Breezy November days

Wednesday and Thursday are somewhat wet but very windy. On Wednesday I find a route through forestry tracks to Tobermory, where I am nearly blown off my bike and take one picture to prove I’ve been there. You can see the boats in the harbour are bucking in the swell.

Thursday, I head out to Caliach point, then on to Calgary bay where I have the beach (not surprisingly) to myself ...

...and also enjoy the Calgary Art in Nature woodlands until I begin to get cold despite my seven layers of clothing.

Yes you’ve guessed it I was the only person there too, the problem with which is definitely no cup of coffee.

Mull

A wet crossing from Oban to Craignure and I am (not surprisingly) the only bike on the ferry. No fighting for outside seats, which have been carefully designed to collect puddles of rainwater.

Ten miles in the rain up to Salen, and then just enough brightness in the west to tempt me the long way round the west coast to Dervaig, a 37 mile day “with some steep bits”.

About half way, my bike objects to my breaking the “never change parts within 14 days prior to a trip” and the new rear tyre pops out of the wheel rim. After a bit of experimenting – switching the front and back tyres/tubes keeps the problem at the rear so it is a tyre-wheel combination issue – I continue with relatively low tyre pressure and make it to Dervaig

North of Ulva, something big passes over without the roar of a RAF jet. Unmistakable wings and white flash in the tail, first one and then two sea eagles circle over Loch Tuath before heading inland. Very impressive, although I would have liked to see them fishing.

It is getting dark when I get to the bunkhouse, attached to a new village hall built with Millennium funding. As a new build, it is not a character-filled log-fire sort of place but functional, and (not surprisingly) I have it to myself.

And it is 200m from the oldest inn on the island, which is serving Avalanche, a rather nice highland beer from Fyne Ales

A late summer holiday

Gilshochill, Summerston. Way-places that give you ideas and feelings because of where you are going whenever you see the names.

Garelocheadhead, Ardlui. Feeling-of-getting-there-places that you might even settle for getting off at.

Crianlarich. “The front two coaches are for Oban, the two rear coaches for Fort William and Mallaig.” Turning left here is new territory as I have never been beyond Cruachan to Oban.

At Tyndrum, the ground is still white with a hard frost, in contrast with the Meadows in Edinburgh where the sun had cleared the grass by 10:30. Loch Awe wears a necklace of ice around its edges and it begins to look very grey.

Taynuilt, and the rain comes on. Again on this trip, I look convincingly old and am not asked for proof of age for my Club55 ticket.

Oban. Another passing-through place best known for its ferries to nicer places. But because everyone has said it is a bit of a dump I am pleasantly surprised, and the fish (local I assume) and chips are excellent.

I pass through.

Disconnects

As my first mobile phone, vintage 2002, ages, there is an inevitability that its replacement will be able to do more than this one does. It might even access the internet, which would be both good and bad.

By the way, this in not a Christmas present hint to my daughters!

I’ve tried the idea of a weekly e-sabbath, not connecting to the internet for one day each week, but I either forget or feel the need to keep going with clearing my inbox. I remember telling Pastor Job in Uganda, whose day off was a Monday, to turn his new mobile phone off on Mondays, his wife loved the suggestion but Job himself couldn’t bring himself to do it as he is supposed to be available. Needless to say I found him working the next Monday.

So instead I plan to disconnect for a 6 day slot each quarter during 2011. It doesn’t mean actually going away, but that will obviously help to add value. The first one starts tomorrow, and I am off to Dervaig on Mull. I will be taking three good books and my Sangstream song words to learn.

Bealach

After that course for the advisers last Monday, I had a strong sense that I was in a place of bealach. That’s the gaelic word for a hill pass, not a long narrow one, that’s a lairig, more of an up and over the ridge.

The last couple of weeks has been heavy going, rather like the last slog up to the ridge. A bealach is a good place to be, partly because you get to eat your sandwiches. But also because the way then goes down, and because you get a new set of views.

One quote I noticed in a financial advice mailing this week was by J.P.Morgan “When you expect things to happen, strangely enough they do happen.” And I suppose that because I decided in 1995 to leave BP, I began to cause that to happen.

But to go to the very last page of the Hobbit, a book I may well quote from time to time in these posts, Bilbo had a visit from Balin and Gandalf some years after he returned from his adventure to his burrow. On hearing what had been happening,

‘Then the prophecies of the old songs have turned out to be true after a fashion!’ said Bilbo.

‘Of course’, said Gandalf. And why should not they prove true? Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies because you hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit?’

However, so far I am on the bealach in cloud (a not unusual state of affairs!), and am looking forward to the view appearing.

The Elders at the Gate

Back on 30 July, Colin H raised the idea of having a 10 year or even 20 year plan. I gave up on the 20 year idea, but as in 10 years I will be 66 it seems like a good idea to plan that far ahead. This could be dangerous because the last time I had one of these plans was in 1995, when it involved leaving BP by 2005. In the end, I managed that goal in under 5 years and as a result ended up in Karamoja, Afghanistan, Tajikistan and China.

This time I wrote down some comments about what I would not be doing, classic retirement stuff, before I think getting to the crux of it.

“Meanwhile, build up my skills for an elder at the gate role. And specifically skills in listening to God and speaking prophetically into other people’s lives.”

This can be interpreted at an individual level, as my role individually amongst the elders in a Middle East town in Old Testament times. But it can also be interpreted at a community level, I’m probably taking that idea from Michael Frost, who wants to see the local church taking its missional place amongst the community of elders at the gate. Would the community miss us if we closed or moved away?

Image – The Elders at the Gate – James Tissot (1836-1902)

I feel the Money Clinic did that last Monday when we put on a personal budget course for advisers, attended by half a dozen Citizens Advice, Housing Association and council advisers. So far, I would say that the only source of budget coaching in Edinburgh is two churches - CCE and Abbeyhill – but it was a big step up to teach the skills to advisers to augment their own debt advice skills.

Stepping out of routines

Since I have a sense that blogs are now rather last year, and quite a few active bloggers have given up or faded, it must be about time as a convinced contrarian to restart mine after a 19 month gap. In fact, I even had a problem locating it after all this time.

I suppose the point which concerns me is that instant publishing of stuff without any filtering or processing is good in one sense, but deadening in another. As a result, our processing of the present can become quite superficial. I think blogging forces me to think and to write about the present in a more considered way, "living life with eyes wide open" in much the same way that carrying a camera around makes me look more carefully at my surroundings.

Earlier in October I said that I would plan to do at least one thing quite out of character every week for the rest of 2010. I wasn’t thinking about anything quite as extreme as this suggestion list from a sibling:

· turn up at a station without any pre planning.

· Start watching EastEnders.

· Say "who cares" when someone gets some facts wrong.

· Be extrovert at a party.

· Buy some smart new clothes.

Let’s settle to begin with for extending my routine world rather than turning me into someone else altogether … but still radically breaking the Duguid clan taboos (a concept which outsiders won't understand at all).

So far we have

· 5 and 19 Oct I went to two lunchtime plays in the Traverse theatre “ A Play a Pie and a Pint series”. Might be routine for you, but thanks to Gill for poking me on this one. Still hoping to get my dad to the Birnam Institute where I am assured nothing at all ever happens.

· 18 and 25 Oct, went out for a coffee at the Metropole on a Monday morning by myself with a Guardian weekly, also an illegal activity. You are allowed possibly to meet up with a third party for coffee. You can also buy a coffee on a train. If neither of these exemptions apply, sensible people have their coffee at home.

· 23 Oct, built on this by having an even nicer coffee at Vane Farm while watching the birds on Loch Leven. Oh, and there is a really nice 8 mile cycle track round the loch to Kinross. Not only does your lunch taste better outside, but perhaps the poem you sat on works better outside too?

There are a number of these benches along the Loch Leven Heritage Way which offer an insight into the work of Michael Bruce, a famous 18th century Scots poet who was born in nearby Kinesswood

Candle on the table in the evening. Thanks to Jill for this former Christmas present, but aren't candles just for decoration? Are you allowed to burn them?

· 28 Oct was in Tescos in Nicholson Street, remember that’s where I had my heart attack 22 months ago. Checked my till receipt (OK, not to do this would be a step too far) and noticed that the cereal bars had come up as 76p instead of 72p. And I didn’t bother pulling them up, even although they would double the mistake to 8p.

Next week’s contradiction will be to go to Mull, an island I haven’t been to before, with a Munro and a Corbett I haven’t climbed, and be quite happy cycling around the other half of the island. Giving me an excuse course to go back later (but that would be to rationalise it).

And perhaps even restarting this blog after 19 months counts as another change of routine?

Anither bit fixed

OK, this x-ray isn't my shoulder, it's from the internet.

I had a good visit to the orthopaedic outpatients department on Wednesday, where I had a series of X-rays which confirmed my rotator cuff tendonitis. This is where the tendon which runs between the ball and the overhanging shoulder blade gets trapped in the small space between the two bones. Because it has been around a while, there are clear calcium deposits in the inflamed area.

So I had a corticosteroid injection, to give it a chance to heal up, and by today it is certainly feeling much better. I have to go back in two months. If repeated injections are not enough, the next step is to do some engineering repairs and plane a bit off the underside of the shoulderblade to make a bit more room for the tendon. That sounds sore ...

Spring in Dunkeld

This was the last of my eight weeks "off work" after the heart attack, so I decided to go up to stay with my father in Dunkeld, especially as my sister Ally was to be there as well.

In the spirit of taking it easy, I checked out the new chain saw I had delivered last November, then continued to clear the elders in the area below the house with the bow saw, and transfer the logs over the deer fence for adding to the fuel store. Ally and I also took a walk up the Deuchary, a 3hr20min walk with an ascent of 400m (around Pentlands size).

However, as a result of Ally's excellent catering, I have definitely put back the weight I was losing!

Deuchary view to east

Snowdrops in Dunkeld garden

Pensioned off wheelbarrow

Meet Mr Gum, my alternative atavar

So this is the character who reminds my younger daughter of me!

Mr Gum was a fierce old man with a red beard and two bloodshot eyes that stared out at you like an octopus curled up in a bad cave. He was a complete horror who hated children, animals, fun and corn on the cob. What he liked was snoozing in bed all day, being lonely and scowling at things.

He slept and scowled and picked his nose and ate it. Most of the townsfolk of Lamonic Bibber avoided him and the children were terrified of him. Their mothers would say, ‘Go to bed when I tell you or Mr Gum will come and shout at your toys and leave slime on your books!’ That usually did the trick.

Mr Gum lived in a great big house in the middle of town. Actually it wasn’t that great, because he had turned it into a disgusting pigsty. The rooms were filled with junk and pizza boxes. Empty milk bottles lay around like wounded soldiers in a war against milk, and there were old newspapers from years and years ago with headlines like VIKINGS INVADE BRITAIN and WORLD’S FIRST NEWSPAPER INVENTED TODAY. Insects lived in the kitchen cupboards, not just small insects but great big ones with faces and names and jobs.

Mr Gum’s bedroom was absolutely grimsters. The wardrobe contained so much mould and old cheese that there was hardly any room for his moth-eaten clothes, and the bed was never made. (I don’t mean that the duvet was never put back on the bed, I mean the bed had never even been MADE. Mr Gum hadn’t gone to the bother of assembling it. He had just chucked all the bits of wood on the floor and dumped a mattress on top.) There was broken glass in the windows and the ancient carpet was the colour of unhappiness and smelt like a toilet. Anyway, I could be here all day going on about Mr Gum’s house but I think you’ve got the idea. Mr Gum was an absolute lazer who couldn’t be bothered with niceness and tidying and brushing his teeth, or anyone else’s for that matter.