Saturday was a full day. Up at 5 a.m. to deliver Andrew to Glasgow airport bound for the furthest extremities of England to carry on the fish management studies. Which meant back in the house at 6.00 a.m, bright eyed, feeling skeich, ("in high spirits, animated, daft", according to the Scots Dictionary!), and wondering what to do with a day that the weather woman said would be bright, cold and clear.
By the time it was daylight we were in the car and heading north west. The sunrise in the rear view mirror was a glowing orange advert for the new day, a dazzling copper gold diffused by low mist – the kind of effect Turner strove for but only now and then came close – which is saying a great deal. By the time we were crossing Erskine bridge the sunrise was a far too beautiful distraction from driving, so I only glimpsed it. Decided to go via Helensburgh, then Rhu (a favourite place forever associated in my mind with John Macleod Campbell, one of Scotlands greatest theologians).
Then up the loch. Gareloch's beauty is now permanently disfigured by miles of metallic link fence topped by razor wire, boasting our capacity to look after our weapons of mass destruction, and keep them safe – just in case we need to use them! The incongruity of such natural age-old beauty as those Scottish hillsides and glens, co-existing with state of the art weapons techonology, concealed and incalculably lethal, is a parable of our lostness; an admission that pushed far enough, our fears might prove more decisive than our hopefulness. For surely the decision to use nuclear weapons could only betray the distorted preference of those who would risk no future for any of us, rather than the future they don't want – a form of moral and political nihilism. Of course I know there are complex arguments justifying all this. But they aren't where I've chosen to stand – and they don't make me less outraged by what all that razor wire is for.
But with that ugliness behind us, parts of the drive to Arrochar were sublime – the beauty of hills carpeted in shades of brown, green and those colours on Scottish hills that seem only to come alive in a bright winter sun, and all of this reflected on the mirror surface of the loch – disturbed at one point only by a seal breaking the surface to breathe, eat, bother the seagulls, or just admire the view. Inveraray as always was set against that kind of background that looks like a shortbread tin cliche – but which on a morning like this is the real thing. Brambles was open for business by 10.30 and we had near perfect coffee and the just out the oven rock bun, while I read the Herald Supplements. How hard does life get?
So on slowly to Crianlarich, Ben More (Photo not mine – a freebie), and then the packed lunch simply looking while we ate. The drive back down was pleasant enough but by then the sun was going down, we were on the shadow side of the hills, and everybody else by this time was up and about and in a bigger hurry than me. So home by 3'ish.
Decided in the absence of a long walk I'd do the exercise bike for a while listening to my new CD of Beethoven's 7th Symphony.
I defy anyone to cycle slowly during the last two movements of this raucous celebration of dancing sound and orchestral frenzy. By the finale I was approaching knackered – but what a madly generous piece of music. No wonder some of the critics suggested Beethoven had had too much to drink when he composed the final movement. The argument between the brass and the strings is one of my favourite musical shouting matches.
The rest of the evening was good food, a read at the book, preceded by a long hot soak. All of which is a way of saying that the Sabbatical is now all but done. Back to College on Monday and ready to try to remember what it is I do there……!?
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