I Sea That, But I'll Drink This

 

drawing of Saddell Castle from the bay

The village of Saddell on the east coast of the Kintyre Peninsula has to me always had a quiet but unsettling air about it; in fact it feels thick with ghosts. This is hardly surprising, for just as Kintyre itself, it is steeped in history.   One time home to Somerled, 12^th century Viking slayer and “First lord of the Isles”, Saddell is also home to the remains of the Cistercian abbey that Somerled himself is said to have chartered, and indeed where his remains are believed to have been laid to rest. The abbey was built at the top of “The Glen of the Dead”, where for centuries corpses were brought over from the west coast for burial. Today, the massive medieval carved tomb stones that are on display, one of which is said to have been taken from Somerled’s tomb, seem imbued with powerful memories of the history and times that these ruins have witnessed. The burial place of such a legendary leader as Somerled would be atmospheric enough on its own however Saddell, like many parts of Scotland, has further mystery attached to it. In the 16^th century it is said that the local Laird commanded that headstones from the ruined abbey be used in the construction of Saddell Castle and as a result much of the area is haunted by the restless dead who were thus disturbed from their ancient slumber... Amongst other tales there have been sightings of a ghostly monk, a white lady, and the abbey is said to be haunted by “giants and beasties”.

I didn’t visit the abbey this time as it was already late in the day. Instead, turning left, I took the long path leading to the Castle and Saddell bay, where I was hoping to see some seals.

Walking along under the shadows cast from the tall oak and birch trees,  with the Castle walls  in my sight, I was reminded of another story associated with Saddell abbey and the laird of the Castle: The Tale of the Sprightly Tailor. This was the very path along which the tailor had fled a most horrible monster who had chased him right to the very gate of the castle then struck the stone above the doorway in anger as the tailor himself  escaped inside and to safety. In some versions of this tale it is only a black spectral hand that chases the tailor down the path, in the dead of night, leaving a mark  on the entrance to the castle that is to this day known as the “ Devil’s Handprint”.

It’s a fantastic tale and very evocative, in particular the dialogue between the tailor – who had been commissioned, or perhaps dared, by the laid of the castle to sew a pair of trews alone at night in the haunted ruins in return for a reward -and the monster. The tailor had no sooner started his sewing than the gruesome creature bursts its head up through the pavement of the ruins and says,

     “Do you see this great big head of mine?”

     And the tailor replies “I see that, but I’ll sew this!”

And so it goes on as the monster raises his neck, then his massive shoulders out of the ground and waves his arms in front of the tailor's face and taunts the tailor at each time, to which the tailor always replies “I see that! But I’ll sew this!”

Finally, as the monster has almost fully risen from the ground the tailor, wisely beginning to panic, does a few long stiches to finish the trews, then makes haste to the castle with the monster close behind in demonic pursuit. It’s about half a mile, but he makes it just in time and the laird rewards him handsomely, apparently never noticing that the last stiches in his trousers are a bit long.

The castle is privately owned,  but they let the public access the bay. It is not an elaborate structure and from a far looks more like a large house. It is still lived in, although some of the outbuildings are in ruins. However situated just at the back of a small sandy beach, it has a perfect location. Standing with the castle behind me, admiring the view, I thought I saw a shape at the end of the bay resembling  a seal peeking out of the water, so I walked across to the other side with the story of the tailor still in my thoughts.

It’s true it is an eerie place.

     “Do you see that great big wave?” I said to myself.

“ I see that , but I’ll take a photo of this” I replied, stooping to take a photo of some washed up flotsam that had caught my eye, and I generally just amused myself that way until I had crossed to the other side. of the beach.

“Do you see those great rocks?”  I did see them, and I climbed over them to try and get closer to the seals, but the seals had gone. I sat and took in the beautiful scenery. The sun was going down the waves were beating against the rocks and the air was fresh.

By and by it began to get a bit dark and so, a little sad not to have seen more seals that day, I decided to head back to the car which was parked at the end of the path the tailor had fled down.

However, just as I stepped back on to the sand I noticed the setting sun casting a cool bluish light under the cloudy sky on the sea and I sat my camera on a rock to try and steady it enough to take a decent  photo.

“Do you see that great big hand print on that rock!” I said to myself “Aye, Aye, I do!”  For sure enough, on the rock just in front of me there seemed to be a massive hand print. On closer inspection it appeared to be an unusual granite rock formation, in the shape of a big mitten. Whatever had caused it, it chilled me to the bone. I had never seen it before, yet I had been to that bay many many times.

It really was getting a bit dark, and I had begun to feel a little nervous.

Walking back past the castle, inspite of my growing sense of unease, I couldn’t resist looking at the stone work above the gate, was the Devil's handprint really there? If it was, I couldn't see it  and so I turned back and headed up the long trail, all the time feeling as though someone or  something was watching me and fearing that my foolish mockery of the tale and recital of the dialogue had somehow woken up some angry and offended sprit or “beastie”. I must not turn around, I told myself. Don’t run, they’ll know you know!

At last I got to the car and decided it was safe to turn around and see if I had been followed by a ghostly presence. Fortunately I didn’t see any hands, monsters, giants, beasties, monks or white ladies chasing me – but that doesn’t mean that they weren’t there.  I jumped into the car. Looking at the clock I realised that the only shop in the vicinity was going to close soon and I needed to rush there in order to get milk – I was definitely going to need a coffee to put some sense back into me after that little adventure. I admit I had a bit of difficulty getting to sleep that night in the old fisherman’s cottage, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the coffee.

drawing of the spooky rock

sources:

Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs

http://www.scribd.com/doc/5997937/Kintyres-Best-Ever-Guide-Book

One for the Road

As with most addicts, I’m always having just one last coffee before I give up. Never is this as true as when I am running. “After this run, I will have a nice coffee, then I will stop, because I drink too much of it, and I want to be healthy”. That is the sort of thing that goes through my coffee high thoughts as my legs pound away on the road or the trail. At the exact same instant as the thought flashes through my mind, there is a marked (although perhaps unperceivable to the outside observer) quickening of pace, and an involuntary licking of my lips as I rev up into top gear and head for the finishing line / coffee stand, or whichever comes first.

A rather memorable example of this was when I ran a half marathon in Aviemore last October. This was only my second half marathon, and only my fourth race, so I was nervous, apprehensive and really quite excited. The drive up there was beautiful. The spooky hotel I had booked over the internet less so. There were some Nescafe sachets in my room and as soon as I arrived I had a coffee, in full knowledge that it was to be one of my last, and then not one, not two, but all three of the bourbon biscuits in the little packet that had been thoughtfully provided. Later that evening still feeling a little peckish, I headed down to the hotel restaurant on my own to get some pre-race tucker in.

Therestaurant was not very accommodating to my carb- loading requirements and the waiter suggested that I might prefer the hotel bar if I didn’t want the three course fixed menu, and duly shoed me off in that general direction. I ordered scampi and chips and a (large) glass of chardonnay  and was invited to take a table while my order was being made. As I sat down my mobile phone went, it was my cautious and dear friend and confidant.

    “Hi, where are you?”

    “In a bar in Overlook Hotel just outside Aviemore, having scampi and chips.”

    “What on earth are you doing there?”

    “I’m doing a race.”

    “I thought you weren’t doing that race?”

    “I changed my mind.”

    “Are you there on your own?

    “Yes.”

    “Don’t let anyone know you’re on your own it’s dangerous, there could be strange men lurking about.”

    “But nobody knows I’m here on my own.”

    “Well make sure your room is in a good place.”

    “Its fine, it’s on the first floor, right beside the fire doors by the stair case, directly above the restaurant, I could escape easily.”

At that moment, I looked up as the waiter delivered my scampi, and noticed a weird looking gentleman, sitting on his own at a neighbouring table studying me, closely. Great, now not only did he know I was on my own, but he also knew exactly where my room was and how I planned to escape.

    “Well, just move any heavy furniture in the room against the door in case a weirdo tries to get in.”

    “But what if they’re already inside?”

    “Hmm, good point…”

When dinner was over I made my way through reception and noticed the same slightly strange looking character sitting, motionless, in a chair in the reception hall, watching me ; creepily. I hurried up the stairs to my room and eyeballed the wardrobe, oh hell, I’ll just jump out the window if I have to I thought to myself.

Against all odds, I survived the night without interruption from any would be assailants, and awoke in fairly good sorts, got my race kit on and headed down to the restaurant again. I had been warned that the reception staff would not be there at this early time. There were a few more runners in the room, and that was all. Two of them; men, on their own, looked like serious runners, and there was also a couple, who in fact looked like quite serious runners too. The waiter seemed very hung-over. He brought toast with no butter, then tea with no milk. I overheard a conversation he was having with one of the other runners about paying, as there was no one at reception, and he assured him that there was no need to worry the hotel would surely just send the bill. This seemed a little unlikely to me, however, you do get a good class of customer service in Scotland, and so I too popped my keys on the reception desk and left.

The race itself was beautiful. It was sunny but chilly, perfect for running through the breath-taking Cairngorms and along the banks of Loch Morlich. I met my cousin at the start line and we ran together chatting all the time. About four miles from the finish line it hit me: I can have another coffee in four miles time. I could almost taste it. Naturally,  I wanted water too, and lots of it, but my system was craving the wonderful caffeine coffee hit, and I’ve never been one for those caffeinated sports drinks. Perhaps a muffin too. Four miles! That’s just from Balmaha to Drymen, I can do it! And with the wind in my sails I sped off ( using that word in the most generous of ways).

Crossing the finish line and hobbling over to the coffee stand whilst inhaling the banana and chocolate I had found in my finisher’s goodie bag, I noticed a missed call on my phone. It was Fiona, from the reception at the hotel phoning about the small matter of my unpaid room bill. I phoned her back and explained that I would come at once to settle the bill. It was really quite embarrassing. Damn it I thought, I’ll just get coffee there, I can’t be bothered hobbling back to the car to get money then all the way back over here again.

I made my way back to the hotel and parked outside the main door. Heading into reception I was most surprised indeed to see that reception was being “manned” by a large Border collie cross with a jaunty ear. It was resting its front paws on a shelf just below the reception resulting in the comical appearance of it being waiting to serve the next customer. As I approached, I noticed that it wasn’t even looking at me , on the contrary,  it seemed lost in thought as it gazed over my shoulder and out through the window.

    “Ahem, Hello there!” I addressed the dog.

    “Hello, how can I help you?” came the reply, thankfully not from the dog, but from the open door at the back of the reception cubicle. A few seconds later Fiona, the receptionist ,came into view and gave me a look that said quite clearly “I know you tried to run away without paying”  which I thought was a little unfair. I'd had very intention of paying.

We settled the matter and I made my way once more along the old fashioned dining hall to the hotel bar, where I hoped I could at last secure myself a latte, and thought; let’s make it a large one too. Unfortunately the bar was full of locals warming their cockles over a few whiskies, and I felt a little self-conscious in my sweaty running gear, and so I asked for a takeaway. Sadly it was not to be, they didn’t do take away, but the post office on the corner apparently did.

In the end, I headed to the post office and got a little takeaway coffee from the automatic machine. This is hardly fitting for a last coffee before I give up, I thought as I drank it in about three mouthfuls (not hot enough and a bit too watery). Never mind, with any luck there will be a Costa Coffee at one of the service stations on the way home...And with that most happy of thoughts I skipped back to the car and began the journey home.

The Heart of the Matter

It’s hard to pin point exactly when my love affair with coffee began. We certainly had a few clumsy flirtations in my youth. I remember asking for coffee at my paternal grandmother’s house (but I didn’t really like it at that point, I just wanted to be grown up), she was horrified and said in shocked tones: “You’re far too young to be drinking coffee!”  Then, in my early teens, my two best friends, who were sisters, used to drink Nescafe. I don’t think I really liked it that much then either.  Once, when I was car sick after coming back along the winding coastal road from Campbletown to Carradale, where they lived, one of them suggested that I’d feel better if I lay down with a cup of Nescafe. It didn’t work.

The irresistible taste and smell of real coffee first caught my attention when my elder sisters and I went out to Nico’s one Sunday with their flatmate and their flatmate’s boyfriend who was 24. They were all students by that time and living in a flat in the west end of Glasgow near the University. I was in third year at secondary school and thought it very grown up and glamorous indeed, to be going into town for coffee.  I enjoyed hanging out with them, it seemed to me that they led such exciting lives, always experiencing new things before me and now they were even living away from home. It was impossible then to imagine that I would ever have the courage or ability to be a student, read all those books and write essays with my own opinions. I still imagine that they must know so much more than me about life and everything, even though it’s really only a few years that separate us.

Later on, when I was a student at Art School, I would spend many a boozy evening in Nico’s, but my first memory of it is on that rainy Sunday afternoon. We sat in the front section, at one of the marble- topped tables. I was on a chair facing the leather bench that ran along the wall under the gilded frames and mirrors; it was all light and gold and glitz.  The sisters’ friend’s boyfriend asked me a question about what I was studying, I remember blushing and replying in muffled tones that I was still at school. I think he sensed my embarrassment and didn’t subject me any further to the obvious discomfort I felt at having to speak in public. I remember I thought him very kind; and quite handsome too. We had a cafétière, I hadn’t seen one before, and I watched as my sister capably lowered the brass coloured plunger into the glass jug and the hot liquid flushed through the filter, filling the air with the unmistakable smell of freshly made coffee. She told me you had to be careful when you did that because once, a friend of hers had pushed the plunger in too quickly and the scalding hot coffee had exploded up out of the cafétière and burnt the friend’s hand and splashed on her face. To this day I remember that warning every time I use a cafetière. I guess my sister would be happy to know that she has saved me a few inevitable burns over the years: I am a little accident prone after all.

On the Wagon

Oh how I loved pain au chocolat. Can I even begin to describe the pleasure and pain of my morning trips into work? Somehow, I would drag myself out of bed, never having had enough sleep. Washed and ready to go, standing in front  of my bathroom mirror, a grey face, sticking out of an ill-fitting office shirt, stared helplessly back at me: “will someone please get me out of here!” the red rimmed eyes seemed to beseech.

In order to make it all the way up the hill to the train station, into Paris and ultimately to my place of work, I needed more of an incentive than a handsome pay-packet and the gratifying feeling of a day’s hard work. This was just as well because I wasn’t going to get either of them anyway. What I really needed was a café crème and a pain au chocolat to help me on my way.

The lady behind the counter knew my order, but would always ask anyway,

    “Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?”

I liked her because although she always made an effort to sound cheerful, I thought I could sense a strain behind her façade. I figured that she too felt imprisoned in her job.

    “Un grand crème et un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plait.” I would smile back at her.

Well sometimes I would actually just say “un crème” to which she would reply “un petit ou un grand?” The ritual didn’t really change much apart from this. However, on a couple of occasions it hadn’t been the same lady and my coffee had been luke warm. Those were upsetting times, but I soon learnt to specify under such circumstances that I wanted it bien chaud.

I would take the first lifesaving mouthful as I hurried towards the station turnstile and like a dying person who comes back to life as the vampire’s venom floods into their system, so would I feel the will to live and love come flowing back to me. Next, when I was once again a sentient being in full control of my limbs, I would take the first delicious bite of pain au chocolat. Usually, she gave me a pain au chocolat from the oven; the 50% daily recommended intake of saturated fats would have soaked through the paper bag in the short space of time and would be moist against my fingers. Biting down on the perfect texture at once my mouth was filled with soft warm crispy chewy buttery oily pastry and melted chocolate; which I washed down with another scorching mouthful of strong café crème. And then, just for a second, life was complete and everything was just how it was supposed to be.

Elation was as short lived as the pain au chocolat unfortunately. I would assume a place on the ugly burgundy train seats and finish my pain au chocolat and coffee with disapproving glances from the other passengers. I didn’t care though: I had pain au choco and they didn’t. I had a caffeine high and they could piss off. I also invariably had pastry flakes all over my coat, chocolate on my cheeks, lipstick all over the coffee cup and a tedious journey ahead of me. Never mind, I would think as the train trundled closer to Paris picking up more cross people on the way; closing my eyes and resting my head against the window I would plan my next coffee and imagine the joy of doing pretty much any other job than my own.