in including others - which of course, couldn't be further from the truth...!
We should guard against praying with a shopping list filled with only those people whom we know personally. Sometimes it's better to simply ask God to read our thoughts and make prayers from them - which he does anyway; and instead allow ourselves to pray for those people and situations our minds invariably stray towards; or even just shut up and listen to what God has to say to us! Go on, indulge me - contemplate!!
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