Woop-woop!

Adric: It’s very distinctive.
4th Doctor: Yes. I’m not sure we should be distinctive.

I realise that my vintage wheels, a Ford P100, are not everyone’s idea of a classic car, but I love my old pickup truck. Amusingly so do a lot of other folk and as well as teenager’s stares and points (I’m assuming there’s a truck like mine in Fortnite, Overwatch or GTA), I’m forever turning down offers from strangers trying to buy it.
I was waved down in what I thought was a carjacking by an enthusiastic collector, I upset security guards when the lorry leaving the factory was abandoned half way through the gate as the driver jumped from the cab and started talking cash options.
At the queue in a BP garage, the bloke behind leaned over my shoulder “Is it the turbo diesel?”. Yes, with the five speed box. I had to run for it while tightly clutching the keys.
Best still was the group of car modders in a McDonalds car park, pointing at bits of it and looking underneath, they knew what they were looking at, more than me. Apparently the P100 is an excellent base for bigger Cosworth engines and fancy bodywork, and the rear wheel drive which makes life difficult for me in winter is a big hit for track-day drift fans. Who knew.

Mine is all original though, and in decent nick, maybe partly why it sticks out as well as there not being many around now. It’s not even worth a lot of money, just distinctive and fun.

The police liked it too. So when I went by the parked-up bike cop yesterday, he dropped his donut and chased me down with the “follow me” lights and gestures.

Yay, check point full of commercial vehicles. Polis, Driving Standards Agency and Trading Standards. Triple the fun while one mile ahead I had a control engineer and a property convener standing waiting for me to look at a new job.

I engaged them as politely as I could with white knuckles on the steering wheel, if they’re pulling rogue traders and genuinely dangerous vans off the road, it’s a job well done. While I know I’m one of the good guys, they have to find this out for themselves, and that’s not instant.
All my details checked out with the somewhat apologetic police girl, but Trading Standards were instantly annoying. They wanted to make sure I knew about a customers right to cancel. I pointed out the customer I was going to right there and then I had been working for since 1988 and we don’t even issue paperwork other than a final invoice anymore. I asked what the Tradings Standards policy was on trust built through years of delivering, understanding, reliability and cheerfulness under duress. They’re sending me an email on it.

The DSA were next. He eyed my 30 year old wheels. I’ll admit it, doesn’t matter how much I know this truck outside in, how much I constantly check it over as I go, it’s old and I was nervous.
Lights okay, steering tight, tyres good. Press the footbrake again? Once again.
Dammit, the crack in the lens must have let water in the other night in the rain. One brake bulb to change. Got a spare one in the cab.

He seemed unhappy, how could this old truck not have an obvious fault to get it off the road? The police were letting me go, wait he said, he wanted to look further. I could see his legs sticking out from underneath the body in the wing mirror.
Press the brake.
Press again.
Press it, keep it pressed… You’ve got fluid.

What? I was out of the cab and underneath. He was right. The brake line goes from the caliper to a boss in a chassis member and out the other side towards the front. The nut was leaking under pressure, it was one of the new ones too. Christ. There was a pool of brake fluid on the road now.
This was a defect, this was notifiable, this was a trailered-away job. It was all over.

I dismissed that train of thought instantly and took a small shifting spanner out of my pocket, I’ll just fix it right now.
After some more testing it looked like both sides were weeping. Ah well.
I layed on the road on my back and fixed it, not just get-me-home style, it was repaired permanently and passed by the DSA style fixed. I got a certificate and everything.

By this point I was chatty with the DSA fella and as we washed up (I was covered in brake fluid) at his van I was talking through the possible outcomes. The brake reservoir had been full on Saturday morning, it was now just enough to get me back to base to top up. It had been leaking every time I pressed the brake, in maybe a day or two if I hadn’t caught it, the brake pedal would have gone to the floor and would have been in a vintage torpedo.

Close.

So, three things from this experience. Maybe four.
1/ On getting pulled over. As much as it’s an inconvenience, as much as we’re all “the good guy” and innocent of any bad intent, this spot check did its job today. I’m not annoyed at the folk doing their job there*. I am relieved and thankful.
2/ I’ve spent my whole life fixing or creating things and problem solving. A pocketful of tools and the ability to use them is something I got from Jimmy** and for that I am eternally grateful.
3/ Check the fluid levels more than once a week.

Optional 4/ How did the nut loosen suddenly after 6 months? A82 vibration or something more? I do wonder.

*Except Trading Standards
**Faither

In every bluebell, there hides a fairy

The bluebells are out and fading already, a short wave of glorious colour across flooding across the woodland carpet.

This photie is one I have on the wall. This time of year but becoming a long time ago now.
Where do the days go? If I find them, I’m grabbing them and holding on, there’s some I want to live again. And again.
Life really is too short.

Slow Traffic

I just realised something today.

I have relatively recently come to properly appreciate the joys of Netflix. Been signed up for years but just saw it as a virtual video rental shop, pretty much ignoring the first selection you see, the “own brand” titles, as low budget nonsense populated by down on their luck actors.
The Good Place, Stranger Things, Star Trek Discovery and a few others have changed my mind as they’re among the best things I’ve ever seen on the telly and I can’t help but see Netflix in the same light as the “regular” channels at their money-no-object creative best.

But, the way we pay for it is taking the piss. We have the licence fee, I mean, it’s the only way to get Doctor Who live on a Saturday without constant threatening letters. Then we have our TV/phone (a landline exclusively for calls about PPI, new windows, solar panels and folk looking for my ex wife)/internet package and then the optional cost of subscription to PS+ or X-Box Live if you swing that way.

It’s like a pyramid scheme or something, Netflix is cheap enough, but christ, you really have to prop it up with other money to get to it. Even on my phone in a tent I’m paying a subscription to access my subscription.

Media folk are just laughing at us all. Give us a taste, get us hooked then bend us over. They’re all in it together.

Can’t wait until Stranger Things Season 3 though “throws money at the screen”.

Too tired last week, didn’t stray far from home. Luckily home is in a nice place.

The green is getting really green, the showers had the leaves bursting with colour and life. Things are flying around and biting me enthusiastically. Summer “yay”.

The beach is awesome. Creatures in rock pools, what seems as many ships passing as there was when I was wee. The river is very much alive.

All this is on my phone, I really need to carry my camera all the time.

Mair wanders wi’ the wean

We had tents pitched on the lawn, trying them out for size and a wander up the crags never got further than the Overtoun House tea room.
Holly was making sure we weren’t wasting this new day.
There was still time for tattie scones though. I mean, the Russian invaders would have to be visible from the windae before we let that go on a weekend.

We thought we’d try some new socks this time around. Holly got her fancy Wigwam anniversaries on and I found an old pair of Injinji’s that I was probably supposed to review in 1975. She was still laughing at my feet a mile up the road.

We took the Loch Long road, the A82 was choked once again.
Hmm, instant self edit. I just wrote a rant and deleted it. You know what, I actually don’t care what other folk do. We got in the truck to find fun and that lingering air of positivety has sapped my enthusiasm for tearing into Loch Lomond day trippers.
Instead, the most memorable part of the journey is always going to be ELO’s Shine a Little Love with us singing along and doing the clapping part in the chorus high-5 style as we went.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down? Sometimes.

It was a funny sort of a day. At Butterbridge it was was very warm, the sun was splashed on the hills but we were in a patch of gloom that seemed quite keen to follow us.
We got the occasional burst of unedited sunshine and thought about reaching for the sun cream, but then it would slip away once again.
Still warm though, hats were dipped in the burn, chilled Robinson’s lemon was sipped often.

The banter was exceptional and hanging out with Holly like this has reconnected me to the outdoors in subtle ways as well as sharing the “Wow, look at that” moments.
The pace is slower, there’s a lot of looking ahead and looking up. I’m explaining and pointing, recounting old tales from the trail and making up just as much as well.
Volume 2 of the Loch Sloy Trolls was sketched out on this walk. Oh the drama, the tension, the bloodshed. The claws

I’m looking up and thinking, oh I’d like to go there, even when I’ve been there repeatedly. I’m looking and I’m thinking “Have I got time for this?” and I don’t mean hours of daylight, I mean miles left in my legs and useful years of life past the end of this one.
It’s odd feeling older but also feeling, I suppose, hungry? Am I finally feeling what it is to be 49?

Glen Kinglas isn’t overly glamourous I suppose, it’s a landrover track serving forestry, farming and the arse end on the Loch Sloy hydro scheme. It’s good going underfoot and the views are as awesome as they are unusual. Indeed, the views were also new to me.
As well traveled as I am around here I’ve never been beyond the Abyssinia hut on this track. I’ve walked down to here, climbed up the slopes above the hut and walked to the top of Beinn Choranach and I’ve walked the widely ignored ridge on the other side of the glen from Creag Bhrosgan to Stoban Dubha and down to the hut through the crags. Never beyond though, the next steps were actually kinda exciting.

Beinn an Lochain looks amazing from here, sharp and er, mountainous. Beinn Ime looks unfamiliar, the broken east ridge definitely looks a wee bit racey and Beinn Narnain is a dark, sheer sided ridgeline.
It’s like looking at your best friend from the back in a crowd when they’re wearing a hat they’ve just bought that day.

Met a couple from the Netherlands here, on their last full day before their flight home and looking for the most fun route back before a night at Ardgarten. We chatted, I talked too much and fired too much information at them as usual but they smiled as it hit them like a box of tangerines from the top deck of a multi storey carpark (suspiciously specific?).
Damn me though, as we looked back, they took the route up I suggested. I kept looking back as they wound their way uphill. The ridge cleared and stayed clear, it must have been eye watering up there. Fantastic.

The tail of Loch Sloy was annoyingly invisible. Grassy hillside and forest were the dual inconveniences. Lunch, it is was about 1800, so dinner really, was warm and tasty. Protracted too, we had music and everything. And pastries.
Energy renewed, focus regained, we’d go and find the loch. The map said this was unlikely without a lot of effort possibly mixed with re-ascent and some bog hopping. Ach, we’ll see.

The forest track seemed more fun, it was a better venue for a story as we walked. I mean, that’s a troll bridge if I ever there was.
The riverside was boggy and we stumbled and slopped along it before coming out onto the grass and the sunshine. Here a culvert come aqueduct thing meets the river. It’s very like the one that goes to Blackwater Dam from the top of the pipes, being roofed with concrete strips. It curves around to Gleann Uaine picking up the burns around there to feed them into Loch Sloy.
Never seen it mentioned and it was a complete surprise, not really on a hill approach I suppose. So much of the hydro scheme tendrils to stumble upon in these hills.

We stood on a grassy knoll and finally spied the loch. We looked at each other and knew that was enough, it was nearly 100m vertical descent to the waters edge which we’d have to reverse. Nah.
The water level is very low just now so it looks a bit nasty and bare down there anyway, we can reenact the moon landings another time.

The culvert was fun to follow back, the sound of invisible rushing water was an odd accompaniment, like having a broken radio on in the background all the time.

Holly was tired, I checked when I got back and she did 8 miles all in today. The three miles back were fueled by constant banter and Morrisons Marathon* rip-offs, Sprinters bars.
She did so well, at times it was a roaster before the breeze arrived and she put in the miles in good cheer. I am proud as The Dad, but more than that I am so pleased for The Girl. I can see how these wee adventures are affecting her thinking and her bearing.

We had cows staring at us in an alarming fashion, birdlife swooping and bobbing, lambs displaying unbearable cuteness and then pleasantly cold air that came with a darkening sky.
One lamb had the best face ever with a perfect black metal corpse paint look. It had a wee limp as well. I definitely wasn’t up late worrying about it.

Might go back and see it this week though, you know, just in case.

*Stick your Snickers re-designation Mr Mars

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It rains all the time here, little particles of ancient volcanic ash trickle down over the harder basalt layers. The ash dunes are soft and hard to climb but sharp on bare fingertips.
Come back a day later and your footsteps are gone, the rain washes them away again.

There’s a trail to take you here now, a quiet little grassy loop so, it’s not as hidden as it was. The trees on the opposite slope will grow and the long distance view will change, but this corner will become a magical little place.
The trees will bow and swish in the wind, their leaves will be carried away on the peaty water and the black rain will keep falling and carry the little crag a little further north. I’m not worried, it took ten thousand years to get it this far, I know I’ll miss the end of that story.

Always worth looking left or right, especially at the Lang Craigs. While there’s route markers now, they don’t tell you everything. We’ve made it accessible, but there’s still room to explore.

Don’t forget to look down too.