Orkney, it's my 'Ba

St Magnus Cathedral

Winner of the 2015 New Year 'Ba game

Any visit to Orkney is always an enlightening experience and I was hopeful of perhaps catching the northern lights. I have been fortunate to make half a dozen business trips since my first visit in 1993 and on a couple of occasions I have taken some holidays to travel around the islands. My reading for the last couple of days has been the Italian Chapel, the story of the bond of friendship between the Italian prisoner's of war and the island folk that endures through a chapel in refurbished Nissen huts erected and decorated by Italian craftsmen. It reminded me of the common courtesy and egalitarianism that underpins the rich community life on the islands.

The flight from Edinburgh was in one of the 14 Loganair Saab 340 turbo prop planes that serve the Scottish islands. Despite the age of the planes, now more than 20 years old, the pilots and stewards always make you feel secure, despite the often turbulent conditions. The pilots regard the planes as machines to practise their skills and the routes they fly have the worst weather in Britain. The New Zealand captain on my flight had a voice that could have been a 1950's BBC announcer, it oozed reassurance and trust. The steward asked me to take the emergency door seat next to her and we were able to chat throughout the flight, I gained the impression that Loganair was a good employer that inspired loyalty from its aircrews. With a strong tailwind we arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule, I walked off the plane to the taxi rank and reached my B&B before the estimated landing time.

I immediately dumped my bag and sauntered past the magnificent St Magnus cathedral and down to the harbour area to find somewhere serving fresh fish. Helgi's is a fine bar next to the Kirkwall Hotel and it served day fresh haddock. By chance the draft beer was Scapa, which I had first encountered at the Ayrshire Real Ale festival last year and voted for as my favourite beer. I had assumed that Highland brewing company was Inverness based but it is a local Orkney brewery. Scapa is brewed with German hops and its marketing tag line is 'goes down better than the German Fleet'.

I met an economic consultant whom I had heard of and we had another couple of rounds of beer whilst discussing the importance of localism in driving successful economies and sharing views about the extreme centralisation of public services by the Scottish Government. From planning decisions, ring fenced budgets, nhs, police, further education to scottish enterprise, it has been garnering control from the local level.The very opposite of what Donald Dewar had intended at the onset of the Scottish Parliament. His vision had been devolving not just from Westminster to Holyrood but to the most local level possible. The bar had filled for what appeared to be a ladies quiz night so we had to curtail our discussions and walk back through the empty narrow streets that are the location for the annual 'Ba game between the men of Kirkwall. They are divided into uppies and doonies, originally this referred to where they were born, but nowadays it is more often where they or their families live.

My B&B was run by the winner of the Kirkwall 'Ba game at the New Year, he was chosen by the acclaim of his team as the outstanding player. He showed me the trophy, a 'Ba that is about the size of a football but three times as heavy. Not that much throwing takes place, the game is 5 hours of packing down along the narrow streets between the cathedral and the harbour. When the doonies win, as they did on this occasion, the game requires the 'Ba to be thrown into the sea at the harbour. The winner usually follows. Kirkwall can be a wild place.

After a full day's work during which I learnt more about the state of Orkney than government inspectors could ever do in a month, I was given a lift to the airport. I spent the next three hours waiting for the final flight, the aircraft was being repaired in Edinburgh. It is not the first time I have been delayed by repairs to the aircraft  on trips to Orkney and Shetland. As we finally landed at Edinburgh and emerged from the vast and ugly maze that Edinburgh airport has become, a fellow passenger explained that he had been on the same plane in the morning and there had been a terrible smell from the engine, I was pleased that I heard this at the end of the flight.

Then just the crazy walk from airport building to the shuttle bus, passing the original bus stops, through the taxi ranks and multi story car parks to reach the new bus terminal. We had walked a good kilometre from alighting the aircraft.  I expressed my concern about the length of the walk for disabled/elderly folk to the bus driver. He totally agreed saying that it was the decision of airport management so that shuttle buses did not get any closer to the terminal than the Edinburgh trams or cars in the expensive car park. The bus waited a while and another fellow passenger eventually puffed his way onto the bus, he had been sitting across from me on the plane.  He explained that he had Parkinson's and was now finding Edinburgh airport a nightmare and major barrier to his work trips.  The ill conceived transport interchanges, circuitous routes to the gates and the time consuming problems in its new security hall have converted Edinburgh from a very good regional airport to a botched attempt at becoming an international airport.

St Magnus

Beinn Chuirn

Beinn Chuirn from the Cononish track

Looking east to Ben More and Stob Binnein

Beinn Oss from Beinn Chuirn

The ascent of Beinn Chuirn

Summit view - Hills of the North, Rejoice

Me and my shadow on the descent ridge

Cononish river

Ben Lui and Beinn Chuirn across the Cononish as the clouds spill in

Ben Lui

Friday, 6 February 2015
Distance: 15 kilometres
Ascent:    740 metres
Time:      4hours 35 minutes

Beinn Chuirn      880 m       2hrs 39mins

At last a start on the hills in 2015 and what a day. After a couple of weeks struggling to walk let alone run after twisting my back, I had managed a couple of runs and felt I was on the mend. The high pressure had held all week and the wind and clouds from the earlier part of the week had been seen off. it was February at its very best.  Beinn Chuirn was my nearest remaining corbett, the hill that hosts the Tyndrum gold mine. It is a good 5 kilometre walk in along the track to Connonish and from here a path runs to the foot of Ben Lui. Beinn Chuirn is the large mass to the north with a 500 metre drop between the two hills. It has eluded me on the five occasions when I had completed the 4 munros in the Ben Lui group. I always had an excuse for not continuing to Beinn Chuirn; short winter days, leading a Water Aid group, walking with friends or just couldn't be bothered. I had put it on hold it as a hill for a lazy day; well that was certainly not the case today.

Although I made a late start it was still -2.5°C as I turned into the car park that resembled a skating rink  at Dalrigh just before Tyndrum. I had been warned that it was mighty cold on the summits so I wore an extra layer in addition to my normal winter clothing of a merino base layer and wool pullover beneath a soft-shell jacket. My crampons and ice axe were packed in expectation that they would be necessary. As always when leaving Dalrigh I had to consult the map to find the right track but once past the church house I began to stride out.

The track was covered in a layer of hard frozen snow that had been polished by vehicle tracks. My scarpa boots seemed to give a reasonable grip and I made the 5 kilometres to Cononish in an hour and then continued towards Ben Lui for another kilometre before leaving the track to make a rising traverse of the southern slopes of Beinn Chuirn. It had seemed the obvious line to take but the deep soft snow made it an arduous ascent. Each step was a venture into the next potential snow hole. After just 100 metres of ascent, I decided to have an early snack, the air was still and a few nuts and a tangerine followed by a coffee provide some sustenance. I retrieved my walking pole from the rucksack to help progress through the snow and it made all the difference.

The slopes were still steep but the more exposed slopes had been cleared of snow by the wind and I used these ramps to reach the shoulder of the hill at 600 metres. The snow here was hard and crusty and it provided easy going to cross the frozen burn and then begin the last 250 metres of climb to the summit. The views to Ben Lui were directly into the sun but Ben More and Stob Binnein provided a profile of snow blasted mountains to the east and the Breadalbane hills to the north looked resplendent basking in the early afternoon sun. It was still tiring although I was walking at a decent pace now that the soft snow had been left behind. Beinn Chuirn is a high corbett at 880 metres and it certainly seemed so as I toiled up the slopes.

It was just after 2pm when I reached the summit, half an hour later than I had hoped but the air was still and it was no discomfort to take a seat and admire the amazing vistas in all directions. The cloud was gathering at a lower level to the south west but everywhere else was a winter wonderland. I had grabbed an old pair of sunglasses from the car and they were needed to disperse the glare from the snow. I finished the flask of coffee, nibbled more nuts and began the descent.

What had taken well almost an hour and a half to ascend was descended in less than half that time, despite stopping for photos. I looked for the long snow sections to skate down and on only on a couple of occasions did I fall into snow holes. Back on the path above Cononish, the snow had begun to freeze hard as the sun dipped behind Ben Lui. Clouds began to spill into the valley floor, which was much colder than the hills that were still bathed in late afternoon sunshine.

I charged through Cononish using my walking pole to prevent any slips on the lethal icy sections caused by vehicles. The river Cononish at the side of the track had an icy blue tinge and there was no-one panning for gold. I became clammy as the heat generated from the effort of walking was chilled by the falling temperature. It was not the sort of day to pause.  The walk out from Cononish took under an hour and, as I sat changing my boots at the rear of the car, a police car circled the car park checking for any vandalism or break ins. My car had been broken into not far from here six years ago on another February day. I was home by 5pm convinced not for the first time that February is the best month of the year to walk in the hills on these freezing days of high pressure.

Sunday afternoon

Lime Craig from Creag Mhor

Loch Ard and Ben Lomond

Balquidder Munros

Campsies and the Forth and Ettrick Valleys

Ben Venue

Heather, imposible even in the snow

The snowfall had become a regular occurrence over several nights but it had never caused any disruption on the roads. By Sunday the winds had gone and I decided to take advantage of the afternoon sun and climb the hill behind the house. It normally takes about half an hour, it is steep but only 400 metres of climbing. It was not that easy today, once above 200 metres the snow was soft and deep and tiring, each step a foray into an unknown abyss and on several occasions I was thigh deep in soft snow. Although the temperature was just about freezing, I was working up a good sweat and it was a relief to reach the summit.

The views were tremendous in all directions as the sun was getting lower in the sky. I set off down and met my neighbours on the route up, they were following my body prints and thanked me for making a trail for them. I let gravity take over on the descent and had several spills in the snow. I didn't think anything of it at the time, just another short and enjoyable outing, but a week later I am still struggling with a sore back and finding walking quite painful, my first run for a week today did not do me any favours either.

Snow Trails

Braeval footbridge

Lemmahamish river bank trail

Up the Fairy Knowe

The depths of the forest alongside Park Burn

Lochan Spling loop

Homeward Bound

After a week or so of gales, dark days and wet snow, we were visited by good winter today. The overnight  freeze of the wet lingering slush was sprinkled with powder snow. The winds had abated and the skies were moody rather than mean. My running had been spasmodic over the past week; high stepping through wet snow or leaning into fierce winds are not the exercise of choice. Today was different, the shoes purchased into the powder and crunchy ice below, it was cold but without the damp and windchill of late; I was soon into a snow friendly rhythm. The only other marks in the snow were of two mountain bikes and a lot of animals. I had little difficulty convincing myself to add a couple of kilometres to my regular 9km route.

The river was swollen, the birches had been blasted by snow and there was an eerie silence even along the river bank. After running along the river to Lemmahamish I doubled back over the Fairy Knowe. I was breaking virgin snow at last but the steady climb was blockaded by a vast oak tree that had been blown down in the gales. It provided me with a tricky obstacle to negotiate; two young roe deer danced away in a reprise of a babycham advert as I clambered over the tree. It brought some fun and sparkle into the run. After this there was just a long easy run along trails that were untouched by humans until I reached the junction at Lochan Spling where I turned for home, happy that I had enjoyed a run for the first time in weeks even though it had taken 20% longer than normal.

Winter in the Lakes

Grasmere from Loughrigg Fell

Herdwick foraging

High Close Youth Hostel

Langdale from Loughrigg Fell

Helm Crag and Grasmere

St Oswald's, Grasmere

Grasmere village and Seat Sandle

Grasmere lake

Moss upholstered walls

We spent three days in the Lake District, our first winter visit in 40 years. The hills were mainly in cloud, and it was grey, wet and lashed by storms. Many of the smaller shops, cafes and facilities were closed, but there were still dozens of baby boomers rattling around the car parks clad in Gore-Tex whilst juggling their walking poles and umbrellas.

The hotel in Langdale provided a level of comfort that was in stark contrast to my previous visits at this time of the year in a basic hut near the Bowder Stone with no heating or facilities. We had shivered through the freezing nights in flimsy sleeping bags and climbed, walked and skied in Borrowdale during the day. We had the consolation of meeting Beryl Burton, who was staying with her family at the nearby Longthwaite Youth Hostel on Hogmanay. A more down-to-earth legend would be hard to find.

The weather on this visit was similar to the occasion when we scattered my close friend's ashes on Scafell Pike in December 1973 and then got banned from the Youth Hostel at Elterwater for arriving back late and the worse for drink, having got caught up in a darts competition in Ambleside. Other than these two occasions, I had often driven through the Lakes during the 1980s and 1990s en route to visit my family before Christmas and usually managed to climb some of the smaller hills near Ullswater before stopping to buy some presents in Ambleside.

This time, we were confined to walking round the shops on a day of torrential rain and became so thoroughly soaked that we eventually retired to the cinema to watch the film, Paddington. We took advantage of the next day, which was just showery, by walking from Langdale to Rydal Water and Grasmere, during which I managed a quick diversion up Loughrigg Fell. The views were etched in the grey and brown of winter landscapes, but we were treated to a brief passage of brightness as we ambled around Grasmere village.

We visited St Oswald's church in Grasmere after listening to the midday peal of bells, bought some gingerbread and had a coffee in Miller Howe cafe. We walked back over Red Bank and traipsed around the gardens at High Close Youth Hostel, where I had spent a perfect summer's evening falling for a girl from Leeds whilst we listened to Bach on the record player. It was my first holiday with teenage friends, and we spent 10 days climbing all the highest hills whilst I juggled our itinerary to reconnect with the girls from Leeds as often as possible.

We returned via Skelwith Bridge for tea and a cake. In the queue, I met the treasurer of Kendal Town Council. It was the first day of his retirement, and his sense of humour had been honed in Leyland. He said there was little to do other than pay for the Christmas lights, collect rents for allotments, disburse grants and answer questions on whether Wainwright had really been a miserable buggar.  He explained that there had been little to do as town clerk to distract Wainwright from his misery other than to sketch and write books, and, yes, it seemed to be unanimous by those who had worked with him that he was a miserable buggar; his humour was confined to the footnotes of his sketches.

The highlight of the visit was the food in the quite outstanding vegetarian restaurant, Fellinis, in Ambleside. It is part of the cinema/restaurant group that includes Zeffirelli's cinema and restaurant. These two facilities provide amazing quality food and events, and are an example of how a business with passionate attention to quality and detail can uplift a community. What a contrast to the franchised mediocrity that is the staple provision of food and entertainment in the majority of our languishing small towns.

Mid Winter

Throwing out the Christmas Tree this morning I was regaled by the colours of mid winter. The orange of the bracken on the hills, the flaming red berries and the pea green shoots of the spring bulbs pushing through the leaf mould. 

The Road less Travelled

The Road Less Travelled might make all the difference.

The state of the economy has been triangulated by three news items at the start of the new year.

• The announcement that the UK monthly consumer debt has reached £1,250m in November, the highest level since the crash in 2008. This is explained by banks competing for credit business - payday loans with plastic- and the squeeze on purchasing power as wages have failed to keep pace with inflation.
• The collapse of the parcel delivery company City Links, bought for £1 just over a year ago by Better Capital, a private equity fund, whose owners declared bankruptcy as soon as the bumper income from Christmas deliveries was achieved. It has led to 2700 staff being laid off and not even told of their plight until the end of their Christmas Eve delivery runs, and then.
• The strange poster from the Tories inviting us to "stay on the road to a stronger economy".

Tory politicians seem to be honing their abuse of statistics even before people have got back to work in 2015. Let's be honest, we live in a country that is dominated by corporate greed, regressive taxation, massive erosion of public services and a general disregard for the common good.

The axis of the current government, the financial sector, corporate tax evaders and the establishment have a stranglehold on power that is irrefutable. But to claim that there is a stronger economy is a dodgy declaration, as evidenced by a Telegraph article today that acknowledges that the UK has "the biggest deficit of any major industrialised economy in the world."

"The UK's balance of payments deficit reached £72.4bn last year, its highest ever cash amount, that’s 4.2% of GDP. It is calculated by subtracting the value of our imports from exports, and adding things like the flows of money we send abroad, and income earned by Brits on their foreign assets. Since the start of the recovery, our balance of payments deficit has actually grown from 1.7% of GDP in 2011." This was at the tail end of Alistair Darling's attempt to inject some Keynesian economics to foster recovery, since when George Osbourne's strategy of austerity has seen the deficit rise to over 4% in the most recent year. And how many of all those 'new jobs' are full-time or have pensions, pay a living wage or have working conditions that should be the right of all citizens.

So, who do you think you are kidding, Mr Cameron? The economy is not strong, and underinvestment in public services means there are not even cat's eyes or white centre lines on your neo liberal road to purgatory. Taking another road, the one less travelled, might make all the difference.

Billie Whitelaw

I was deeply saddened to hear that my co-star from the 1971 film "Gumshoe" had passed away yesterday. I had watched Billie Whitelaw in numerous TV programmes, Dixon of Dock Green, Robin Hood, various dramas on Armchair Theatre and films such as Charlie Bubbles during the 1960s. She had an understated glamour and presence. Her principles were encapsulated in the tough realism of the roles she played.

We were having breakfast in our condemned flat in a flaking and once opulent Victorian terrace in Liverpool 8 when the two girls in the flat spotted Albert Finney, the male lead of Gumshoe, standing on the vacant derelict land across the road from the flat talking with the director and film crew. They opened the sash window, waved at him and asked if they needed any extras. The director replied saying that they were looking for a young male to play a news reporter and were there any in the flat. Paul and I finished our toast, dawdled to the window, anxious not to show any interest, and were asked if we would like a part in the film they were shooting.

Thirty minutes later I had been hired as the getaway driver for Billie Whitelaw as she ran out of an adjacent building where, in the film, a heroin addict had died. The road had been closed and I was to drive her away at speed. They made eight takes of the scene, it took an hour and a half. I am not normally into celebrity but this was Billie Whitelaw, a real actress. I had the unbelievable pleasure of her jumping into the car, demanding me to drive her off and being told by the director to squeal the tyres of the getaway car. Even in a Hillman Imp, this was about as good as it gets for any 22-year-old male student.

I did miss a couple of lectures and gave my apologies, the lecturers said they would have done the same. I was paid £20, enough for 200 pints of beer (10p a pint in the Philharmonic pub) or my flat rent for six months (£3 a week between 4 of us). The whole scene was edited down to about 15 seconds in the film. Billie Whitelaw has remained a lifetime icon.

Gumshoe with Albert Finney

Lincoln

West Norman frontage of Lincoln Cathedral

Lincoln Cathedral

Frieze above north west door

Sanctuary

South West window

Top of the Strait

Looking from the castle to the cathedral

Lincoln is the largest UK city that I have never visited. Its position halfway down England on a flat plain never inspired me to make the effort. I even turned down a trial to play county cricket for Lincolnshire in the Minor Counties league after graduation. Aileen had bought a car online, and by chance, it had to be picked up in Lincoln, so there was an excuse to visit. The journey to Lincoln after a weekend in London was remarkably cheap at £17 once we had figured out to buy two separate tickets: London to Newark and then Newark to Lincoln. The direct fare bought from the online "cheap rail ticket" sites would have cost £47, but that's what happens when you split rail travel across 26 companies and let the corporate ticket touts enter the fray to (mis)sell tickets.  Station booking staff are far more willing to give the passenger a better deal, and they seem equally dismissive of all the ticketing scams.

We arrived at Lincoln in the early afternoon on a cold but sunny winter's day. We walked up the pedestrianised High Street that continued and became the Strait and then Steep Hill to the ridge on which the massive 11th-century cathedral and castle are built. Several locals commented on the fact that we were dragging suitcases up the hill, which was a pretty sharp incline, making me wish that I had brought a rucksack. The castle was closed following the weekend's Christmas market, with over 300 stalls in and around the castle. The market had been a roaring success; the throngs of visitors were described in the local newspaper as having to walk like penguins along the narrow streets.

Town Map

Our mission was simple: dump our bags and spend time visiting the cathedral, once the highest building in the world and responsible for the largest diocese in England, established by William the Conqueror in 1072, stretching from the Humber to the Thames. Built on the Lincolnshire ridge at 250 feet, it looms over the vast flat plains of Lincolnshire and was described by John Ruskin as "the most precious piece of architecture in the British Isles". It has suffered several calamities from earthquakes and collapse from poor construction, and today, like almost every other large church or cathedral, it is undergoing a massive restoration.

It was the scale that impressed us and the fact that one of the four copies of the Magna Carta is held in the cathedral, although at the time of our visit, this was on loan to the Lincoln Center in Washington DC.  The Magna Carta with its message that all free men could not be held or imprisoned without being judged by their equals and that "the King was not to deny, delay or sell justice" were radical concessions by King John to quell the uprising of the barons. Whilst there have been claims that this was the precursor to civil liberties, it applied primarily to the barons and did not extend to the common people.

Magna Carta

We tramped up and down the steep hill several times and discovered that it had been voted the best shopping street in Britain. It was interesting but not that remarkable and the High Street was cluttered with the usual offerings. Brayford Pool and the river Witham provided a linear water feature through the heart of the city and there was an impressive collection of civic buildings.

Apart from its location in the midst of a rich agricultural area, the town is also home to Siemens and has benefitted from a new University which has acquired a good reputation for business studies in its short 20-year life. The outskirts of the city are an ugly addition to a fine city centre and have extended too far into the flat plains, the area is a melange of car showrooms, warehouses and modern housing. As we left the next morning the roads out of Lincoln were at capacity and even the 10 miles on the A46 to the A1 north took a good half hour amidst heavy commercial traffic.

So that's Lincoln crossed off the visit list although I could be tempted back if only to see the cathedral again and visit the castle. I would like to think that the surrounding countryside would be a palette of Lincoln Green in summer but I suspect that yellow fields of rape seed and a smattering of commercial buildings with grey roofs amidst blocks of tarmac would flank the historic city.

London

Brixton Tube Station

Ritzy on Windrush Suare

Electric Avenue

Brixton Market

Santa run from Windrush Square

Bubbling dissent against austerity measures

St Pancras Station: true Victorian splendour and home to Eurostar

King's Cross regeneration

For the first time all year, we caught a flight to London, I had been working during the day and that ruled out the train. The flight tickets from Scotland were cheaper than the train to London but the cost of the train from Stansted to London (36 miles) was almost the same price as the flight and 50% more expensive than our rail tickets to Lincoln (153 miles) at the end of the weekend. It illustrated once again what a nonsense rail franchising has been and how the customer is being routinely fleeced by the operators.

London is never quiet or content, every visit this year has witnessed demonstrations, petitions, heavy policing and edgy incidents. Arriving in Brixton on Friday evening we were harangued by touts selling Kasabian tickets outside the tube station, it was crazy! Did I look like a Kasabian fan with my suitcase and Rab jacket? The streets were thronged with thirty-somethings, nightlife was rife and the hundreds of pubs and restaurants of every ethnicity were sucking in and spilling out crowds.

The next day dawned cold and bright, I decided against the Saturday Park Run in Brockwell park and pottered around Brixton's street markets in Electric Avenue, which had inspired Eddie Grant's eponymous 1982 hit. By lunchtime, the streets were full of mock Santa's outside the Ritzy cinema. I assumed it was just another demonstration - "a living wage for elves" but it seemed to be part of an annual Santa run. Protest and fun are yoked together in Brixton. We retreated down Acre Lane passing a bedraggled student demonstration and ate at the excellent Boqueria tapas bar that had been partly hired by a 'ration book' of retired baby boomers for their Christmas lunch. We were lucky to have an inquisitive toddler granddaughter to entertain us as she sampled the food, lapped the table of noisy baby boomers and entertained the waiters.

I was surprised the next morning to be running amidst a hundred or so primary school children in Brockwell park, there is now a children's Park Run on Sunday. By early afternoon the roads were at a standstill with traffic as we caught a bus to East Dulwich, it took an hour to travel 3 miles and that seems to be typical of most bus trips in London. Transport for London doesn't seem to be making much progress in improving bus travel, which seems to be used mainly by young mums with children, pensioners and young people surviving on a less than a living wage. The journey was worth it as we spent the afternoon in a cosy cafe on Lordship Lane with a carafe of wine and some craft produced cream cheese. Bare wood tables, a clientele that included all ages and races gave an easy atmosphere that was the upside of London displaying the benefits of diversity.

The journey back from London is always made easy by the speedy tube service and King's Cross has trains that depart with a remarkable high frequency. I was disturbed by the claims reported in the London Evening Standard by Mike Brown, the Managing Director of the Tube. He was demanding that as well as HS2 (£42.6bn) and the Crossrail project (£16bn), which is due to open in 2018, that there will be a need for Crossrail 2 to allow mainline trains to run into the centre of London. This is endorsed by London First, a corporate lobby group encouraged by Boris Johnson, which is seeking a further £12bn to be spent on Crossrail 2 for London transport. It is yet another example of London's obsessive selfish demands that seem to find receptive ears in government departments and ministers. It will ensure that Heathrow to Canary Wharf (23miles) can be made in 40 minutes, about the same time as it takes the new Edinburgh Trams to travel 8 miles from the centre to its airport, even the buses in Edinburgh are quicker than this.

I calmed myself down from this latest example of London-centric indulgence by taking a walk around St. Pancras, my favourite railway station, and then observing the regeneration of the area north of King's Cross by the canal. We caught a fast train from King's Cross to Newark and changed to the slow train from Newark to Lincoln. The contrast was marked and fully illustrated the inequality in transport spending, outwith the London commuter belt the country has been starved of investment. The single railcar dawdled across the flat landscapes of Lincolnshire and even that seemed fast compared to some rail trips across the Pennines. 

The sums required to procure and build HS2 plus Crossrail 2 could transform rail services across the rest of Britain, without the expensive tunnelling and land purchases required in London and the southeast. This could ensure that travel times are reduced by up to 50-60% as well as providing comfortable modern trains like those serving the London commuters. Transport for London should sort out priority lanes for buses rather than constantly surcharging the rest of the UK for its tunnel vision. The sooner we have a truly federal Britain the better; the North and Midlands of England have suffered more than Scotland and Northern Ireland in the government's unalloyed prejudice towards favouring the capital. As well as devolved nations, we also need to devolve power to the less prosperous regions of England.

Newark to Lincoln railcar