Mr Dickie

It’s not good for business when a camper arrives at your door with an antler lodged in his stomach and blood pouring out.

This is Mr. Dickie, who tours in a beautiful Morgan, having a practical joke. The stags are losing their antlers and he had some tomato sauce. For a moment, we had a big fright!

Camping

For me, longings to go camping are for its simplicity: you eat, you sleep, and you carry on your journey. It’s all about hours passing whilst one pot meals come to the boil on the Trangia. It’s about going to bed when it gets dark, with the smell of earth and grass in your nostrils and ears alert to all the minute scufflings of small creatures around the tent. It’s about being snug in a sleeping bag as wind and rain give the tent a battering.

My first tent was a Vango Force Ten which endured twenty years of British mountain weather and even then would have kept going but I decided it was time for a new one. Meanwhile my Trangia is now 35 and still as good as new. It is therefore astonishing to me to find new camping gear in our dustbins on a regular basis, thrownaway because it’s wet or slightly damaged. Nigel and I usually fish them out however and now have an interesting collection of cast-off tents.

I miss going camping now I run a camping site all the summer season. The first time I came to Lochranza Campsite I was a visitor, about fifteen years ago. I remember unzipping the flysheet one morning to find three antlered heads looking down at me, tempted by the porridge in the dog’s bowl. So, nothing’s changed with the deer. The children made up a song called Rudolph the Greedy Red Deer set to the tune of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

You never know, one of these days you may well find me shaking the creases and musty smell out of our Vango Equinox and pitching it down by the burn, taking great pride in the careful selection of a level pitch and making sure I peg the flysheet out so that it’s completely taut and smooth. With summer nights approaching…. what could be better?

The Humming Tree

The great big campsite sycamore has become The Humming Tree again this spring with busy wild bees murmuring all day long in its leaves. It’s lovely to watch the faces of wonderment as people pass under it, which makes these lines from The Tempest come into my head:

"Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again…

Photo by Sarah Godfrey

Islands

I never get tired of examining the Cal Mac map of its Scottish Island Hopscotch routes. The names of the ferry ports rival the shipping forecast for poetry: Scalasaig, Castlebay, Eriskay, Stornaway, Berneray, Fishnish………

Britain is an island of course, but it doesn’t normally feel like it. Climb one of the mountains of Arran and you can see its edges all around you.

First-time visitors to the Isle of Arran appear to be driven by two compulsions. The first is to go round it (by one means or another) and the second is to climb to the highest bit (Goat Fell). This gives a reassuring sense of boundaries. I know because I did it too. These days, living on a small island, my mountain climbing is measured, not by Naismith’s Rule, but by the ferry to-ing and fro-ing down below: “Oh look, there’s the ferry coming,” I say, and a bit later “ There goes the ferry,” and a bit later “Oh no, not the ferry,” (aware of the embarrassing truth that I’m walking very slowly).

The main fact of life about islands is that you can get stuck on them.

Nigel and I got stuck on an uninhabited Scottish island once, on a sea-kayaking trip. Never assume that just because you’ve planned something it can’t go wrong- especially where the sea’s concerned. We had failed to understand that a force 5 or 6 forecast constitutes good weather in Northern Scotland. In the end we faced a choice between crossing choppy seas and being attacked repeatedly by great skuas, which flew at our heads with military precision. We decided that the sea was marginally less vicious, and fortunately lived to tell the tale.

So- living on an island is all about living with the knowledge that there are times when you can’t get off. And there are not only no 24 hour supermarkets on Arran but no food deliveries at all when the ferries don’t sail. The Sunday papers get to the village shop at Pirnmill about 12.30; which actually is a very good excuse for a long lie-in.

From Arran you can see lots of islands, small and big: Pladda, Ailsa Craig, the Cumbrae, Inchmarnock, Islay, Jura, Bute ... even Mull, all waiting in the sea suggesting all sorts of tempting possibilities. And that’s another thing…. in island life your most useful possession is a boat.

Scottish island in April. The water’s lovely!

Golf from the Grass Roots

Over the past year Nigel and I have undergone an amazing (or so it seems to us) change. Instead of being somewhat daunted by the responsibility of running a golf course, we find we love it.

Lochranza Golf Course has its assets that are also its challenges. It’s dominated by huge shoulders of mountain in three directions, and in the fourth opens out to the castle and the sea. Sometimes the sea floods in at the lower end of the course, leaving tide lines of debris. The golf course grass is irresistible to red deer who make mud baths, not to mention droppings that have to be swept up. Until May, the lease is shared with hill sheep and as I write this, little black-faced lambs are appearing everywhere.

What then has brought about the change in us? Of course when you find yourself in the deep end it takes a while to start swimming, but I think it’s got more to do with that, by working with it, we are getting to know every corner of the course intimately, as well as the trees and plants, birds, animals and insects it supports. It’s satisfying and rewarding work; you can see progress when you’ve cleared a ditch or shaped a fairway to make it pleasing to the eye and an enhancement to a good game of golf. Now when I look at golf courses I see the skill of green keepers.

So, although we’ve been here a year, working on a golf course is still a bit amazing to Nigel and me. It wasn’t part of our career and lifestyle change wish lists, but all I can say now, with the benefit of a little experience is, if you love the outdoors and the land, I’d strongly recommend it.

Replacing a dated and crumbling bunker with a more natural looking turfed hollow.

Och, it’s nothin’

This is my favourite saying in Scotland. I have now heard it said many times. Just when it’s raining so hard you think it can’t get any harder- but it does- if you complain about the weather to a Scot you’ll be told: “Och, this is nothin’ ”. It’s a big tribute to Scottish resilience. This week I remarked on the number of trees that blew down in the gales of early February. Apparently, this was nothin’ compared to most winters. Question is: is it a comforting statement or not?

After the dazzle and glitter of snowy December, we have experienced a succession of Atlantic depressions in February. The air is filled with the sound of water rushing down steep hillsides. Otherwise, the only noise you hear is an occasional car shifting gear up the Boguillie Road. The north of Arran exploded into being as a volcano way back in geological time, reacting to the fateful collision of Scotland and England on their slow paths from opposite ends of the world. The steep hillsides are a reminder of the island’s dramatic beginnings.

At the campsite, we’ve been painting everything that doesn’t move ready for March 1^st opening. We’ve had lots of bird visitors in the meantime. Today’s callers have been a buzzard, a treecreeper, a dipper, a wood pecker, a heron and a curlew (helpfully aerating the grass).

Rino and Val are busy moving into the Stags Pavilion café next door. We are looking forward to seeing what’s on the menu in 2011.

Signs of spring: the burn behind the campsite

Last day of February: here comes the sun!

The Winter Solstice in Lochranza

Whilst mainland Scotland has been having a truly Arctic winter, being a small island has meant that Arran hasn’t suffered such extreme conditions. Arran has kept being a brown blob on the BBC weather map when most places are blue. It’s been easy when walking along the coast to distinguish the other snow-free islands of the Clyde against the white backdrop of mainland. The CalMac ferries have been sailing with serene regularity, whilst road traffic chaos on the mainland has made headlines daily. Today, however, after some heavy snowfalls, everything here is white.
In early December much of Lochranza goes into its famous sunless period which will last through January. The sun never quite makes it on to the campsite, as it circles low behind Torr Nead and Meall Mor. The north-facing cliffs along the coast have curtains of icicles. There is a sharp division between sunshine and shade which works its way across the hillsides as the day goes on. You might think that being sunless would make it gloomy, but it’s more as if there is a golden ceiling just above your head. And it might be the winter solstice but the sparkling frosts seem to lengthen the days.
The herds of deer are high up on the hillsides now as there is nothing left to eat on the golf course. It’s already being another tough winter for wild things.

Nigel and I would like to wish you a very happy, safe and warm Christmas.
Kathy
The photograph shows the lunar eclipse just before dawn on December 21st.

Bog Standards

“You’re very lucky to live here.”

I’ve heard that a lot this year and, now as the season closes, I wholeheartedly agree. It’s strange to look back at how it wasn’t the beauty of the place and the wildlife all round that I noticed at first, but that human and animal waste, shall we say, had come to dominate my life. If I wasn’t batting deer poo off the golf greens, I was waving a loo brush in the ladies.

Repetitive daily task that cleaning toilets is, I have to say that in eight months of it, without respite, I haven’t had to deal with anything unpleasant lurking in the depths- if you know what I mean. Clearly we have considerate visitors.

Toilet cleaning has given me other, darker insights into human nature. For example, sometimes callers come when I am mid-mopping. They will ask, with disdain at my lowly status, if they can speak to the owner. I cheerfully introduce myself then get my revenge by shaking their hands with my Marigolds still on.

Everyone should do a stint of toilet cleaning in their lives! Then we’d be eternally grateful for the great service toilet cleaners do us. Facing a dripped-on seat when you’re dying for relief can ruin anybody’s day.

I’m ashamed to confess that I have had the experience of toilet-cleaning rage. It happened in the height of season when, despite barricading myself in the loos with closed signs, one passer-by after another clambered over them the minute I was occupied in a closet, without so much as a “Please, I’m desperate!” The bowls got a furious pounding with the loo brush that day!

Nigel and I are now polished and practised toilet cleaners, who swish through the toilets in no time. And there can’t be many toilet cleaners who can step outside and straightaway see eagles and red deer.

We are lucky to live here!

Have a wonderful time in the winter months.

Hope to see you next year.

Kathy and Nigel

RUDE AWAKENINGS

It’s five in the morning. I’ve just been outside, having been lying awake for sometime listening to the raucous bellowing of a stag outside the caravan window. You’ve heard of swimming with dolphins- well, at this time of year, here you get to camp with stags roaring close by. Just bring ear plugs if you want some sleep. Outside, the sky is black and peppered with billions of twinkling silver and gold stars. The solid outlines of Torr Nead and Meall Mor edge the sky. Winds are whooshing about in Glen Chalmadale and Gleannn Easan but it’s calm down here and I can distinguish many stag voices calling round the village in answer to the one who’s woken me up. A few motorhomes are staying on site and I can’t see any lights on so I’m hoping everyone else is still fast asleep.

It’s coming to the end of our first season now. We close on October 31^st until March 1^st. Anyone holidaying in Arran now truly sees the tourist season end in a blaze of autumn glory. Visitors come back daily with reports of something special, including today “We saw the northern lights from the pier last night” and “We saw a basking shark passing Pirnmill….”. I myself saw a little colony of common seals basking on the rocks at Newton shore and red squirrels scurrying about all over the place. But it’s the daily soap opera of the deer that dominates our lives: the chases, challenges, tussles and, of course, the desperate groanings and defiant bellowings.