It's a yes to Edinburgh!

Only one day to spend in Scotland! Such a short time to form a bunch of half-arsed, incoherent, patronising opinions about the Scots.

It's tough, but I can rise to the challenge.

1. Scottish men are handsome. I ponder this problem. Would I call Alex Salmond handsome? Maybe the men I see are not Scottish! Maybe they are Italians, French and Swedes with stylish clothes and good haircuts visiting Edinburgh? Hmm. Would I find handsome men in Glasgow? Or Ullapool? I decide to keep an open mind until I can conduct further research.

2. Scotland is culturally xenophobic and schizophrenic towards the English. On the one hand, it's all front-up arrogance, with What the fuck are you doing here? And on the other, it's that creepy and pathetic I-want-you-to-like-me attitude. We're friends, right?*

3. It's a YES from me to Scottish Independence! Not that I have a vote. But if I did, I would.

Reasons: Edward I came up here as a way of deflecting home-grown hostility away from the crown to an outside enemy, and he conveniently made that enemy Scotland. I feel a little guilty about this. I think the best way to even things is to give stuff back and store our nuclear submarines somewhere else, maybe off the Falkland Islands. That's far enough away.

(But I would make a concession to the Union. I agree the English couldn't possibly agree to Scottish independence until we've spent all their oil money.)

4. The Victorians were a bad thing for Scotland. Tartan has to be stopped.**

5. The Scots should make as their marque the Scottish Enlightenment. Honestly, this is such a big thing in the whole world of human thinking! Your tourist board should do something about it. You should make me associate Scotland with the world's leading scholars, instead of midges, kilts, and Balmoral.

6. You have imposing architecture. Please please please, in a frenzy of 'new brush' management, don't knock it down, clean it up, or mess the urban scape about with ugly mismatched buildings done on the cheap.

7. You have pleasant, courteous, and friendly service staff. (Okay, the man at the pie shop was a bit grumpy. He doesn't know how choosing pies is a big thing for us.)

I was especially impressed by the staff at Edinburgh castle and in the totally fantastic National Museum of Scotland. Particularly the man who accepted my dramatic reenactment of the Eduardo Paolozzi figures. He was gracious. The fact that he could take 20 minutes of it and still remain courteous impressed me deeply.

8. Incidentally, I am also impressed by Alex Salmond. He acts like a proper politician. Deft, committed, intelligent. He makes David Cameron look like a mummy's boy.

Thanks to our one day in Edinburgh, the Scottish will be delighted to hear that la famille Grit has resolved to extend the education of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger about your lovely country! Next year we plan to explore north of Edinburgh. It will allow me to test my theories about a) handsome men b) whether on Sundays everyone still wears black and no singing is allowed c) I have to take my own carrots.

Now the photos.

 

*After extensive conversation with Dig, in which he reminded me what I said about the Welsh, I quietly concur the xenophobic schizophrenic traits might be mine.

** I have rethought this opinion. If the people who wear tartan are Americans - and let's face it, you're going to need their money when you're independent - then you should carry on with the tartan.

Berwick-upon-Tweed

People of Berwick-upon-Tweed? Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Maybe we visited on a Sunday? When you're shut? (Except for the bookies.)

But it was our fault! Stupidly expecting the English Heritage Barracks to be open! When people are free to visit. Like at weekends. (When it's shut.)

So we half-heartedly began the Lowry trail instead. Here we could see the delightful results of your urban redevelopment schemes.

Anyway, never mind about the depressing cheap concrete blocks of misery which no doubt replaced some character-filled architecture, we learn Lowry liked decay. 'Ugliness too' he is claimed to have said. And, 'a derelict house gets me.'

You might have done something about the Lion house, but elsewhere you're carrying on a fine tradition with sights like this.

One of your beautiful Victorian buildings. Boasting smashed windows, padlocked boards, destroyed entrance, and a garden growing old vodka bottles. The plaque outside tells us it is a Jubilee British School building 1859-1909. It suggests a sniff of scholarly history to respect, no? But well done, Berwick-on-Tweed, for ignoring the potential of that, to keep true the love affair with Lowry.

Really, I hated your town. That is sad to me, because I wanted to love it. I wanted to enjoy the history, the river, the buildings, the landscape, the junction of England and Scotland, the grey skies and your fantastic photogenic bridges.

But after an hour I couldn't wait to bypass Asda, pick up some cheese, and picnic at Etal castle down the road instead.

I think you people of Berwick are probably owed an apology. Sadly not from this hapless tourist who has no intention of sugaring the pill, but for the years of neglect you've probably suffered from local and central government and council, uncaring developers, unimaginative planners, creators of short-term don't-care schemes, and people who make the community worse by throwing empty vodka bottles about, when they should be doing something useful to build it.

Now here's Etal Castle with its exhibition of the Battle of Flodden, and the far more interesting and politically significant Norham Castle. The latter is excellent, and I'm sorry to see the EH person had to decamp due to falling visitor numbers.

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Dolly dangling

Here they are, the beauties!

Our delightful dollies, enjoying the fine weather at Seahouses.

They've brought their swim costumes, sunhats, beach towels, bags, and everything.

They're even equipped for a spot of diving! (Assisted by a rock tied to the midriff.)

Andrew Yang, I bet your heart flips to see the humble rag doll enjoy such pleasures!

(And I bet the stitching on our faces starts your heart bleeding.)

Storywalk, Cragside

What a relief. We do something different at Cragside.

Normally, I always do the same. Stare in bewildered distress at a piston. If I am especially unfortunate, I visit the shiny machine which goes pssshhh-pssshhh while I pray to infinity that Shark, Squirrel and Tiger do not ask me any technical question like 'What is it?'

This is the heart of the problem. If, like me, you do not understand electricity, are not an engineer, indeed you are not an expert in any machines at all, and have been outwitted by a dishwasher as I have, and are crap at long division - which tells you for sure that half of your brain dealing with mathematical and technical thinking is dead - then you are stuffed. Especially when visiting a place celebrating the ambition, achievement and creative imagination that is Victorian industry. To my head, apart from the way I understand how it is all amazing, nothing of engineering information goes in, and nothing of engineering erudition comes out.

My strategy for dealing with disciplines of which I have zero understanding is always the same: I point Shark, Squirrel and Tiger in the direction of the information boards, the crib sheet, the member of staff on duty, Dig, a.n.other helpful passer-by, then I leg it.

But thank goodness today for something completely different. Over the 20 years that I have visited this place, Cragside has grown to celebrate not only the creativity of Victorian industry, but the creativity of the outdoors imagination, too.

Someone, for example, has had great fun being creative in the rhododendron bushes. Nelly's Labyrinth is a lovely run-about story space in the hillside surprising you with wood carvings, keyhole entrances, curling tracks, and a treehouse.

Thank you, Cragside, for giving the children something else to do today (and for letting me off the hook with the pssshhh-pssshhh machine).

Wet, Water, Woods

Ancient woodlands, tumbling chasms, bubbling river. Got to be Allen Banks, Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, North Pennines.

The skies are glowering even while we imagine this promise of pleasure, and by the time we arrive in the flood-puddled car park, occupied only by one man huddled in a Jeep and a wet labrador jauntily sniffing a hedge, the skies are pouring like an upturned cauldron.

Shark, Squirrel, and Tiger are, like the happy dog, undaunted by this sudden deluge. They plunge straightaway into the wet wood, smell the wild garlic flowers tumbling down the banks, point to beech nuts and nettles, and squelch their boots into the sodden mud tracks, jumping puddles that should be shallow. They watch the river churn, see the swaying bridge and run to cross, because here is adventure of bubbling waters and bursting banks. On the other side there could be dripping ferns, owls and red squirrels!

But the rain only comes down, harder.

Scrambling over wet rocks and slippy tracks, we make our way up the ridge to find a path that takes us in a curving slow swing back to the car.

Shame on us. Me and Dig. Cold, wet, slipping over on sliding moss and bruising ourselves like the ancients we are, we've already quietly decided to give up, shorten the walk, backtrack, and bypass the gorge. I'm plodding; my footwear, saturated, is sending water soaking up my legs and I'm deeply regretting forgetting my wellies. Dig is worse; he's half dissolved. I'm picking up the bits that have dropped off him and stowing them in my pockets. We can wring the water out of him later and stitch him back together when he's dry. Then half way across the sodden field where the crows rise up, laughing at this inglorious retreat, I note even the children are slowing up now: the water has begun to penetrate their outer layers and it weighs them down.

We climb into the car, soaked to the skin. We're all sorry at departure. I console myself. I don't usually give in. Mentally, I file the beautiful Allen Banks on my Undone list. The walk we didn't do. I promise myself, if I have years ahead of me, I'll walk it again, and next time, I'll walk all the way round.

Day to remember

Well, it's the day of the funeral. I can tell you it's been eventful.

I kick things off by waking up holding a face twice the size it normally is. Think cabbage-patch doll, and there you have it.

The emergency pharmacist takes a step back and offers the helpful advice that if the allergic reaction swells around my throat, then go to A&E. She adds gently, try and make it in under three minutes otherwise you die.

Upstaging the corpse with my dramatic gagging-breath death-scene in the chapel of rest seems like a deeply inappropriate thing to do, so I consider I might like to give it a try.

Dig says don't. He's burying his twin brother, and he's bearing a strange expression of triumph, so I suppose I should not steal the day.

The assembled family members are already beating me to it, anyway. Between them they have managed one car accident (fight with a wall; wall won), two medical emergencies (I'm counting one of them mine), unseemly ejection from private land (OK, that was me again, kicked off the Barratt estate where I had gone to drown my sorrows and let the medication take hold), and Aunty Dee, who continued her exploits of driving mayhem by having to be rescued by Mr Colly the undertaker.

The latter incident was a serious matter, as it made the funeral proceedings fretfully late. She managed to break down in the cortege. As the clock was ticking to missing our crematorium slot altogether, the undertaker abandoned the hearse to be driven at undignified speed by the junior, while Aunty Dee was shoved unceremoniously in the back of her own car. Mr Colly then carried out basic car maintenance duties before driving her like the clappers to the final moment of dignity.

I tell Aunty Dee not to worry. When I took my mother to her date with the crematorium we trailed the dustbin wagon for five miles out of Long Melford on a single-track road. What else could we do, but sit and watch the bin men carry out their slow and noisy duties while the undertaker sank his face in his hands?

I reassured her that my mother, if only she could have seen the day, would have laughed out loud.

Photoblog Corbridge

The delightful Corbridge! Place where Dig was a lad; the family pile was located (now sold); the children spent many early times; and where Squirrel won Prettiest Crown Competition (2004). She didn't deserve it, but in the best tradition of village life, it was a political outcome.

Home also to the Roman remains at Corstopitum.

I note it's not called that anymore. It's now Corbridge Roman Town. (Less fun.)

With fine museum.

A tour along Hadrian's Wall is more fun than a funeral, so I recommend you do that, if you visit Northumberland.

The county is beautiful, with eye-ball punching skies, grand vistas over wide moorland, and shifting tones of greens and greys lit by brilliant sunshine that you can take in at a breath, as you stand atop a hill, pretending you're a Roman soldier with a cold in the nose.

As the offspring rediscover their toddler times and crawl about Corbridge Roman Town, I mentally plan a range of notebooks designed for historians.

Then I congratulate myself for being pretty much in the zeitgeist with this concept: I see the museum shop has a pile of leather-bound notebooks for sale. (All discounted.) 

Photoblog Bolsover castle

Yes, it's photo album time for the nation, so thank goodness the nation's not interested.
 


Family album pictures of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger enjoying our treasures of England or, as you can see, scowling, looking miserable and/or threatening, picking fights based on sibling rivalries of 'who saw the ceiling first', being rained on, staring at walls trying to resist the urge to pick off the gold paint, and trying to creep up on a sister to bash her round the face.



Fortunately, English Heritage, being a family-friendly type of outfit, let us get on with it.



So I totally recommend Bolsover Castle for a family day out.



 And the audio guide.



Although that bit about the bedroom being off the dining room is WRONG.
 


The room to the left of the dining room is obviously the gentleman's withdrawing room, where they can retire to Man Talk like world affairs, scientific discoveries, how to ride a horse properly, and whether the Duchess of Devonshire wears black leather underpants.

It makes sense, because the room to the right of the dining room is obviously where the ladies retire, where they can Woman Talk like world affairs, scientific discoveries, how to ride a horse properly, and whether the Duke of Devonshire wears purple frilly knickers.

Thank you English Heritage. I love you.

Garden commission

Delivery of Tend Me. Flower notebook for the aspirational gardener.

(Read: actually doing anything in the garden is obviously a labour of Herculean proportions. Better not start. Look at a gardening book instead and think about it.)

(Maybe rearrange the silk floral display. If you can find it. Last seen 2003, under the pile of cardboard boxes in the hall.) 

All notebooks supplied with storage bag, suitable for knicker drawers.

In my opinion, the cook should rule

Dig is home from Hong Kong.

You home-based partners of travelling people, don't you find this moment difficult? Not just in the contrasts of lifestyle - he navigates a course between England, Istanbul, and Hong Kong, and I navigate my way from the front room to the Co-op - we must also deal with shifts in the balance of power.

Because, when Dig is not here, I am Lord in this house.

Well, Lord is stretching it a bit far, but you know what I mean. I am the responsible adult. If something goes wrong, it's my fault. When bad things happen, I have to deal with them. And when important decisions are to be made, like what's for dinner, then Shark, Squirrel and Tiger must grow in maturity and rise to the decision making process without resorting to weapons.

But when Dig arrives home, all is different. I am usurped. My say is not final. The children can sense I am no longer Lord. They must consider another point of view in the dinner politic. Daddy Dig does not see pasta pie as food fit for a king.

Me and my brood eye each other suspiciously in our deliberations for dinner, wondering which way power will swing. I can see Shark, Squirrel and Tiger assess whether two adults count for more than three children in the distribution of the salad tomatoes, and whether a bid for best daughter might be in the offing if the last slice of pie is yielded without a fight. As I scrutinise the contents of the cupboard, I think that if four of the beings in the house are female, that should send the ball rolling in my direction, and potatoes are out. Or does one man who pays all the dinner bills count for more than four women, as some Lords who enjoy mashed potatoes would obviously like to imagine.

I put it to the children, if he is slumped on the sofa off his face with jet lag, does he deserve to count at all? Let us seize the moment, rob his wallet, and make the answer a takeaway.

Photoblog Hampton Court

Man, those palace kitchens are something to behold. Dinner in the royal Tudor household must have been splendid.

Now I shall add our Co-op bread and jam pot, so I can claim we have dined on the same page.

Geology walk, Buckingham

Thank goodness I sometimes remember that this blog is dedicated to chronicling an alternative education, albeit one occasionally subtitled Four Go Mad in the Land of Learning. It means I can gratefully dump my stream-of-conscious monologue post - what-can-you-wear-at-funerals-if-you-don't-believe-in-Victorian-black - and  instead file a rambling post about how I have done the gritlets proud with yet another educational walk from the excellent geologists round Buckingham town centre.

Our local geologists prove once again how you don't need a classroom or a tick sheet of learning objectives to impart wisdom and enthusiasm, and we prove once again that slow learners are everywhere. I am sure we have been asked those questions about dinosaurs at least two hundred times before and we still get the answers wrong. But because the lovely geologists are gentle, kind people with infinite patience, no-one beats us around the head with a book or holds up the walk to put us in detention. There is strangely no humiliation in making a hash of knowledge, either. On jaunts like this, we have no one to prove anything to, except ourselves, and if we are happy jogging along going ooh at fossils, then so be it.

My only regret about this most excellent day is that I forgot the camera. It lay on its back on the kitchen table, its closed eye shut to the ceiling and blind to the delights of Buckingham building stone. So I can't show you the granite, the limestone, or the enormous ammonite under the shop front window. You'll just have to believe me. It's truly enormous. Hunt it down next time you're in town and go careful round the dinosaur.

No laughing matters

Must spend the next few days shopping for suitable clothes. The sombre occasion of the family funeral is now two weeks away, and I feel the need to complete preparations of outfits for three young ladies safely ahead of time.

Really, I feel a heavy burden of responsibility to present my young brood to the immortal world of the Church, preferably not looking like I hoiked them from the garden mud patch two hours before and couldn't be bothered with a flannel. That is our normal state, but it does not seem very respectful, especially when we are bound to stand for several hours under the gaze of judgement day.

And it is not only the Lord we must present ourselves to. More important, it is the Welsh crowd. They are coming North en masse, and they scare me witless. Expectations of my children are sure to be high. The Welsh crowd, composed mostly of dowager aunts who look exactly like Miss Haversham, will be decked out in Victorian black lace, having all been born in 1842. They take things like funerals and children very seriously indeed.

Well, I am just grateful that Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are not snooty about sniffing round the charity shops, not at all. They are delighted to be let free amongst the second-hand frills with a tenner. The only stop on their ambitions is me, reminding them, as they emerge from the sale rail clutching a wildly improbable outfit in lime green polyester, that their chosen outfit must be suitable for attending a funeral and not a fancy dress party.

So that is our education, probably for the week. Discussions about appropriateness of purple and frill when Welsh dowagers will expect black and scowl.

Quick! It's stopped raining!

One of the undeniable advantages to home education. When the sun shines, we can go out to play.