En route to Donegal, 2008

25 October

Stranraer, 7.30am

We arrived here last night, after a largely uneventful trip from Edinburgh, save for the odd mildly panicked phone call from Broon as her and Gillian found themselves heading for Airdrie. The idea has been to break our journey to Donegal with an overnight stop near the ferry, to avoid a distressingly early start on the Saturday morning. All good so far, but today’s wind and rain, and most especially wind, has put paid to our hopes of sailing this morning. Broon texted me from the room next door at 6.30am to confirm that our 10am sailing had been cancelled. It was kind of her.

The crew on this year’s Donegal trip is the same as last year’s, with the sad exception that we are missing Shazza and her not inconsiderable vocal contributions. However, an old school friend – Karen – has stepped in to the breach, and we will hook up with her later today, or whenever the weather dies down and we can get on a boat across the sea. Which may turn out to be the middle of next week, which would be unfortunate, but at least would allow us ample time to explore Stranraer. Both of its streets.

I wandered along to the petrol station last night, while we waited for the girls to arrive from Airdrie, in search of some chocolate supplies. The petrol station was further back along the road than I had remembered, and as a result I had the opportunity to witness even more Ned-driven souped up Vauxhall Corsas cruising round the one-way system than I might have otherwise. What is it about small towns that they always end up with one-way systems and permanently-cruising Vauxhall Corsas?

When the girls finally arrived, we sat down with a cup of tea and some chocolate, and discussed our eating requirements for the week in more detail, so that Wiseman and I, rashly having been trusted with the shopping trip in Derry en route, would not fall out over how many sausages to buy.

This morning, as I gaze upon our depleted chocolate provisions, I fear that we may not have enough for another day in Stranraer, and may have to restock.

Loch Ryan, 7.15pm

Standing on deck, just as the boat rounded the headland and left the comparative peace and tranquility of Loch Ryan for the wild open sea, I felt my phone vibrate. It was mum.

“You’re not sailing, are you?”

“We are.”

“Oh. I called Ferrycheck at 4.30 and they said all sailings were cancelled.”

“We’re definitely sailing.”

“Are you sure you’re sailing?”

“Yes mother, I’m on the boat, looking back at the coastline recede into the distance. We’re definitely sailing.”

“Oh, son.” She sounded concerned. “I think it’s going to be a rocky crossing.”

I was keenly aware of the fact that it was going to be a rocky one. I was standing out on deck and the wind had almost taken my phone out of my hands. We exchanged pleasantries, and I went back to listening to Energy Orchard. As ‘Good day to die’ gave way to ‘Belfast’ for the second time round, I lurched back inside and hoped that Belfast wouldn’t be too long in coming around for real.

Broon was stretched out, plugged in to her iPod, looking a little ropey. Gilly had propped herself up against the seat, earphones in, with her eyes closed in a very determined way. Wiseman, naturally, was downing his first pint of Murphy’s.

Our boat had finally sailed at 4.30pm. We spent a nice enough day puttering about in Stranraer. Wiseman and I patronised the gym for an hour or so, while the girls found a chemist to stock up on travel sickness tablets, and a pretty decent and resoundingly unpretentious café. We joined them there and discussed the journey ahead. Anticipating a choppy crossing, the girls restricted themselves to a cup of tea and a scone. Mark and I decided that there might as well be something there to throw up, and went for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and fish and chips, respectively. We had two different brands of travel tablets, so we split into two control groups. Broon and I opted for the homeopathic tablets, while Wiseman and Gilly went for the more chemical alternative.

Now, several hours later, the chemicals seem to be in the ascendancy. Broon is proving to be a disappointing advert for natural herbal remedies. I am doing ok. Gilly is feeling like going for a sandwich, while Wiseman is feeling so good he is loudly contemplating a steak. Am unsure how much of his buoyancy is down to the effects of the drugs, and how much can be attributed to the Murphy’s, having just finished his third pint.

We totter down to the cafeteria. There are a lot of ill-looking people down there, including Téannich, a ceilidh band from Edinburgh. The boat’s pitching and rolling seems much more obvious than it did up in our lounge on the next level.

It’s going to be a late arrival in Donegal. The lady who looks after the cottage is going to leave the lights on and the key under the mat.

Cambridge, Day 3

Cambridge being not a million miles away from London, Saturday provided me with a rare opportunity to have lunch in the Big Smoke with Maggie. Regrettably, it meant I missed a day of lectures at the conference we’ve been attending down here. But them’s the breaks.

I emerged from Liverpool Street Station into bright London sunshine. The weather has been glorious the last few days, which has been a tonic for us Northerners, suffering as we have been under a grim grey cloud recently. I installed myself on a stone seat outside the station and absorbed the warmth. Before long my phone buzzed, and I wandered across the road to greet Maggie and her parents.

We meandered along Brick Lane and around the area famous for being Jack the Ripper’s domain, stopping for coffee somewhere that my sister promised me was authentically independent. “Although they have four shops now.” How many outlets can a local independent outfit grow to before it loses its character and identity and becomes a faceless chain? And further, can a company long deemed the underdog in its field, making esoteric products for the discerning minority, become a corporate global success without losing its appeal to its hardcore fans? Like Apple for instance – their success with the iPod has meant they are the iconic brand for mp3 players. However, Microsoft retain their stranglehold on the PC OS market, and Apple Macs are still the underdogs as a result. Some part of the British psyche (or maybe it’s just mine) likes the underdog and wants them to succeed against their bigger brothers. However, if they do succeed and continue to grow market share, they inevitably become the big bullying brother themselves and, to some extent at least, lose their appeal. Perhaps this explains the Tall Poppy Syndrome so prevalent in our media.

Anyway, the coffee was good, and I tried not to look overtly out of place in the ultra-chic interior. We moved on to a 24hr Jewish bakery where Alison replenished the family’s bagel supply, and then headed on somewhere for lunch. I almost passed a record shop, then thought better and popped inside for a browse. I had already succumbed to a Van Morrison LP purchase in Notting Hill earlier in the morning. This time, a triple-pack Groove Armada record caught my eye – one of the Back to Mine series on the DMC label. I have no real idea what any of that means, apart from guessing that there should have been three discs in the sleeve. There were only two. The shop assistant, spotting me looking puzzled, apologised for the missing disc and offered to chop a third of the price. I was just glad that triple pack wasn’t some street term for two LPs, and decided to take him up on his offer. I know only one Groove Armada track – “At the River” – which is probably highly unrepresentative of their general output, but is absolute genius.

“I actually work for the record company – DMC – that the Back to Mine series was released on,” the assistant told me proudly.

I tried to look impressed.

“We’ve got Coldcut doing the next one – it’s due out next year. “Very excited about that!”

I nodded and smiled.

“Cool.”

I really wasn’t. I tried to look like I was equally excited, despite only having vaguely heard of Coldcut.

Better to stay silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt – so says the adage. I think perhaps that could be adapted, in my case, to:

“Better to stay out of cool record shops in East London and be thought square and unhip, than to go inside and remove all doubt.”

Cambridge, Day 1

Just before 6.30pm, we spilled out into the Quad. The sky, pale blue beforehand, had turned a deeper dusky shade while we’d been inside, and the moon was rising. The brightly lit windows in the ancient buildings around us promised warmth. The building we’d just left, despite being ostensibly a place of worship, had offered only cold austerity.

We had attended Evensong at King’s College, Cambridge. There is, undeniably, a beauty in the choral music at services like this. The choir of King’s College are world-renowned, and the interior of the Chapel is instantly recognisable from the annual BBC broadcast of their Christmas Eve Carol Service. But my experience of this evening’s service saddened me, because it removed God to such a lofty distance as to make him inaccessible. Raised in an Anglican tradition, much of the liturgy was familiar to me, and as with the music, there is an exquisite beauty in the words of the prayers and canticles.

But as the choir sang an introit, presumably in Latin, the candle-wielding clergy moved solemnly towards the altar, clad in vaguely sinister white hooded robes. Not all the robes were long enough to conceal the blue jeans underneath. Jeans, it may be deduced, are unsuitable attire for worshipping God and must be covered up. If the fundamental message of Christianity is that God reached out to us in grace, bridging the yawning chasm of separation because we were unable to attain anything like the level of holiness required, then why do we dress up to worship him? Will that impress him?

The service developed into a two-way exchange between the priests, at the top of the nave, and the choir – situated further down. We, the plebs, were in between. The clergy would intone a phrase, and the choir would respond. It was impenetrable for those of us without orders of service. It was, as I understand it, this kind of superfluous man-made ceremony and ritual that led to the Plymouth Brethren ditching the established church’s traditions and reducing church practice back its simple essence. And yet, I have met staunch Brethren who find it unacceptable that I should wear casual clothes to church on a Sunday.

Why do we keep missing the point?

We trod the gravel path around the edges of the manicured grassy centre of the quad. The lawn was immaculate, and quite beautiful, due no doubt, at least in part, to the KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs.

And there it was, right there. As the grass, so the church service. Aesthetically magnificent, but please remain at a distance.

This is not the God I know.

Salzburg

Just returned from four days in Salzburg, Austria. Myself and the Admin Supremo were at a retail seminar, working hard, as you might expect.

On the train back to Munich and our Edinburgh flight, the Supremo found himself haggling with the conductor on the train, who explained (in German) that we needed to pay extra to be on this particular train. The Supremo deemed this totally unacceptable, and protested loudly, in English. The conductor, faced with the prospect of an argument with possibly the world’s most argumentative man, suddenly appeared to lose any grasp of English he might have had, and one credit card transaction later, moved on.

The trip was pleasingly punctuated with stops for coffee, at every opportunity, convenient or otherwise. And the odd slice of Sachertorte and apple strudel, obviously. When we weren’t working hard of course, which wasn’t very often.

Salzburg is an outstanding city, with a wonderful old town full of twisting medieval streets and a rich history. It is the birthplace of Mozart, who himself wasn’t that fond of Salzburg and its denizens, and moved to Vienna at the earliest opportunity. But what did he know about anything, apart from music. That he did know about. We enjoyed a simply stunning rendition of his Requiem in the Kollegienkirche on Saturday evening. And headed to a concert featuring Mozart on the Sunday morning. Unfortunately, we got that one wrong, and it was Haydn, Ravel and Fauré. We also weren’t expecting all of Salzburg to turn up for the concert in their Sunday best. I daresay they weren’t expecting two Scots/Irish loafers to appear in their jeans and hoodies either. Mercifully, they served coffee and Lion bars at the interval, so despite the lack of Mozart, all was not lost. Still, we sneaked out after Fauré’s Pavane, before having to endure another Haydn symphony (Haydn, I can’t help but feel, is the poor man’s Mozart). The Pavane was the BBC’s World Cup theme in 1998. I think this important fact was lost on the majority of the good folk of Salzburg, and was somewhat disappointed that the conductor, who looked remarkably like David Baddiel, didn’t point that out. One feels that if it had been David Baddiel, he would have surely mentioned it.

Moving on, we spent some time with a portable audio guide machine thing glued to our ear as we walked around Mozart’s residence. The audio commentary contained a fair few bursts of Mozart’s music, which led to the amusing sight of other tourists dancing and jigging along with what looked like a portable credit card machine pressed against their ear. By the time we had made our way round Mozart’s birthplace, and then the inside of the quite impressive Castle, we were both getting serious museum fatigue. So we popped into Mozartplatz to say goodbye to the man himself, and then quick-marched back to the hotel for a nap.

We followed that up with easily the most expensive meal I have ever had, at the Ikarus restaurant at Hangar-7. Outrageously good food, and service, at an eye-popping price. An Amaretto in the glass-and-steel bubble suspended from the glass-and-steel hangar ceiling, 50 feet above an exhibition of Red Bull-sponsored planes, helicopters and Formula One racing cars, rounded the evening (and the trip) off in some style. As befits men of style, such as the Supremo and myself…

Some photos of the trip here

It’s not all doom and gloom

I apologise for the lack of bloggage recently. I would dearly like to tell you that the hiatus has been due to my spending quality time with an outstanding woman, but I’m afraid the quality time has been spent with Commandos 2: Men of Courage, and the outstanding woman remains afar off. However, it’s not all doom and gloom, as Burma has been more or less liberated, and I am currently in the process of rescuing a Resistance man from Colditz. No easy task, as I’m sure you can imagine. However, I have looked up from my computer screen long enough to pick up a copy of the Guardian, wherein I read an article on the world’s finest (and most expensive, surely) coffee maker, the Clover. This mostly hand-made machine makes coffee so good that retailers can afford to charge getting on for £10 a cup. Step forward Starbucks, purveyors of evil-tasting coffee. According to the article, Howard Schmuck, or is it Schultz, the Dark Angel in charge of the Starbucks Legions, was so upset that they no longer had the most overpriced coffee on the high street that he promptly bought the company that makes the Clover. Which means that if the coffee from these things really is that good, independent coffee shops will no longer have access to it, which is a dastardly ploy typical of the fiends.

Or perhaps it’s just a successful capitalist tactic. And here’s where I struggle. I can consider myself both a capitalist and a socialist, depending on which way the wind’s blowing at the time. I buy the Daily Telegraph from time to time, and the Guardian at other times. I sometimes even read them, and find myself amused by their extreme right and left winged-ness. I wear, with some pride, a T-shirt bearing a mock-up of the Starbucks logo with the words “Big Bucks Capitalism” replacing their name, and bask in the compliments from dissident-minded student types who like it. But I work for a company that is essentially capitalist in nature, and enjoy it. As I see it, capitalism rewards hard work. A socialist approach, while brilliant in theory, will inevitably be milked by those in our society who can’t be bothered to work and are more than happy to live off the hard work of others. But capitalism is also fallible, and susceptible to corruption, by corporations who grow too large to be bothered with ethics. Starbucks, I am sure, don’t even feature on the map of the world’s most unethical companies. They obtain their coffee from Fair Trade sources, I am assured, and pay the best prices for it. But somewhere along the way they make it taste really bad (I know, I know, that’s a matter of opinion) and charge outrageous prices for it (that’s indisputable) and place their outlets in every street in every land, even in France, where they should know better, adding to the global homegeneity and making me upset. And that’s, more or less, why I don’t like them.

It’s not all doom and gloom. Starbucks were referred to in the article as an “ailing coffee giant”. How I like that description. Jones informs me that 650 out of 830 Starbucks have closed. I presume he means in Australia, which is where he was when he told me that. And presumably they’re properly closed this time, rather than closing for a few hours to teach their baristas how to make coffee (you’d think they might have thought about doing that earlier).

When Starbucks finally falls catastrophically from its position in the global financial firmament, there’ll be a party at my place, and you’re all invited. Let’s hope it’s not overly soon, though, as my kitchen ceiling collapsed last week under the weight of a not insignificant amount of leaking water from upstairs. Not a problem, mum has returned to her position as chief cook and clothes washer, and I have moved my Command Centre to the living room. Colditz has been conquered (this blog was a while in the writing) and I’m about to liberate Paris. Vive la Résistance!

Waffles and Waterproof Trousers

South Africa 322/4

As we departed the hotel for Headingley yesterday morning, we were met by a shower of rain. Regardless, I ventured out in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals (and an umbrella), while DC was more stoutly dressed in a raincoat and long trousers. On seeing the rain, he produced, like some Scottish Presbyterian conjuror, a pair of waterproof trousers from his bag and straightaway put them on. I attempted to dissuade him with hoots of derision, but he was not to be put off, and away we went.

DC and I worked our way through the Daily Telegraph crossword in the morning session, while Nasty Jen, according to text updates from a mutual friend, was working her way through a tentful (she later claimed it was more like a marquee) of Aussie men in St Andrews. The mind boggles.

DC disappeared off to the bookies at tea, to “catch up on the golf”, and Wiseman went off to the toilet, although curiously he came back clutching a burger. On their return, I wandered round to the back of the West Stand, and found a purveyor of waffles. I stood in the gap between the Main Stand and the West Stand for a bit, watching the cricket. The sun was on my back, the chocolate-coated waffle was delicious, and the only thing disturbing the serenity was the semi-riot taking place amongst the denizens of the West Stand. This particular stand, going back to its days as the Western Terrace, has a long history of boisterous crowd behaviour, with a penchant for throwing beach balls around (a banned activity), stacking hundreds of plastic beer glasses together horizontally (another banned activity) and passing the resulting snake around the crowd, cheering wildly as it becomes longer and especially when it evades the clutches of the stewards. Roddy, an ex-Holy Cross wicket-keeping team-mate, was sitting in the West Stand today. I texted him before tea offering to buy him a pint. We had managed to catch up at the tea-break on Day 1, but yesterday I fear he was too busy forming beer-glass-snakes and baiting the stewards and police to hear his mobile phone. He was always so well-behaved behind the stumps as well.

I finished my waffle, got myself a cup of tea, and stood in the sun again, watching England vainly trying to prise out another South African batsman. It wasn’t to be – only one wicket fell all day, and even that was a bad decision. England’s lack of bowling penetration in this Test is worrying, particularly as Flintoff, the Great White Hope, has returned. Flintoff, while bowling well, has not made the batsmen play enough, and has been unable to generate enough pace or hostility to get them out. Lack of swing has been a serious problem, which has rendered Pattinson, the new boy, ineffective, as it might have Hoggard, or even Sidebottom, if they had been playing.

Back in my seat, I thought it had started raining, but in fact it was a chap in the upper tier of the stand, returning from the bar with four full pints. He must have been a little unsteady on his feet, as a fair proportion of the beer was tipped over the edge of the tier onto our heads below. DC’s dignity was protected by his substantial wet weather armour, and I regret to say he adopted an air of superiority as a result.

It eventually did start raining, although long after it was forecast to, and with the close of play imminent anyway, DC fished out the waterproof trousers and we trudged back to the hotel. After the requisite afternoon nap for one of the party, we headed into Leeds for some food, and after a short search, landed in a place called Tampopo, serving a variety dishes from across Asia. It’s a chain, I later determined, but not one that’s made it as far north as Edinburgh, and since none of us had eaten there before, it didn’t count as a chain. Wiseman had an unpronounceable meal from Vietnam.

“Is it hot?” enquired DC.

“No” said Wiseman, shaking his head, and then promptly bit into a red chilli.

We retired to the hotel satisfied by a great meal and a good weekend all round. England are sinking fast in the Test, much to DC’s delight. Wiseman was reasonably content, having remembered his radio on Day 2, and in any case the bars were open on both days. The Trip to the Test can therefore be considered a success for both my companions. I was pleased to see plenty of action (and controversy) on the first day, and generally had fun watching cricket with my mates again, rather than on my own, as I had done (mostly) last time around in Australia. My presence at England matches, however, seems to have had a detrimental effect on their performance, if the last three examples are anything to go by.

Roll on Edgbaston. I promise to stay away.

Leeds, Day Two

England 203
South Africa 101/3

South Africa were on top yesterday, so DC finished the day much happier than either Wiseman or I, Mark having left his digital radio in the hotel, and so unable to keep abreast of Blowers’ uniquely colourful commentary. Helpfully, I passed them some highlights from that and the shipping forecast when it came around. It was a cracking day’s cricket, despite England’s collapse, with Freddie Flintoff making his first Test appearance since I saw him lead the team to defeat in Sydney 18 months ago. Sadly he flashed at a wide one on 17 and departed somewhat sheepishly.

Wiseman and I arrived at the ground clad optimistically in shorts, he, rather foolishly, following my lead in the matter. The weather was cloudy and drizzly, and not especially warm, and I don’t recall seeing anyone else in shorts in the entire ground, but this being the cricket, there were a number of outfits on show that made shorts look positively sensible, including men in women’s clothing, and a smattering of superheros. At some point during the afternoon session I conceded defeat and popped into a toilet cubicle to change into my jeans, emerging to find Superman wrestling his way back into his suit. It’s good to know that even Superman has to take a pee.

Thursday night, as expected, was largely sleepless, partly due to the skylight, which shed rather too much light on the matter, but also because every water pipe in the hotel seems to be routed through the wall behind my bed. A previous occupant of the room had also helpfully set the TV to switch itself on at 5.30am, for which I was less than grateful.

Last night as considerably better, having tired myself out by sitting watching cricket all day. Was woken by the sounds of Wiseman preparing to go for a run next door – that is he was preparing next door, rather than going for a run in his room. On returning from his run at 8.30am, he knocked on my door, which elicited an appropriate sub-duvet response.

Breakfast was taken at 9am. Wiseman entertained us once more with his unique croissant-buttering technique, and we even struck up some convivial early morning conversation, something neither myself or DC are renowned for, with an Englishman on a nearby table.

And so on to Day Two. Right now, the sun is shining, although showers are forecast. Nevertheless we are in good spirits, and I am confidently starting the day in shorts and sandals again.

Come on England.

The Little Chef and cricket

Had lunch with Glenn and Anna last Sunday. Their oldest daughter, Maria, who’s four and feisty with it, once the main course was over, removed herself from the table and installed herself on the sofa, where she declared she would take her dessert. Anna made it quite clear that unless madam returned to the table, improved her mood and began to behave herself, there would be no dessert at all. I reflected on how it isn’t all bad being a grown-up. After all, you can be grumpy and still have your dessert.

It’s Thursday night, and I’m in a Leeds hotel. DC and Wiseman are in the adjoining rooms. It sounds like Wiseman has just smacked his head off the wall, but I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. We’re here for a couple of days of the Second Test between England and South Africa. DC, being a rabid Scot, has adopted South Africa as his favourite cricket team for another month or so, or whenever their series against England ends. He refers to them as “our boys”. I, of course, am supporting England. Wiseman is along for the opportunity to drink beer, hopefully in the sun, and listen to the TMS commentary via a 15 second delay on his portable digital radio.

Having left straight after work, we were looking for somewhere to eat shortly after the halfway mark. The distance between Edinburgh and Leeds is 222 miles, which makes Leeds a superstitiously perfect cricketing destination for us. Almost bang on 111 miles into the journey, a sign for services appeared. Genius. We veered off the A1, hopping from foot to foot inside the car. “It’s a Little Chef, it’s a Little Chef – look look!!” cried Wiseman excitedly. He had already declared that wherever we stopped for food must have peas. Garden peas. Because he was in the mood for peas.

Little Chef fits the bill. Being a British institution, it must have peas on the menu. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a Little Chef, it was a remarkably dodgy-looking Indian restaurant. Right in the middle of nowhere. It says something for its dubious appearance that three lads not averse to a curry immediately turned the car round and headed back to the A1.

(The next services was only a few miles further on, and it was indeed a Little Chef. Wiseman was beside himself.)

Wiseman stayed in this very hotel two months ago, while on a university-funded course being taught how to hack into wireless networks. Between him and the sat nav, we arrived safely and without undue fuss. I landed in room 34, my age, which I took great delight in pointing out to DC and Wiseman, for whom the thirties are a distant memory. They may have the last laugh in the morning, however, as my room is the only one with what appears to be an ancestor of the Velux window. I also have a normal window, with a quirky triangular window above it, both of which have efficient-looking curtains. The skylight does not have a curtain of any description. I note with some trepidation that the sun is due to rise at 4:56 am.

Here’s to an early wakening…

Oh Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight

Oh, Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight,
With people all working by day and by night.
Sure they don’t sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,
But there’s gangs of them digging for gold in the street.
At least when I asked them that’s what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

(Percy French, 1896)

Friday last, I found myself in London for the day, courtesy of my work. I had the luxury of travelling down by train, in first class, which was very pleasant. Free tea and biscuits only takes you so far, however, so just outside York I headed for the restaurant car. One lucky and unsuspecting lady got a high-definition close-up of me on the way, as the train rounded a bend suddenly and I lurched into her lap. I muttered my apologies and carried on without looking back to see what her partner had made of our close encounter. In the restaurant a nice Aussie waitress took my order for breakfast.

“How would you like your eggs done, sir?”

Unprepared for such a question outside of the USA, I was just trying to remember how I liked my eggs done (Over easy, as I recall), when she clarified the options.

“Fried or poached?”

Ah. How naive I was.

Today sees me in London again, for the weekend this time, at the beginning of a holiday. I have never been desperately fond of London, finding it intimidatingly big, dirty and generally unfriendly. But it does have rather a lot going for it, too. Quite apart from the obvious (my sister lives there with her partner, and my mischievous bundle of a niece), there’s always plenty of things happening. And it’s noticeably several degrees warmer than Edinburgh. On Saturday I spent the day in Hyde Park, at a Hard Rock Café-sponsored event, soaking up the sun, Sheryl Crow, John Mayer and Eric Clapton.

Sheryl Crow was great, John Mayer, one of my principal reasons for going, was excellent, although restricted a little by only getting a 45 minute set, and Clapton was simply awesome. The sequence which closed the show (prior to the encore) was Wonderful Tonight – Layla – Cocaine, with barely a pause for a breath. The other guitarist in Clapton’s band was a left-handed wizard called Doyle Bramhall II whose guitar strings were in the wrong order. My eagle-eyed festival companion Iain noticed this. Mr Bramhall clearly learnt to play on an upside down right-handed guitar without restringing it. Genius. Either that or he has so completely mastered the conventionally-strung guitar that he got bored and reversed the string order to give himself a challenge.

So my sojourn in London is almost over. In addition to the Hyde Park show I had the privilege of worshipping at Soul Survivor yesterday morning, and what’s more, watching the afore-mentioned Eagle-eyed Iain playing bass there for the first time. As far as I could tell he had all the strings in the right order. There’s been two barbeques in one day, and the usual quality time with little Maggie, lying on our backs in the garden, considering the sky and philosophising. And kicking our legs in the air, which seems quite popular.

But that’s my digging for gold in London over for now. I’m off to where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea, to see if Mr French had it right after all…

Keswick and cricket bags

Being completely and utterly out of shape, I look forward to the start of the 2008 cricket season tomorrow with some trepidation. Not that I’m in danger of being found out during the game itself, as a leisurely walk to the middle and back shouldn’t tax even my fitness. It’s carrying the cricket bag that frightens me. It’s absolutely massive. Never has so much sporting equipment been used by one man with such little effect.

The league season actually kicked off two weeks ago, but I was at a worship conference in Glasgow that day, and last weekend I spent a lovely few days in Keswick with the family. Keswick is one of those rare precious places that has, so far, avoided fostering the Axis of Evil partners (Starbucks et al) and as a result retains a wonderful character all of its own. The family, these days, comprises my mum, my sister Alison, her partner Angela, and little Maggie. That’s a lot of females. By the time Monday came, and Alison’s friends Diane and Caroline arrived, with their little girl in tow, I was just about ready to come home. It was just me and Hamish the cat, bloke-wise, and he was neutered, poor thing. You know things are in a pretty sorry state when your only man-to-man conversation is with an emasculated cat.

Couldn’t be more different from my last visit to Keswick, when, all the way back in 2002, I shared the very same cottage with 5 other lads, in order to celebrate my best mate Grant’s impending marriage. Not a female in sight, apart from the TVR Tuscan we had hired for the weekend. Our Keswickian neighbours were mightily impressed when we revved the 4.2 litre straight six outside their window of a morning. I worried for the whole weekend that Grant would wrap the TVR round a tree, which would have instantly lost me £1000 in insurance excess, which I didn’t have. My anxieties were not eased when it started snowing on the Saturday morning. But we all made it back in one piece, including the car.

So anyway, in preparation for the forthcoming cricketing humiliation that is the 2008 summer, I lumbered down to cricket practice two nights ago, and was promptly sent in to bat, whereupon I unfurled my array of cricketing strokes. I managed to display all my best ones, including the leading edge, the top edge and the outside edge. Somewhat disconcerting, cricket practice, as the surface in the nets is some artificial substance in pristine condition, with a hard, true bounce. Whereas we normally play on slow pitches with variable bounce. So the merits of net practice are somewhat questionable, although it does at least allow you to reacquaint yourself with your cricket bat when you haven’t picked it up since last season, and of course gives you some practice in the art of carrying your oversized cricket bag to and from the car. It also allows you to spend at least a few minutes ‘batting’, as distinct from ‘carrying one’s bat to and from the middle’.

Wiseman called me tonight to see what I was up to. I was busy, as it happens, on the way through to Glasgow to see the aforementioned Grant. On my way to my first ever Italian restaurant with an Indian waiter (Parmesan and black pepper, pliss? Thank you pliss) although I didn’t know it at the time. So I suggested we hook up tomorrow night after cricket.

“You’re playing cricket tomorrow? Crumbs, you’ll be depressed.”

Thanks Mark. As distinct from my usual ebullient self, you must mean.

I may not be depressed (although there is every likelihood of this) but I will be sore. Ten minutes of batting followed by what amounted to two overs ‘bowling’ (I use the term loosely) and two days later I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Or maybe a large cricket bag…