The "Perfect" Centre -not on Sunday's

Why was there a Beatrix Potter museum in Birnam? This was Scotland, not the Lake District. Because Beatrix spent her childhood summer holidays nearby at Dalguise House. I'd actually walked passed it yesterday. It was the Victorians who first put Scotland on the tourist map, when affluent Londoners realised the air was much cleaner and fresher up here. (Did they not have midges 100 years ago?)

While the men engaged themseves in the manly sporting pursuits of hunting, shooting and fishing, the ladies drank tea and played Croquet on the manicured lawns. Their offspring, normally confined to sedate walks with Nanny in Kensington Gardens, got a taste of the freedom of the great outdoors. Spending long days splashing around in the rivers, climbing trees, and generally getting their white smocks dirty, Beatrix was one such child and her fascination with wildlife, plants and animals began right here.

The museum was small and very child friendly. I was itching to sit down at the activity table and start crayoning a picture of Peter Rabbit, but I didn't think the other children would like it, and so I went on my way.

Just beyond Birnam I bid farewell to the River Tay, as the cycle route headed towards Bankfoot. The cycle route is deceiving, in that it wiggles here and there, making your original mileage calculations way, way, off the mark. For instance: Today should have been about 14 miles but was probably more like 20. Whatever it was, it was a long way from Bankfoot into Perth. The sign told me I was entering the "Perfect Centre" Well, obviously everyone, and everything has it's best side. Clearly this wasn't Perth's. To match the ambiance of the grey suburbs it started to drizzle with rain. I plodded on to the bus station ready to go "home" to Edinburgh.

"You can't get on this bus, it's booked" the driver informed me. "But, I have a City Link Pass" I cried in dismay. Clearly relishing his moment of "jobsworthness" he jabbed his fat finger at the back of my pass "Read the small print darling" and he actually smiled. "You'll just have to wait for the next one and hope that's not full. Should be along in, ooh let me see now (running aforementioned fat finger down the timetable), in an hour and a half"

Well, I could understand why people wanted to leave Perth en masse on a drizzly grey Sunday evening, but as I wandered through the deserted shopping precinct, I wondered what I was going to do for the next 90 minutes.

Make one cup of coffee in a dreary pub last for an hour by doing the crossword in a discarded newspaper, that's what.

Moving On

Today, I was moving on to Edinburgh and Mari-Anne's flat.

And with no rush to leave Inverness, I had a few final visits to make. Firstly the Post Office to shed some of my load. It was time to be ruthless. Maps, clothes and anything else I could live without was posted home, as the Rucksack felt mightily heavy after the lightweight day bag. I also got my "End to End" Passport stamped by a very impressed assistant.

Then to the Inverness Museum. I wanted to try and understand, just what had made these Highlanders such a strong fearsome bunch, and how did all this Clan business start?Well clearly, the early Picts (painted) people had to work hard to make a living in the Highlands, and probably had to fight for every fertile scrap of land they could. But after hearing all these tales about the fairer sex I reckon this is how it all began...

"One cold night, in a remote settlement, the menfolk were sitting around the fire complaining about their "Other Half's" "All she ever does is nag, nag, nag, do this, do that...and every single day I get a clip round the ear for drinking more than my recommended daily units of alcohol. I tell you I need a break" The others all nodded sympathetically. Then one of them had a bright idea. "Hey, why don't we go and pick a fight with the next village? It'll take us at least four days to get there and back, and with a couple of days fighting, that's nearly a week!" "Great idea Reg!" said another " But how will we know we're not killing each other?" "Yea, good point, what we need is a common identity. I know, I'll get the Missus to rustle up some kilts, that will keep her busy. Now, what about colour? Personally, I think blue, with a splash of red, is rather fetching"... and off they dashed to pack the crates with enough alcohol to last for at least a month.

On the road towards Dunkeld, all the interesting places, i.e. places to get refreshments and facilities like Ballinluig and Dowally were all on the other side of the A9. The cycle track was quieter, but less interesting. Only one solitary cyclist passed me by all day. In need of company and conversation, he slowed down for a chat. "Oh well, best be on my way" he said when he eventually realised I wasn't. In spitting distance of my destination, I didn't want to linger.

Dunkeld was a picture postcard of a place, and as I entered through the forest, there ahead of me was the Cathedral, I was entranced. The bus, however, left from Birnam on the other side of the bridge.

Conveniently, the bus stop had placed itself at the end of the pub garden, and I conveniently had just enough time to enjoy a Spritzer as the sun went over the yard arm. And yes, I had already made sure I was on the right side of the road!

A Slog and a half!

There was only one way I was going to get to Pitlochry before midnight and that was to get the earliest bus out of Inverness, trek down the A9 (missing out Blair Atholl) and eventually turning off at the sign for "Killiecrankie" What a delightful name. As I ate a late lunch, I half expected "Wee Jimmy" to pop up from under the bridge and with silly schoolboy humour, nick my sandwich.

Killiecrankie had a great little Visitor Centre, and a small museum. The helpful assistants put me on the right woodland track to pick up the trail...all the way to Pitlochry! It was a perfect walk to finish what had been a hard day. Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, as the trail weaved it's way alongside the river. Passing two large lakes the track finally opened out onto the outskirts of Pitlochry.

Pitlochry also proved to be a delight, and if I had known the bus was going to be an hour late I would have had a good old poke around. Well, I shouldn't complain as it had been my choice to commute, and despite the longer, and longer bus journey's to and from Inverness, I was glad I'd stayed there.

I'd already picked up my bag from the Youth Hostel and bid my fond farewells to the cell and the cheery cook in the kitchen (who always let me make a packed lunch from the breakfast food-even though it wasn't strictly allowed) At the B & B I wallowed in my "en suite" bathtub, which was luxury after the "down the corridor" shower at the Hostel before heading to the "Riverside" for my final meal where I met a very interesting couple. We seemed to "click" straight away, and it wasn't long before we exchanged addresses and I was being invited to visit them in Ullapool. They were staying in the hotel so as they went inside for a meal, I strolled in the evening sunshine down to Ness Island, across the bridge to the Cathedral and finally back to "Nico's Bar" for a coffee to write up the day's journal.

Do not dispute the cycle route

Reluctantly dragging myself from the "Wildcat Walking Centre" and clutching my latest purchase - the more detailed "Sustrans Cycle Route" map which would take me all the way to Perth, why on earth did I go wrong within the first hour?

Because I disputed the cycle route, that's why.

About a mile out of Newtonmore I spotted a sign, pointing towards a quiet, shady tree lined road telling me that the information centre/cafe/picnic area I had already earmarked for an elevenses pit stop was but a mere 3/4 mile down this way. The blue cycle sign was saying "Come this way, down the main road out of the village, where there is no shade, the sun is rising on another hot day, you have no suncream on, and you will most definitely get burnt"

And so I chose the shady route, deciding that "Sustrans" had made one major misprint. An hour, and approximately 3 miles down the road I arrived back on the A9 - 4 miles nearer towards Inverness. In other words, I'd walked "Backwards,Backwards"!

Muttering unrepeatable language I furiously stomped down the A9 to the point where I came upon the cycle route sign smugly saying "Newtonmore - 2 miles - You foolish woman - forget that Latte at the veranda cafe, you'll not even make it to Dalwhinnie to catch the bus in time for that Theatre trip you booked and paid for"

And it was unfortunately right. No matter how fast I walked, as I reached the turning into Dalwhinnie - "6 miles" there was indeed no way I would make it.

And so, I decided to do the thing that all good, sensible parents tell their children, never, ever, under any circumstances to do, I hitched a lift.

Justifying that I'd already walked at least an extra 4 miles, if I got a lift to the village I could walk the 2 miles out the other end to the bus stop and it wasn't really cheating, was it?

Happier now I'd made the decision, I walked on..and on...listening out for any oncoming vehicles. On this quiet road it was 10 minutes before I heard the chug chug of the Mobile Library Van coming up the hill. Joy of Joys! What a safe bet, and he's bound to stop. As I waved in a "I'm flagging you down so that you'll offer me a lift" sort of way, he waved back in a "Nice day for a walk" sort of way. Drat! It was another 10 minutes before I heard a car approaching. Taking no chances this time, I positioned myself in the middle of the road, waving my arms like an Air Traffic Controller. The two young Belgian mountaineers who screeched to a halt at my feet had no alternative but to offer me a lift. Now I was more than happy to squash in the back with all the gear, but they were Belgian and serious "You must wear ze seat belt, it is the law,ya?" Well, ya, it is, but for heavens sake, this was but a mere, by now, 3 mile hop down the road!

However, in no position to argue, and with the minutes ticking away, I waited impatiently while they carefully and neatly stowed the gear into the boot. As they dropped me in the "village" and sped off under a cloud of dust to catch the ferry I realised the place was deserted, and I had a very important question to ask. I could have strode across to the Saloon Bar, swung through the swing doors to find the entire population drinking whisky and playing poker. They would all probably turn round and stare in silence until one of them would say "We aint seen you around these parts before" and I would reply "Well no, I'm from Tadworth Surrey, and could you please, please tell me that the bus stop is only another 2 miles down the road"

Well, It may have felt like being in the "Wild West" round here, but I did get the answer I wanted from an unlikely source. Amazingly, in this tiny hamlet I found a school where I heard children's voices and found four uniformed schoolchildren happily playing in a sandpit in the shade, while a teacher read her newspaper. (What a great job)

With enough time to buy suncream, find a comfortable B & B for tomorrow night, my last in Inverness and a quick meal at the "Riverside" I strolled across the bridge to the "Eden Court Theatre" beautifully refurbished with two theatres, a cinema, cafe and restaurant. About a year ago, a random group of musicians had been selected to spend 2 weeks in a house, told to be "creative" and see what they came up with. It was one of those arty experiments which they happily, and without guilt, told us was "all paid for by the taxpayers" Musically, even to my untrained ear, they were very talented and versatile, but most of it was pretentious rubbish. However, one song, and one singer stood out. Inverness born, of french parents, she had the looks, personality, voice and charisma to be a star as she strutted up and down the stage with all the energy of a young Mick Jagger.

A Happy Tour

Should I stay or should I go?

I could either take the train up to the mountain top restaurant for the wonderful views, or hit the cycle track to Newtonmore thereby getting back to Inverness in time for "The Ghost Tour"I opted for a spot of ghoulish entertainment. Besides, I'd fallen out with Aviemore. In the two bus waiting hours yesterday evening, I could have taken the mountain train if the last one hadn't left at 4.15pm!

So, legging it fast and furious down the High Street (checking first I was walking in a southerly direction) it wasn't long before I picked up the familiar little blue cycle signs.With no time to linger in Kingussie, pleasant as it was, I stepped up the pace to power walking levels to reach the bus stop in Newtonmore.And an interesting place it turned out to be. What with "The Wild Cat Walking Centre of Scotland" and the intriguing "Waltzing Waters Experience" billed as "The worlds most elaborate water, light and music experience"

On a beautiful Summers Evening, what better place to dine than down by the river at the "Riverside Restaurant" With good food, wine and interesting company, this was an improvement on last night's Caff. Striking up conversation with a couple of avid coach tourers from Nottingham, as they left for dinner at their hotel, I headed for the Ghost Tour which on arrival was "Cancelled Tonite"-Now what? Luckily, across the road, I spotted a jolly looking chap in a tartan waistcoat, surrounded by a huddle of tourists. Quickly, before they left, I dashed across. "Can I join in?" "Of course" he beamed "Welcome to the Happy Tour!" took my money, slapped a smiley sticker on my chest, and we were off.

First stop was the "Mercat Cross" Originally at the crossroads in the centre of Inverness, in the days before media and the world wide web, this was the place to get the daily news. It was also the site for public humiliation, mostly of the womenfolk of Inverness. While the men were away fighting, the women got restless, and started fighting each other. For punishment they were dragged through the streets, flogged and tied to the cross where in front of a jeering crowds their ultimate punishment was decided upon, which strangely enough, didn't seem to fit the crime. Murderers were packed off on a boat to Canada. Now, it may not have been a cruise ship, and probably some didn't survive the journey, but those that did, escaped to a new life, in a new country.

We strolled on through the streets admiring the views, marred only by the ugly buildings, some short sighted town planners decided to erect in the 1960's and ended up at Inverness Castle where we heard our final tale of Scotland's most famous feisty female, Flora MacDonald.

She'd had a pretty tough start in life. When her father died her mother was abducted, to be married off to somebody else. Brought up by the chief of the clan, we all know the story of her bravery in helping Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to freedom in France. What I didn't know was that she later, married, had a large family and emigrated to America. When her husband was taken prisoner during the American War of Independence, she returned to Scotland, family in tow, on a merchant ship. Attacked by pirates, and seriously wounded, she still refused to leave the deck. She'd certainly had a hard life, and well deserved to end her days happily and peacefully on the Isle of Skye.

Old Bonnie Prince Charlie meanwhile, kicked out of France, tried to stir up momentum for another rebellion, but nobody really wanted to know. Skulking miserably back to Italy, where he was born, he died a dissolute, depressed alcoholic and sadly, in the end, not quite so good looking.

On a recommendation from "Mr Happy Tour" I went for a nightcap at "Nico's Bar" a cross between a Gentleman's Club and a cosy parlour. Curled up in a vast armchair, with "Rubber Soul" playing softly in the background I nearly nodded off...

A long, long wait

"Where did you say?" laughed the bus driver. Walking into the delightful little village of Tomatin, pronounced "Tomartin" I resolved to brush up on my pronunciation of Scottish towns and villages. The most bizarre example last year had been "Milngavie" (The start of the West Highland Way) pronounced "Mulgie" -Fortunately I was forewarned on that occasion.

Tomartin may have been small, but it was "happening". Checking out the notice board I saw they had a walking group - but with unfortunately no contact details. Across the road, however, in the Post Office the friendly Postmistress provided me with all the contacts I could possibly need. Why, this little place even had it's own web site! "She who knows all" also informed me that the walks Co-ordinator was on holiday this week.

Not to be deterred, I resolved to get back to Inverness in good time to a) get to the Library and onto the Internet before closing and check out the Tomatin Website and b) Get to the "Johnnie Fox Hooley Night"

All was going well until I had to wiggle from one side of the A9 to the other,and if it hadn't been for some useful information boards (i.e. "You are here") I may well have ended up in Carlisle.

Back on track, I arrived in Boat of Garten and tempting as it was to leg it down the A9 to make up time, thank goodness I didn't. Walking through the woods, up "Fairy Hill" and along the "Speyside Way" was such a delightful route. With an amazingly stunning setting for a Golf Course, it was almost tempting to take up the sport, well...maybe not. The only fly in the ointment, literally, was the pesky midges gathering around my head.

Through the headphones, the UK's leading "midge expert" A Doctor somebody or other (well worth the years of research to be at a cocktail party and asked the question, "So, what's your line of business?") was telling me, that the unseasonably warm weather had resulted in an early gathering of the blessed things.

As if I needed to know...

The Chief of the McMidge Clan had called an emergency meeting. "Ok guys, I know it's only May, but we're just going to have to start work a month early. The Barbeque's are being lit, the sun loungers are out on the patio, for goodness sake, we can't possibly let them enjoy themselves!" With grumbling and dissent among the ranks, he urged them into action "Think of the overtime!" and off they swarmed and descended on the foolish solitary woman walking through the woods.

Following a bit of a trek through the manicured "Desperate Housewives" standard suburbs, I soldiered on with the thought of a white wine spritzer, on the terrace of a chic little wine bar once I'd reached Aviemore town centre.

Well, I did enjoy the spritzer on a bench outside a pub, but Aviemore was a bit of a depressing disappointment. With a tired, "can't really be bothered" sort of feel about it, It was clear that the ski-ing hey days of the 60's and 70's were pretty much over.

Happy in the knowledge that I was heading back to the metropolis of Inverness I waited for the bus, on the wrong side of the road. Maybe it was the effects of the wine in the sun, maybe I was tired, but whatever it was, it was with dismay that I watched "my bus" sail passed in the opposite direction!

And so,with two hours to waste, I ate a mediocre meal in a dismal little cafe,and

by the time I got back to Inverness it was to late to hit the "Hooley Night"

I climbed the hill back to the hostel as grumpy as a midge dragged out of hibernation.

A Tale of Two Cities

Dashing off to catch the northbound train, knowing I was unprepared was one problem.Beyond the first two nights, I hadn't a clue where the next bed was coming from. Settled into my seat and checking the rucksack, to find I was also unequipped (I'd forgotten the maps! ) was another.

Working on the basis of "something will turn up" It did, in my head. Walking up a deserted Princes Street, with the wonderful view of the castle silhouetted against the night sky, I made up my mind. I liked Cities. All this country walking malarkey is fine during the day, but at night...well, it's all about choice and facilities. And so it made perfect sense to base myself in Inverness/Edinburgh and commute on the "City Link" bus service. As to the second problem, following the cycle route through the Cairngorms shouldn't prove to much of a problem, once I'd worked out how to get out of Inverness to reach it.

Peering intently at the map on the wall in the youth hostel the obligingly helpful young assistant came to my rescue. And so, clutching the map he'd printed out for me, I headed 3 miles through the industrial suburbs to reach the "General Wade Military Road" and beyond, through Daviot Woods to pick up the cycle trail. Easy, peasy and I was loving it. Walking through woodlands on a well marked track, what could be better? Three cheers for General Wade! and "So say all of us" said the Highlanders. Commissioned to spend taxpayers money creating a network of straight roads into the Highlands, for the purpose of controlling the marauding clans, Wade succeeded in leaving them a useful transportation system for a future industrial revolution.

So fast forward to the 21st Century, no map was no problem, and with the ever frequent "Route 7" blue cycle signs, it wasn't long before I reached the A9 and the bus stop back to Inverness.

Delighted to find I'd been upgraded to "West Side 2" (which meant it had a cupboard in addition to the bed and chair) I happily stowed my belongings away in the knowledge that this was now "home" for the next three nights and went to find somewhere to eat.

Prepared for an early night, why then wasn't I tucked up by 10pm? Because walking back up the hill to the hostel, passing a restaurant, I was being beckoned in to join a party. Pausing for a second, I made up my mind. Well, it had been a pleasant but quite uneventful day, and after all, I had a "Blog" to write.

So before you could say "Let's go living in the past" I was introduced to the band, and road crew of the "Jethro Tull" 2008 tour. Wow! last seen at Bridlington Spa in 1972, I had to ask the burning question "Could Ian A. still leap around the stage like a demented pixie on pro plus?" Not quite it seemed, and neither could I get to see what he was capable of in 2008, as tomorrow nights concert was sold out.

Tempting as it was to join them for "one for the road" at the Irish Bar I took the mature and sensible decision to carry on up the hill back to my cell.