Adventures in Scotland

Welcome to my blog! It’s about exploring Scotland.  I write about the trips my boyfriend and I take in Scotland.  We try to get away as often as possible; pack up the car on Thursday night and speed out of the city straight after work on Friday.  I love the feeling of heading into the unknown with a couple of days of freedom ahead.  When we get home on Sunday night, with a muddy tent and a whole bunch of new memories, it always feels like we’ve been on an adventure.

I’ll also write about great places I find in my relatively new home city – Glasgow. 

Hopefully, this blog will become a bit of a guide; a collection of all sorts of Scottish experiences, from where to get the best taste of Scottish culture, to romantic and exciting weekends away and memorable places to stay.   I hope it’s helpful.

Mountain biking & afternoon tea

Glen Tress- where to go when you’re feeling knarley.

Tips

-Hire a bike. The reinforced suspension and sharp brakes are essential. 

-Brace yourself for the slow, gentle slog up the hill and enjoy it! (it’s the most relaxing part!)

-Know your colours. Blue = beginner red= intermediate black =severe (not just advanced).  There’s a very big difference between blue and black

-Avoid sudden breaking.  Best just to go with it and ride over the rough parts.

-Wear clothes (and make up) you don’t mind being covered in mud.

-If you want to get good, or are a bit nervous, get lessons (they even offer girls only tuition)

Until a few months ago I had no idea that places like Glen tress existed.  Forested areas packed with man made, graded trails emanating from a ‘centre’ consisting of a café, some changing rooms and a hire shop.  It’s like a simple ski resort but for mountain biking.  On my first visit felt I like I’d gained access to an exclusive world I had no idea about- the biking world.   Cars with bikes in the boot, on the back and on the top, snake into the car park and people in baggy shorts and lycra tops emerge to don themselves in knee pads, elbow bads and even spine protectors (for the more hardcore riders) before jumping on their bikes to climb to the top of the downhill trails.  A few hours later everyone is covered in mud,  with splatters all over their faces, and ready to indulge in calorie rich food in the café (which has a - ‘muddy boots welcome’ sign on the door).

Last year I gave the mountain biking a go.  My boyfriend assured me the blue route (the easiest grading) would be well within my ability.   He hadn’t appreciated my lack of biking experience: it was a lot narrower, steeper and rougher than any of the childhood bike rides I fondly remember.   My hired bike was in top condition, with unnervingly sensitive brakes, and I powered up the hill enthusiastically.  It was when we started going downhill that it got a bit stressful.  It turns out that I don’t really enjoy riding over rough terrain, and am terrified by the slightest slip of the back wheel.  Plus, I’m not a huge fan of going fast which is apparently the main aim when mountain biking.  Ever determined (and not wanting to waste money spent on bike hire), I gave the blue route another go after lunch and, knowing what to expect, completed it far quicker and with a lot less fuss.  At some point I will plug up the courage to get back on a mountain bike but on this visit decided to let my boyfriend enjoy speeding down the red and the black routes and go running through the countryside.

My route took me through Peebles, a pretty little town on the River Tweed. The short high street has all of the features a small British town needs to be categorized as ‘qauint’ and win a place in the guide book: delicatessens come coffee shops, little boutiques selling home –made style cards and gifts, an old-fashioned style sweet shops and the mandatory selection of charity shops.  At 9:30am this short street was still waking up, with just a few people strolling alone with Saturday papers rolled under their arms.  At the end of the road I crossed an elegant, old bridge and joined a narrow B road.

Having grown up in the countryside I love an empty, winding road with the faint whaft of manure in the air.   A few gentle climbs were rewarded by clear views of the landscape, which had a rather English feel:  more gentle, rolling hills than stark lines and dramatic peaks. The colours remain distinctly Scottish with rusty brown brachen and fields of musty yellow.  Only a couple of cars and a group of horses passed me, the riders all smiling and saying hello. I attempted a response between pants but it's likely it looked more like a grimace.  I pass the entrances to country estates where long driveways disappearing into landscaped gardens hint at privileged lives lived out in the hidden historical houses.  Features of the landowners properties are accessible to the rest of us, a gatehouse converted to a bunk house and stables welcoming any paying customer. 

As I was hobbling back to the car my boyfriend conveniently reappeared, covered in mud.  We went for lunch in the dirt friendly café and a generous bowl of creamy Cullen skin with thick granary bread replaced all of the calories I’d just burnt.  The glass-fronted café was only built last year and is large, airy and very family friendly with an enlarged versions of snakes and ladders in the corner.  It may lack the atmosphere of the old, independently run joint, but the menu covers all of the hot comfort food you’d expect from full cooked breakfasts to paninnis and burgers.  And it does have free wifi.  

That evening we stayed at the Barony Castle near Peebles.  It’s not a real castle, it’s a manor house but little touches such as flags, turrets and metal bars across the windows, are enough to make it feel like one. Exhausted, with our leg muscles burning we hit the spa.  The pool was very much a hotel pool- small and shallow with mood lighting and couples floating around entwined.  I am never really sure what to do in these sorts of pools: they’re too small for swimming yet not hot enough to simply wallow.  We settled on races.  Competing to see who could cross the satisfyingly tiny lengths fastest.  It was great fun until I nearly lost a contact lens, then we hit the sauna.

For dinner we headed to a small Italian called Francos where we were welcomed with ‘prego’ and shown to a small table squeezed into the corner of a restaurant full to bursting with familes, friends and couples.  We’d found the place the locals go.  It was refreshing when the antipasti starter came on a plate, not a slate or wooden board, and consisted of two types of meat with some bruschetta and a selection of pickled veg- onions, peppers, gherkins, olives.  Simple and delicious.   It set the tone for the evening: this restaurant is about tasty food and a warm and lively atmosphere, not for fancy furnishings.

Sunday was a lazy affair.  Papers over a long, leisurely breakfast followed by a stroll around the 25 acres of grounds.  With a burbling stream, picturesque summerhouse and elm tree walk the gardens are the perfect backdrop for any wedding photos.   Concealed behind the trees are a couple of low ropes courses to add a fun challenge to your afternoon stroll.  There is also an incredible 3D scale model of Scotland built by Polish geographers in memory of the Polish forces who lived in the Barony castle whilst defending Scottish shores in the Second World War.  It’s in the process of being restored and when finished water will be introduced to flow through the mini rivers and fill the mini lochs.  Before we left we had afternoon tea of bubbly with sandwiches, scones, and meringues with strawberries and cream.  Surely a couple of hours of exercise on Saturday morning can justify a whole lazy weekend of indulgence?

Glasgow: a very Glasgow run...

It’s a Sunday evening in September and I return home after a weekend away.  Tired and fed up of public transport I pull on my trainers and head out into the Autumnal dusk.   

My usual loop begins by heading East along Dumbarton road.  As I wearily dodge my way through crowds a scruffy middle-aged man, obviously on his way between pubs, catches site of me. ‘Get those knees up’, he instructs, with the bark of an officer and a twinkle in his eye.  I smile. Outspoken strangers usually annoy but this guy spurs me on. It’s his cheeky delivery: contented in his drunkenness he wasn’t taking himself, or anyone else, at all seriously.   If only this attitude applied to football.

A bit further along the road I hear a cackle of sheer delight.  A Chinese family are crossing the road and a young boy, safe in his dad’s arms, is pointing at the fast approaching double decker and laughing as if dodging traffic is his favourite game.  It’s a quick glimpse of the noisy everyday day life that keeps this part of town buzzing.   It’s the life here, lived out between the football pubs, Greggs, the butchers and poundland, which distracts me from the dilapidated buildings and dog mess I frequently dodge.

Kelvingrove park is cast in long shadows.  Only a few people linger: a few children on scooters, the odd fellow jogger and the ever-present dog walkers.  Two stylish men, in smart trench coats and heavy rimmed glasses, walk purposely as if en route to a design meeting, yet surrounded by five dogs of different breeds.  

I run along the straight brick path bordered by meticulously neat rosebeds : a nod to the Victorian days when ladies with parasols admired them as they strolled.  At the end of the path the fountain stands tall; silhouetted against the bright indigo sky it appears strong and empowering - a fitting tribute to Lord Stewart, the man who changed the fate of the city by establishing the first permanent fresh water supply.

As night falls the darkness creeps under Kelvinbridge and I shudder as I run under it.   Glasgow’s edgy reputation tempts me to believe that danger is never far away (even though I’ve never experienced it).   The real risk is the steep path leading out of the bridge- I’ve had several near collisions with cyclists descending at speed around the blind corner.

Reaching the river it feels like I’m suddenly in the countryside: damp leaves conceal the concrete path and the air smells like a forest.  It is only the teenager I pass, donned in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, which give the inner city setting away.  By now, the shadows have reached every corner on the ground but the sky is still a vivid blue, streaked with wispy clouds.  It’s an electric, moody night; the wind is determined and the river flows strong and fast.

I glance up at Kelvin church spire, just visible through the trees. The dramatic gothic architecture still makes my hairs stand on end, as it did when I first arrived in Glasgow.  Just before I leave the river the moon emerges from behind a cloud to cast a striking, eerie reflection of the grand bridge. I return to street level to rejoin civilisation and head along Queen Margaret drive.  The glasshouses in the botanical gardens glow a soft yellow in the moonlight.

And now for the long stretch of Great Western road.  I love to run in the shadow of the tall town houses and peer through the grand front windows. With steps to the front door they are the type of building that command respect.  Interesting events must have taken place within their walls, the bricks will have stories to tell.  Some front rooms are reminiscent of stately homes with spectacular chandeliers lighting impressive collections of historical portraits.  Others use  sixties style stand-alone lamps to illuminate abstract paintings mounted on bold paint. 

In one of the front rooms I spy a group of people all sat around in a circle. I can just make out a man in his late thirties with a shaved head and stubble, holding a magazine.  A gathering on a Sunday night- they were either having an AA meeting, editing a niche magazine (probably to do with the arts), or planning a revolution.  Or maybe all three.  This is Glasgow after all.