July 2015 – p a u l p e r t o n d o t c o m

The Spey gives in (after four years)

July 23, 2015/0 Comments/in Blog, Travel /by Paul Perton

After the rain

A diaspora usually works in one direction; the population leave in search of fame and fortune elsewhere. My best buddy always joked that the Scottish exodus of the early 20th century was so great that you could go into the bar at the end of the Amazon and be certain to find a Jock behind the bar there.

This week has been the week of the reverse diaspora; people we met in South Africa who had come to live and work in the land of opportunity and subsequently returned to their homelands. Some because of the security situation, some because of the country’s politics and/or economy, some because their circumstances had changed and a few for no reason better than that they missed their home town(s).

Add a spectacular setting on the Spey, some salmon fishing, a huge country house and a big group of dear friends some of whom we share almost five decades of friendship and experiences with and you’ve got a recipe for the best of times.

It helps to be able to catch a fish or two with a fly – that’s what the 15′ Spey rod was for. Luckily it broke down into several pieces for ease(!) of transport, but the tube it lives in was still 1.2m (4’0″) long and would only fit into our roller skate Citroen DS3 between the seats and halfway up the windscreen.

And, as though that weren’t enough, after lashing the waters of the Spey for four years, the two fish (both sea trout, around 1.5Kg each) I finally nabbed on Saturday morning were caught with a borrowed spinning rod. The weather has been so beastly this last week or so, that the rain had caused the river to rise and the water darkened with washed-down mud, so fly fishing was abandoned and the spinning green light given by the head gillie.

It was a great feeling to finally get that powerful tug on my line. I landed the first one with help and a net, disgorged the fly and returned it to the murky river. The second followed a couple of casts later, was much easier to release from the hook and swam off quite nonchalantly. The rules of fishing this area are very strict about how many and what kinds of fish can be kept. I could have taken neither home, so it was logical to return them both. And, to ensure the fish lives, it’s necessary to return it to the water quickly, so no photographs got taken. Who wants to see me grinning at a fish anyway?

So, that’s all the writing I’m doing this time – I’ll add some photographs of this magnificent countryside and leave it at that. All shot with a Nikon D800e and one of three non AI Nikkors; 105mm f2.5, 50mm f1.4, or 28mm f2.8.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Summer’s abundance

Ferns

Bank of the Spey

Misty morning

Dewy morning grass

Mist, daisies and cold, clear water

Lone hollyhock

After the rain

It’s dementia (of course)

July 15, 2015/0 Comments/in Blog /by Paul Perton

”Bleedin’ dog. Bloody thing barks all the time. It’s got dementia. I’m gonna ‘ave it put down.”

”Bleedin’ dog. Bloody thing barks all the time. It’s got dementia. I’m gonna ‘ave it put down.”

“He’s a nice vet. Says ‘e put down a dog what was 29 last week. Musta been old.”

“And ‘ad bloody dementia just like ‘ers. ‘at’s why I’m ‘avin’ it put down. I spoke to our Shelley, I said ’It’s so old it barks all the bloody time so it must ‘ave got bloody dementia. Can’t remember a fing.’ I said ‘I’m ‘avin’ it put to sleep.’”

Two pensioners have plonked themselves heavily down (uninvited) on the other side of the rickety bench/table we’re sitting at, outside a pub in Hunstanton. Locally, it’s supposedly called “Sunny Hunny”, but not today – the weather is definitely full UK summer; chilly, overcast and threatening rain. Soon, our uninvited guests run out out of energy, interest and conversation and go in search of a “nice cu tee.”

Not before jumping-up deceptively quickly, almost catapulting me and my drink over on my arse, like mischievous kids on a see-saw. They stump off, leaving us a once again a clear view of a morose coastline and knots of people wandering aimlessly in the grey daylight.

We stopped here for lunch, but gave up when I discovered that the bearded beauty behind the bar didn’t know what Angostura bitters (for Mrs P’s tonic water) was, didn’t have any anyway and worse, had no halfway decent cider available. The lunch menu had proved similarly uninspiring and so we were almost ready to bolt for the car to try elsewhere, when an elderly Nigel Mansell whirred by on his mobility scooter.

Spotting a gap between the parked cars, Nige went for the grass beyond, crashing and bumping the front wheels over the low kerb at a surprising speed, only to ground the running board on the self-same kerb stone. There he sat, revving the electric motor, wheels spinning, going nowhere, waiting for the marshals to come and push him.

Rather than ignore the noise, a passing local obliged and Nige finished mounting the kerb and took off over the grass, frightening greedy seagulls and yet more pensioners out of his way with demented abandon.

It must be something in the water.

Whitby harbour

We’d been in Norfolk since last weekend and I’d finished part two of this tale yesterday, before this little pageant played itself out. Today, we’ve driven several hundred kilometres further north, to arrive mid-afternoon in Filey.

It’s now raining on Yorkshire’s east coast, although the weather wonks say it will clear, I’m not holding my breath:

High summer, Yorkshire

Monday. Yorkshire’s been and gone although we have promised ourselves a longer visit next time. On this visit, we managed to get to York to see the city, try and shop a bit (fruitless) and see the National Railway Museum. The city is busy at this time of year and the Museum interesting, but sterile – I mean, how could you imagine anything to do with railways that is clean? It’s also a bit anodyne for us die-hard gricers.

Boisson, York

Anyway, essentials attended to, we headed for Whitby, stopping at Grosmont so I could watch grown ups playing with real steam trains.

Whitby! Home of the Magpie Café, winner of the World’s best fish and chip restaurant award and awash with holidaymaking Brits. I’d been fantasising about a plate of skate, some crispy chips and a big spoonful of mushy peas for some time and ended up sad. Apparently, there’d been no skate landed that morning, so I chose cod and was rewarded with a brilliant white fleshed fish, beautifully battered and fried, lots of chips, all on better than neighbour terms with some bright green pea mush. Brilliant, but still not skate.

Who wouldn’t love this?

We’re staying in an AirB&B spot in Filey. It’s a beautifully renovated garage, with a downstairs kitchen and a full-on bedroom and bathroom upstairs. No wi-fi, which is unusual.

Mainly though, there’s nowhere to put anything. We don’t carry much around with us, but like to have suitcases open to reach in and grab clothes and stuff as needed. Not possible.

Also not possible was a table for my laptop and phone/charger/backup disk. Hmmm.

Still it’s beautiful, clean and white. Everywhere. Which made us both feel a bit awkward, lest we spill our morning coffee, or drop toast crumbs. Then I went to the loo and when finished, pressed the large chrome flush button and immediately reached for a tissue to wipe my fingerprint away – that was it! It was all too perfect and just not comfortable. Shame really.

Filey to Edinburgh followed on Sunday. Four days in Scotland’s best city shooting images for a planned InSight: Edinburgh (see images below) and then on to Glasgow, where this post nears completion.

Lone drinker, The Abbotsford, Edinburgh

The Colonies, Edinburgh

Stockbridge hairdresser

Door, sandstone and bell

We’ve hardly seen the sun for a fortnight and Edinburgh has been unremittingly chilly to boot. That said, as we contemplate packing and the drive west to Glasgow, the sun emerges and the entire city takes on a different feel.

I’d pre-booked a tour of Central Station before leaving home. It’s touted as a walk through the catacombs of Glasgow’s main railway hub and didn’t disappoint. Not that there’s so much to see, but our guide; historian Paul Lyons, more than compensated.

Paul Lyons; raconteur extraordinaire

He showed us little nooks and crannies where coal and corn had been stored, goods handled, passages and tunnels led to the banks of the Clyde and in a broad Glaswgow accent wove a tale of ghostly presence and floored us all with details of how heartlessly the dead were returned to the city and their relatives during the Great War. There was hardly a dry eye when he’d finished his tale.

Continues below.

Blue sky – a rarity in Glasgow this summer

Glasgow railings

Central Station

If you are ever in Glasgow and have an hour to spare, this is a must-do, especially if Paul is on duty.

Next stop; Grantown-on-Spey for our now annual meet-up with a crowd of friends from long-gone Johannesburg days, salmon fishing and that bloody fishing rod.

Meandering

July 3, 2015/0 Comments/in Blog /by Paul Perton

Plans are a foot

”’Ees gonna fucking kill yer.”

“Nah ee ain’t.”

“You said you was gonna rape ‘er – all me neighbours ‘eard you. ‘ats his girlfriend and ‘es an ABA. Ees gonna fuckin kill yer.”

“Bollocks.”

It’s 07:09. We forgot to buy milk for our morning coffee and I’ve wandered into the only open establishment in Hoxton Street at this time of the morning; a caff (café) to buy a couple of take-aways. Three gents – best described as geezers (real ones, not the types the Americans think of as Londoners) are having this morning intercourse amongst the otherwise empty tables.

“Morning gents,” I greet them.

A chorus of polite return greetings follow, after which the wrangling continues;

“Nah, fuck off yer wasn’t there.”

The proprietor smiles at me (and them from behind the relative safety of the espresso machine), his day off to a seemingly familiar post-pissed customer start.

Hoxton, Dalston, Shoreditch, Hackney, all places I would have been very leery of when I still lived in London. Today, they’re where everyone is queueing-up to live – including our own kids. Walking the now trendy streets, it’s easy to see why; crime appears to have been largely banished, late night buses ensure the revellers get home safely and there’s a coffee/clothes, or other kind of gentrification-acceptable shop on just about every corner. In the spaces between, clubs and restaurants proliferate.

For someone as dedicated to living out of town as me, it’s a fascinating place to be.

We arrived on Friday – me after a demented Garmin satnav sort-of guided me via odd parts of the nation between Skye, an overnight in southern Scotland, one in Wales and finally, London. On Friday, Mrs P arrived on an A380 from Dubai. We’re staying in a delightful two storey faux religious-themed shoebox (see picture) in Hoxton, courtesy of AirBnB. Our daughter and her husband live in the next street, our son a little further away in Hackney. Just about everything we could want is close by, except the shopping excesses of the West End. But at ZAR19.50:£1, that’s not really much of a loss.

Teensy, tiny accommodation

The changes in London’s East End are shocking, new money elbowing aside established business and multi-multi-tenant letting. Cook’s, one of the city’s few remaining pie, eel and mash shops remains in Hoxton, but just about everything else is new. Here, hirsute hipsters hold sway.

Photographically, this is street photography central. There are no landscape-like views to speak of, just people and the everyday. For me that means shooting with my Fuji X100 and occasionally the Sony NEX-7 and a Leica 50mm. Depending on whose opinion you read, 90+% of street shooting happens between these two focal lengths (the APS-C sensored Fuji’s 23mm equating to a more conventional 35mm), with the tiny balance preferring a 28mm option.

Lunch time six pack! They’re all on their phones

The Eagle – London’s oldest and (still the) best gastropub

But, this a family-oriented visit, so my usual day-long photographic explorations get a lower priority. That said, an early morning walk to the nearby Arnold Circus is a must-do.

One of London’s very first attempts at social housing – Boundary Estate to give it it’s proper name – was opened in 1900, replacing a variety of slums that at that time housed somewhere around 6000 Londoners. Built around the aforementioned bandstand-adorned Arnold Circus, the blocks of flats radiate outwards – offering views into neighbouring streets, trees and a rarity in London; a skyscape. More recently, as gentrification has swept in, this tiny time capsule has been sold off flat (apartment) by flat and is rapidly becoming one of the city’s des-res.

Wash day, Boundary Estate

Boundary Estate

Aside from its visual history, visitors (in this case, read photographers) to the Estate might want to visit Lilla’s Café, just off the Circus. It’s a local favourite for breakfast with a simple menu; eggs fried in glorious artery-clogging butter, served hot in the pan, with slices of Spanish serrano ham and toasted sourdough bread.

Breakfast at Lilla’s

Failing that, the nearby Dishoom (at the end of Boundary Street) is building a solid reputation for it’s Raj-styled Indian food, especially breakfast. Imagine if you can a freshly baked naan, cradling bacon, egg(s) and a mild tomato-curry sauce – that’s street photographer’s food.

Dogs are now a fashion accessory

For buyers of InSight: London, look out for a planned (free) upgrade, which will include the Estate as well as the Columbia Road Flower Market.

Sandwich bar smiles

So, our few days in the capital done, a major birthday celebrated and a few images captured. Now it’s time to move on to Cambridge and the east coast.

We’re en route (back) to Scotland, stopping in various county and country towns en route.

Norwich. Claim to fame, mustard and a football team with TV chef Delia Smith and quizmaster/author/actor Stephen Fry as a part of its management team.

Not much else. We arrived from Cambridge in the late afternoon, our tiny, hired Citroen DS3 loaded with four adults (us, daughter and son-in-law), lots of luggage and a 15’ salmon fishing rod. More about that later.

Accommodation found and the car unloaded, we bolted for the station to collect yet another body – no.1 son’s girlfriend, abandoned by her beau, who was work-committed elsewhere. Just as well as there wasn’t room for him as well. Anyway, she saved the day and discovered Norwich’s gem; the Lanes – part market, part tiny shops, part diminutive houses, where we wandered for a good couple of hours, our impression of this otherwise underwhelming city improving by the moment.

Previously, Cambridge had showed us its university heritage and some fine weather. The traffic was a challenge – but then when isn’t it in England? Our riverside digs (another AirB&B booking), bright, newly renovated and handy for access to the town centre, colleges, riverside and all manner of food and drink.

Edge trimming, Cambridge

Cambridge c1800?

Graduation day BFFs

’40s style at the station – Cambridge

Punting

Gown, check. Phone, check. Ice cream, check. Oh, mommy too.

Originally, I’d planned a week of town/village meandering, staying in different B&B every night. On closer inspection, it became apparent that everywhere was (almost) next door to everywhere else. So, we opted to set up in Norwich and drive to and from every day – rarely travelling more that 50/60km to see what we had planned.

AirB&B found us a huge, modern flat in Norwich and we’ve spent our days exploring Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, the Norfolk Broads, the preserved North Norfolk Railway and unexpectedly catching up with an old friend from Johannesburg. Being a regular reader of this blog, she had noticed we were heading for Norwich, her new home, having re-married recently and settled here with new hubby.

We also discovered the Workshop – 50m along the road and offering the best of North Africa in a bar-style eatery. We’ve feasted on broad beans, hommous, watermelon salad, grilled chicken wings and all manner of other middle eastern goodness. If you’re planning a visit here be sure to put it on your list.

Dinner at the Workshop

AirB&B flat owner’s eclectic display – Norwich

Norfolk is magnificent at this time of year, but as flat as the Free State. Our plan to stay in one place meant not having to haul luggage into/out of the car every day and had another knock-on; we didn’t stay in either of the two resort towns (Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft) on the coast. Unlike when I visited here with my aunt as a seven year old, they are now economically depressed, run down and really very sad.

How times change.

Tomorrow, we leave for Yorkshire, more coastal fun and yet more steam trains.

The Skye bit

July 1, 2015/0 Comments/in Blog, Travel /by Paul Perton

Sunset over Cuillin seen from Elgol

Lunch was sublime, Cape Town’s best; fresh tuna carpaccio followed by spaghetti vongole for Mrs P and swordfish pasta for me. Washed down with a couple of glasses of more than acceptable local rosé and then, a quick trip to the airport.

If you think this looks good, you should have tasted it.

Clam fallout

Lunch? I’d promised Mrs P as she only leaves for the UK (to join me there) next week.

So, airport, book in, customs, security, immigration all dealt with in moments and now I’m lolling dozily in the airline’s lounge.

Here we all are; me with a complimentary scotch, the uncomfortable German businessman, thick fingers jabbing his phone’s tiny keys. He will become an enemy before I leave, but more of that later.

A loud American that can’t access the wi-fi (nothing new there, this is South Africa after all).

An English woman, cell-phone-bellowing at endless friends and members of her family. The phone is redundant; her blare is loud enough without, her endless sentence-end laughs intrusive and wildly excessive.

Hoodie-clad Ms Two Tennis racquets stares vacantly, seeking who-knows-what.

Golf on a TV that no-one is watching. African talking heads on the other, also unwatched. Load shedding Stage 2. No-one cares any more – our venal and mendacious government has poked the economy in the eye and doesn’t have the first clue how to remedy a tumbling growth rate and 37% unemployment.

A raddled housewife, weary looking husband and two excited kids; coming or going? “I’m eating all this now so I won’t get hungry later on the aerwoplane” says male junior. Mum resorts to her phone to force hubby to attend to his brood. No chance. He’s got chips and a big fat drink.

“Daddy, how long?” they squawk endlessly.

“Gwmph.” Translation; “Fuck. I don’t know and care even less. Leave me alone for two minutes.”

“Daddy, I also need to go to the bathroom.” Daddy sighs, stands up, his phone falling from his lap where he was discretely checking e-mails. Everywhere, there’s a distinct air of resignation and we’re not on board yet.

“There’s two seats” says a clearly retired hubby, already weary of air travel. “There’s no table. There’s no table. There’s no table” replies clockwork wife, used to getting her own way. Hubby stands owlishly… seconds staring at her retreating back. I imagine (as I think he does), plunging a knife into her and putting an end to her anger-making, syllable emphasising hand flapping, as she complains. Stab! Now STFU!

They’re all on the plane and I am glad of (for once) a couple of decent movies and an early night. It’s that or people who insist on carrying on high decibel conversations, screeching children, or the whining passengers for whom nothing is ever right.

Skye

In nine hours or so, the plane will land in Dubai and scratchy-eyed, we will deplane, to sit and wait for connecting flights to all corners of the globe. It’s a great hub and spoke system if you can deal with it.

With your body clock at single digit a.m. hours, you need to have managed to keep a bit of the hooligan about you as you aged – not being afraid of pre-breakfast alcohol and social interaction at the bar are essential. If you can’t, then sleep is the only option in an uncomfortable seat miles from your gate (it’s usually the only one available), the thousand yard, broken sleep stare and just about every language, food aroma and offensive personal habit imaginable. Just try to blast through the porridge that is where your brain used to be, long enough before you doze off to remember to set the alarm on your phone – otherwise, you’ll slumber on serenely and miss the bloody plane.

Oh joy.

My connecting flight leaves at sometime after 05:00, arriving in Glasgow at half past midday, after several hours flying time and an additional three hours of time difference. Then it’s find the car hire desk, get the (already booked) car and drive to Mallaig, in order to catch the last ferry of the day to Skye. Mr Google says it’ll take three and a half hours, I hope he’s right, or I’ll have wasted a ferry ticket and will have to drive an additional hundred miles to reach my hotel and catch up with Bob, my photographic companion for the next few days.

The German businessman? Minutes before leaving for the gate, I use “the facilities”, returning to find the last decent gulp of my most enjoyable drink is now awash with the detritus that collects on any lounge table; sweetie wrappers, a torn up voucher and a couple of tea spoons.

“Oh. Sorry. I thought you had left.”

“Sure you did, that’s why my luggage is still here and my computer is still on the table.”

What a bell end.

Neist Point and lighthouse

Later…

Tired. Simple word, complicated outcome. My photo buddy Bob and I have driven, walked, scrambled and clambered much of Skye this last few days. At six and a bit decades, I’ve done well, but am now done in and planning a celebratory early night It’s almost half past nine after all(!) – and still light outside.

It’s also driech – overcast, moody and drizzing. Typical Scotland but not great for stunning sunrises and sunsets. Still, we’ve had a chance to catch up, grumble about our various Gear Acquisition Syndrome (GAS) afflictions and on occasion, head to out harm some otherwise defenceless pixels.

Looking towards Ramasaig

Last evening (Sunday) saw us scrambling over the boulders at Elgol, to catch a spectacular sunset scene over the Cuilin mountains. It was well below 10C and way past ten before the sun obliged and set behind the mountain and much later still before we gave up for the night.

Then on the drive back to the hotel I managed to spot an interesting roadside scene, making us another half hour later arriving back at the hotel and a warming nippie sweetie (or two).

Reeds in deep dusk

It’s been great. I now know my way around Skye a bit better thanks to Bob and also have a new avatar – my back again, I’m afraid.

Tomorrow, I leave for the beautifully named St John’s Town of Dalry and an overnight with Messrs Leeming and Patterson, photographers of the parish. Then it’s ever south- (and west-) wards to Pembrokeshire and a night with great mate, Steve at his home – Treffynnon – nestled in the hills high above Newport.

Thursday, it’s on to London and at sparrow’s on Friday morning, Heathrow to collect Mrs P.

Meanwhile, I decide to sit in the hotel lounge where the Internet reception is marginally better than the messenger with a forked stick I’ve had in my room. I’m sharing this quiet space with four Americans who, like me are waiting for the office to open to pay our bills, then grab some breakfast. My car is packed; I’m due at the Armadale ferry terminal at about 09:30 and en route, I’m planning to stop at a spot I noticed yesterday and phot for a few minutes.

Misty morning reeds

A few minutes peace and quiet to close off a wonderful few days…

Grey haired Mrs American no.1 has other ideas and decides it would be a good time to fire up her iPad to listen to some voice mail from a clearly demented friend, or CNN (I don’t know, nor care which) at earsplitting volume.

In fact, it’s so loud that when I said “Could you please turn that down?” she couldn’t hear me and had to be elbowed in the ribs by her partner/husband. He’s obviously used to dealing with such blithe and arrogant rudeness.

Misty morning reeds