Torridon Triggers

Shieldaig Island

Towards the end of the wet week at Loch Carron, we made a couple of tours through Torridon, one of my favourite places. We had walked up Carn a' Bhealach Mhoir above Plockton in the morning, and Gregor had wanted a trail run when the rain relented in the afternoon, so I suggested the Coulin Pass from Achnashellach to Glen Torridon. I could drop him off and drive around to Kinlochewe and park at the end of the trail by Loch Clair. He needed little persuasion and it allowed me to reprise all the times I had visited these parts to climb the magnificent hills or on visits with Aileen, who loved the area and browsed photos of it most mornings to offset the gloom of UK news. Just a year ago, we had an early morning stroll on the shores of  Loch Maree, a longer walk to Loch Clair before a late morning coffee at Shieldaig, Aileen's favourite village. I would be able to relive the wonderful memories of that day. 

I parked at the start of the track to Loch Clair, usually full but with just one car today and a group of three retired walkers returning to the car. They commented on the walk and asked if I had done it before. Without thinking, I said that my wife and I had walked it a year ago on a perfect March day. They looked bemused. Why do it again on such a day as today? I explained that my son was running through the Coulin pass, and we were having some time away from home as my wife had died recently. The woman began to cry and asked if that was why I was revisiting. I realised that there would be a stack of memories on the walk to trigger thoughts of Aileen, all of them good, as this was her idea of heaven.

I had reached the shores of Loch Coulin before Gregor appeared; it was time to turn back whilst he made a detour to explore Coulin Lodge and beyond. We drove back through Glen Torridon; the nearby mountains Sgurr Dubh, Beinn Eighe, Liathach and Beinn Alligin were all out of the cloud. We passed the start of the walk to Bad Callda at the end of the peninsula north of Shieldaig, a walk we frequently made when we were in the area. On the last occasion watched an otter frolic on the beach below. We recalled as we drove through Shieldaig that every day Aileen had looked at photographs by stevecarter, a local photographer. Shieldaig was her go-to place in the Highlands and the photographs merely amplified her appreciation of it. 

Two days later, Emily was with us and Gregor wanted to show her the beauty of the area, so we repeated the trip, but this time the three of us made the complete circuit of Loch Clair and Loch Coulin on a grey but dry Saturday. We stopped at Shieldaig for a fine lunch and watched an Eagle circle over Shieldaig Island and thought of Aileen. A couple of days later and back home, I sent Steve Carter a thank you for the photos he had shared, which had given Aileen some solace during her final days. I immediately received his heartfelt commiserations; she would have been absolutely delighted by his kindness.

G on Carn a' Bhealaich Mhoir

Retracing last year's walk alongside Loch Clair

Beinn Eighe from Loch Clair

The track to Loch Coulin

Liathach and Beinn Eighe across Loch Clair

G & E speed walking

Beinn Alligin and Beinn Dearg across Loch Torridon

The Buffoon's Last Hurrah

And nothing but the truth

It was a horrendous day in Wester Ross, with 55mph winds, lashing rain, and battleship grey skies, we had no thoughts of going out. We lit a log fire and thought it might be worth watching the Parliamentary Privileges Committee allow Boris Johnson an unlikely chance to exonerate himself. During the first couple of minutes, he read a polite and contrite scripted introduction. He quickly lapsed into his well worn artifices that displayed all his self-absorbed tendencies to insist that he was innocent of misleading parliament. He was mangling his metaphors, juggling his vocabulary and facts were a figment of his imagination. He asked for a delay so he could vote against Rishi Sunak's' Northern Ireland protocol changes that were required to undo the damages that Johnson had caused when Prime Minister. Already the Privileges Committee were losing patience with the Great Pretender.

And so it continued, each set of questions answered with platitudes and the insouciant innocence of a man who is allergic to the truth. I dozed off as the questions were witlessly ignored and the rain turned to sleet. Johnson lost his temper as his erstwhile colleagues from the Conservative party harangued him for some kind of acknowledgement that he had deceived Parliament again and again. Johnson must have been hallucinating when he summarised his evidence by saying he had enjoyed the opportunity to present his case and that he was sure he had provided evidence to show that he had not been responsible for breaking Covid guidance. 

The whole performance was weirdly absurd alternative theatre, a bit like an episode of Magic Roundabout. At the end of which Zebedee would say, "you can't win them all, it's time for bed." Ermintrude (Harriet Harman) would certainly agree with that.

A Lazy Day in Lochalsh

Kyle of Lochalsh Station

After two days of climbing Munros on dreich March days, we had decided to take the morning off, the clouds were low and the limbs needed tweaking. Lazing in the cottage had an appeal, I had been here on half a dozen occasions but it was usually a base for long days in the hills. I had once come to write a long report but still managed three days out walking. I was able to write a few blog posts on the recent Munro walks and find a book to read. I have had neither the time nor the appetite for reading for the past seven months. 

We had some lunch and Gregor had decided he would like to run to the Glomach Falls and back from Morvich, I had walked this route on a previous visit and knew the uphill path to 500 metres before dropping to the Falls was a slog. I suggested he start from Killilan at the head of Loch Long. run up Glen Elchaig and up to the Falls of Glomach and then continue on the mountain pass to Morvich. I dropped him off at Killilan and drove back alongside the scenic glen that hosts many new houses to the A87 by Dornie. I had a couple of hours to kill,

We needed some provisions so I drove to Kyle of Lochalsh and bought a few things at the modern and well-stocked Coop. I parked by the old ferry slip that I had used many times when visiting Skye in the 1960s, 70s and 80s. The hotel that used to be too grand to ever visit now operates as a stopping point for bus tours. I walked to the railway station that I had first visited in 1961 to watch the steam locomotives discharging passengers and collecting fish trucks. The station was glinting as the grey rainy skies of the day so far were being illuminated by shafts of sunlight. Even the piles of logs waiting for transit were saturated with colour. I noticed a shop that claimed to be a Community Fridge and entered to find out what this entailed. It had opened during Covid and businesses would donate excess food that could be taken by locals who were struggling to cope with the cost of food. The two large fridges were almost bare but the shop had morphed into more of a charity shop. 

I decided to head to Morvich for a walk but stopped at the Donald Murchison monument that sits on a headland a couple of miles east of Kyle. I had passed it on scores of occasions and always promised myself a look but was usually rushing to get to the Cuillins or back home. Arriving at Morvich, I figured that I had 45 minutes before Gregor would arrive so walked up Strath Croe and into the forest. Gregor and I walked here two years ago when climbing Beinn Fhada on another dreich day. The sun was still trying to penetrate the skies and the Five Sisters of Kintail revealed their summits with snow etching the skyline. My walk was the perfect way to end the day and I had only been back a couple of minutes before Gregor arrived from his 20-kilometre run. It was only a 20-minute drive back to the cottage to a log fire and a good book.

Kyle of Lochalsh and the Skye bridge

Timber on the jetty by the station

Looking towards Kintail

Birchscape

Strath Croe croft

Maol Chean-Dearg

An Ruadh Stac from the slopes of Maol Chean-Dearg

Monday 29 March 2023

Ascent:      990 metres

Distance:   19 kilometres

Time:         5 hours 15 minutes

Maol Chean-Dearg   933m    2hrs 52mins

The weather was kinder than expected, which meant another day on the hills. Maol Chean-Dearg has always been a favourite for its wonderful panorama of the Torridons, across to the Applecross hills and Skye. The walk along rippling Fionn Abhainn is also a serene but wild take on Scottish scenery. What I had forgotten was the steep, loose stony path to the bealach and then the boulder field to the summit. I had suggested to Gregor that he go ahead and climb the magnificent An Fuar Stac, a Corbett that sits alongside Maol Chean-Dearg. He took my advice and set off in his trail shoes whilst I was changing into boots and gaiters. 

The walk up the glen in the morning sunshine was all I hoped for, although we had probably started later than we should have, the rain was predicted by lunchtime and we had not planned to walk until we saw the blue skies. I was blowing a bit but managed a reasonable pace of 5kph, across the wooden bridge, past the bothy and ready to start the steep path up to the bealach. I stopped for water and to gather my thoughts, was I ready for a second hardish walk in 2 days? I had agreed to meet Gregor on Maol Chean-Dearg but knowing his speed I was concerned that he would be up and down An Fuar Stac before I reached the bealach.

I battered on using all the bloody-mindedness that had seen me crank my way up 1700 Munros, they never used to be this hard! Arriving at the bealach, I saw someone ahead and, assuming it was Gregor, hailed him and waved, he waved back. I reached a large boulder, a perfect seat for a coffee before I started to climb the last 350 metres of ascent. Why was Gregor coming back down, surely he had not climbed Maol Chean-Dearg as well. It turned out to be an elderly plumber from Helensburgh on a Munro round. He had decided to try and complete a round before his knees went. We chatted for a while, he had climbed over 200 Munros and told me I looked well for my age. Patronising me doesn't work so I told him I was on my sixth round. I wondered where Gregor was and then we saw a figure coming down the rocky ramparts of An Fuar Stac, it was Gregor. I  waved across and as I was getting cold set off for the final climb and to get a bit of a lead on Gregor.

The loose path of mainly quartzite is steep but I made good progress and I sauntered across the plateau before the final red sandstone boulder field as Gregor caught me and we entered the clouds. Sadly, there were no views or goats, I have encountered them on 3 previous occasions at this summit. We finished the flask of coffee that we had sweetened with some syrup having both reluctantly given up sugar recently. There was no wind but the damp seeped into us so we wasted no time before beginning the descent. Even finding the cairn that marks the start of the route down through the boulder field was difficult to find in the mist. 

The rain had started as we began the descent through the boulder field, several pairs of Ptarmigan entertained us and Gregor went chasing them, something I have done on many occasions but it was a chance to get ahead. At the bealach, Gregor decided to run down. It is 7 kilometres back to Coulags and would be a 90-minute walk for me. I had waited too long before putting on my Goretex jacket and the rain was showing no sign of abating. It was after 3pm before I was down but with a quick 25-minute drive back to the cottage and the prospect of a shower and some soup, this was a big advantage over the more normal couple of hours of driving. Two Munros in two days used to be a failure, it now seemed a major success.

A glimpse of Maol Chean-Dearg from Coulags

Sgurr Ruadh in morning splendour

Footbridge over  Fionn Abhainn

Bothy

Fionn Abhainn

Start of the ascent of Maol Chean- Dearg from bealach

An Ruadh Stac from bealach

Beinn Damph from bealach

Ptarmigan on descent

Gleouraich

Gairich from Sron a' Chuilinn

Sunday, 19 March 2023

Ascent:     880 metres

Distance:  11 kilometres

Time:       3 hours 14 minutes

Gleouraich  1034m   1hr 55mins

I had arranged to use my brother's cottage at Achmore on Loch Carron. Gregor had a week's holiday to take. After the trauma of Aileen's death and funeral, we thought some time together would help. The weather forecasts were ominous, but Sunday looked like the best day of the week. I was to pick up Gregor at Balloch Station, but the first train on Sunday did not arrive until after 10am, and after procuring a coffee, it was 10:30am before we started the long journey to Loch Quoich. 

I had not climbed a Munro since early August last year, the longest gap since 1977 when I had broken my leg. I was slightly nervous but had always enjoyed Gleouraich, and hopefully, Spidean Mialach would be possible as well. It was almost 2pm before we set out in grey, damp conditions. The rain had yet to start as we followed the path through the thicket of rhododendrons that adorned the walk. Gregor charged on as I found a pace commensurate with my age and hill condition. I would not be beating my best time of 1 hour and 10 minutes back in May 1992. Several walkers were on their descent, having enjoyed sunny conditions in the morning. The incoming clouds were already covering the summit of Spidean Mialach and the distant Munros in Knoydart.

The ground was boggy, but the stalker's path was a testimony to its constructors as it zigged and zagged upwards to Sron a' Chuilinn. There is then a delightful ascent up the ridge, Druim Seileach, that provides splendid views of Loch Quoich, the adjacent Munro, Sgurr Mhaoraich, and the South Cluanie ridge. The rain began as I reached the bealach before the final 200 metres of ascent. I put on my rain jacket and spent an age struggling to pull my lightweight waterproof trousers over boots and gaiters; they were not designed for this. Another walker stopped to tell me the weather was closing in, and it was a long slog in snow across to Spidean Mialach. I presumed that Gregor was already on his way because he gets cold while waiting at summits.

The final section was slow, very slow; the rain gear, the rain and the stop all combined to reduce what was previously known as pace. I had no need to climb Spidean Mialach as I was no longer trying to complete a Munro round. I was free of those shackles. As I neared the summit, I could see Gregor circling the cairn in the mist. He would not want me to sit and have a rest, and in any case, I had no food; we had eaten our cheese rolls before arriving at Loch Quoich, and I had consumed my energy bar on the ascent. Gregor had already been out to the top, heading towards Spidean Mialach and thought it was a long way to its cloud-enveloped summit. We could go down to Fiar Bhealach at 730 metres and head back down Coire Dubh, but it is boggy even in summer. Instead, we agreed to return by our route up. 

Gregor began to run once we reached Druim Seileach. He would have a run alongside Loch Quoich once down, and I would collect him as I drove back towards the dam and the former hotel at Tomdoun that had now been modernised as a luxury house. My descent had been reasonably quick, but my quads were not happy with all this exercise after months confined to the house whilst caring for Aileen. I consoled myself with the thought that the forecast for tomorrow was not great and that maybe we could give hillwalking a miss.

Loch Quoich towards Knoydart

The path along Druim Seileach towards Gleouraich

Looking up Glen Quoich towards South Cluanie Ridge

Sgurr Mhaoraich from Druim Seileach

Gleoraich summit

 

Spring is the new Winter

Cold enough for a walk? 

After a warmish, wet winter, it was now spring and at last Jack Frost had been on bonus. Drawing the curtains at first light created a dilemma. Did I nip downstairs to make a coffee and some cereal so I could read in bed or should I go for an early morning jaunt up Lime Craig?  The forecasts all this week have carried weather warnings for exceptionally cold conditions with strong northerly winds and a prospect of snow. Challenge accepted, I jumped in the car and made the 12-minute journey to Braeval. I was immediately reminded how good a spell of cold weather can be: it was freeze-dried air, pure azure skies and a clarity of light that makes you blink at the beauty. I managed to make three pre-breakfast visits this week. It sets you up for the day. 

I was home by 8:15am this morning with my energy levels restored and my list of actions was tackled with gusto. The old cross trainer that had cluttered the garage for years was collected by a woman with a truck and a wonderful back story as an academic. Hedges and fruit canes were planted, emails were sent and my car of the last 9 years was sold within 24 hours of it going on sale. I was sorry to lose it, the best of the 15 cars I have owned but not Ultra Low Emission Zone compliant and Glasgow and Edinburgh are both due to introduce them in a couple of months. It had also done 80,000 miles. 

Lime Craig is my gymnasium, I have climbed it over 400 times since the start of COVID and I have run it up and down exactly 199 times. It is a 300-metre climb on a couple of miles of a good track to the top, now besmirched with a telephone mast. There are lots of smaller paths to provide variations through the forest: a mixture of native birch, oak and scots pine with spruce and larch plantations that are currently being felled. The views from the top are a 360° panorama of Scotland: the Campsies, Kilpatricks, Ben Lomond, the Trossachs, Ben More and Stobbinnein, Ben Ledi, Ben Vorlich and the Forth Valley to Stirling and even the Pentlands on days like today. It encompasses my daily world for the past fifty years. Despite being the first week of spring, the clarity this week has been that of a cold sunny winter, the very best time to be in the hills. 

Campsies

Ben Venue and oncoming snow

Pine skyline

Ben Lomond and Ben Venue

Ben Ledi

Stobbinnein and Ben More

Doune Hill and Beinn Eich

Doune Hill looking north-west  to Arrochar Alps

Saturday, 26 February 2023

Luss Hills

Ascent:        859 metres
Distance:     13 kilometres
Time:           3 hours 43 minutes

My third hill walk in four days since returning from London. Gregor was going on holiday the next day and had an injury that prevented him from running in the National Cross Country Championship so we arranged a short day in the Luss hills. I picked him up at the station in Balloch and we made the fifteen-minute journey to Luss and along the eponymous Glen with the intention of climbing the three Grahams at the head of this isolated glen. The narrow single-track road has few passing places and no apparent parking places. I tried to park on a grass verge near Glenmollochan but promptly gave up as the wheels sank into the soft ground. There was a private road ahead so I had to return and found a small space at the foot of the path to Mid Hill. We walked back to Glenmollochan and began the walk up a waterlogged track that had a gentle incline that followed the glen for 3 kilometres. We crossed the burn and began to climb.

The steep slopes of Doune Hill were ahead although the summit was not visible owing to the convex slopes towards the summit. Gregor forged ahead whilst I kept a more sedate pace as I ambled myself towards Hill Fitness. A cold northerly breeze had chilled Gregor who had been waiting at the summit. He set off for Cruachan t-Sithan, the second Graham that required a 250-metre descent and then a climb back to the long ridge that goes southeast from Beinn Lochain to Beinn Eich. 

I decided to forego this extra leg of the walk in the knowledge that Gregor would get to Beinn Eich at the same time as myself. It would also give me ten minutes to have some food by the prominent trig point and take some photos. The view to the northwest was spectacular in the clear conditions and Arran and the Ailsa Craig were visible beyond the Firth of Clyde. These are excellent hills and seem to be free of visitors, whether that is because of their proximity to Glen Douglas or just the difficult access

It was a 220-metre climb to Beinn Eich over a fine grassy ridge, Gregor had caught me as we reached the summit. Loch Lomond was more prominent as we descended down grassy slopes that made for easy walking. A lone female runner was making the ascent of Beinn Eich, the only person we saw all day. The lower slopes were waterlogged and my footing gave way and I made an ungainly slide down the hillside. It was half a kilometre back to the car that remained the only car parked in the glen. I drove Gregor back to Glasgow and after changing from my wet clothes and a coffee I was home by 4:30pm

Glen Mollochan looking towards Doune Hill

Beinn Lochan

Firth of Clyde and Arran from Beinn Lochan

Loch Lomond from Beinn Eich

Ben Ledi

 

Loch Lubnaig from the ascent

Wednesday, 22 February 2023

Ascent:      789 metres

Distance:   10 kilometres

Time:         2 hours 56 minutes

Ben Ledi     878m     1hr 29mins

It had been exactly six months since my last foray into the mountains. After returning from London, I decided to take the initiative and seek solace on the hills. I had previously arranged to walk on Thursday with an old neighbour, Arthur, who had been the piper at our daughter's wedding and at the end of my last Munro round. The conditions were more inviting today so I phoned him and we arranged to climb Ben Ledi, starting at noon.

I was slightly apprehensive having spent a week in London pottering around and lost any hill fitness I had last August. Even my morning sorties up Lime Craig had been far less frequent than normal. But what is normal nowadays? People keep saying that things will begin to feel more normal but life without your partner of 43 years will never be normal. I was using a new rucksack bought last August for the first time, it seemed too large for the spare pair of gloves, a water bottle, a sandwich and an orange. There was no need for waterproofs or winter equipment, the day was bright with excellent visibility but quite cold in the northerly breeze. My insulated jacket was soon to prove too warm as we chatted continuously on the steep path up the lower slopes. Unusually, I had to take a couple of phone calls during the ascent and I halted to avoid losing reception on the forest slopes as Arthur continued to climb.

Ben Ledi is my most climbed Corbett or Munro, being a 15-minute drive from home and for 40 years accessible from the garden of Blairgarry, my wife's parent's cottage on Loch Venachar. The paths are well made and it is probably the most climbed Corbett in Scotland, with only Ben Nevis, Cairngorm and Ben Lomond receiving more visitors. The ridge is reached at 600 metres and thereafter there is a steady climb with several steeper sections before the cross to commemorate Sergeant Harry Lawrie. He was the leader of the mountain rescue team and died in a helicopter crash on Ben More in 1987. I knew quite a few of the team and worked with his son so always reflect on the tragedy that took place on a fine February day similar to today.

Even on a midweek February day, the hill was moderately busy with twenty to thirty other walkers. There was no snow cover remaining although the easily visible twin peaks of Ben More and Stob Binnein had retained their cap of snow. We hunkered down amidst some rocks below the summit to eat some food before starting the descent. Arthur has a mountain leadership background and still takes out the occasional group. We both felt our age on the descent, Arthiur's knee was niggling him and my quads could feel the impact of a much longer descent than those of recent months. I was home by 3:45pm for an early bath but, for the first time, there was no fine dining or good company for the evening. That is no longer the norm.

Summit with Arthur

Looking north from the summit to Ben Vane

Solo London

Memorial to Democratic Follies

My first time away from home since last July was to visit the grandchildren during the school holidays. London without Aileen was going to be hard. On our many visits to London over the past fifteen years, it was like being on holiday, we would be together most of the time, with our daughters and the grandchildren or visiting museums, parks, buildings and shops. We would take advantage of cinemas and musical events as well as the multitude of restaurants serving food from all parts of the world. It was different from being at home where we would often be doing things separately whether at work, maintaining the house and garden, watching TV, reading, meeting old colleagues and local friends or book groups, going to French classes, climbing hills, running and blogging.

On my first morning in London Eva and I visited the South Bank with the grandchildren. We entered by the Albert Embankment below the Westminster Bridge. A memorial to the 200,000 people who died of Covid and a reminder of the slow and erratic response to the pandemic by Boris Johnson's government of flibbertigibbets. Across the river, a gleaming Big Ben put to shame the drab and empty Houses of Parliament, a monument to follies committed in recent years. It had hosted four consecutive failed governments that have been the source of the UK's sad demise in the social, economic and environmental structure in recent years.  

The Southbank was mobbed with thousands of other families during the school half-term, a ritual that favours the businesses more than the customers. The crowds included phalanxes of French schoolchildren taking advantage of the devalued £ and feeding the revitalisation of London's tourist businesses. The former Greater London Council County Hall has become a vessel for several dodgy-looking tourist attractions alongside the London Eye. Even the cultural activities we witnessed in the Southbank Centre seemed stale but then beatboxing was never my thing. We returned home and I went cycling with Simon and Kit hurtling over speed bumps and checking out the new play equipment at the Brixton Windmill.

Later in the week, we visited the Lego and dinosaur exhibition at the Horniman Museum with other friends. We made a trip to the impressive new shopping centre that has been squeezed into the Battersea Power Station. The £9bn investment, on a similar level to that at King's Cross, is astounding with the adjacent high-rise flats costing £millions. The whole complex is a different world, the play equipment was at another level. The highlight for me was the sheer scale of the brick-built power station, its battery of 1950s dials in the control room now part of a restaurant. Two nimble fitness instructors were teaching youngsters to use LED hula hoops. £5 for each youngster and about twenty in a class that lasted about fifteen minutes. When I did a similar job as a teenager at discos run by my father, it was free and lasted about 45 minutes, but we didn't have LED hula hoops. My father bought some hosepipes and we stapled eight-foot lengths into a hoop using some dowelling, those were the days when inventive manufacturing was a home industry.

The only thing missing from the refurbished Power Station was a pig flying above the chimneys. The Pink Floyd album, Animals, used the pig as a symbol of people with wealth and power who manipulate the rest of society and encourage them to be viciously competitive and cutthroat, so the pigs can remain powerful. The developers who repurposed Battersea Power Station have taken this Orwellian fantasy literally with pricing policies that are set at a level to keep the proletariat at bay.

On the last day with children back at school and adults working, I headed for the Olympic Village in Stratford. It had been on my list of visits for years but involved three tube changes and Aileeen was not really interested. The great plans for after use of the site had become a bit of an albatross for the government and consequently, things had been allowed to drift. Boris Johnson's promises rarely come to fruition. And so it proved, the Westfield shopping Centre has none of the razzamatazz of the original Westfield or Battersea. The much-vaunted Zaha Hadid-designed Aquatic Centre is not weathering well with the timber slats looking as if they have a limited life and the landscaping is in terminal decline. The Olympic stadium has been repurposed as West Ham's home ground at a cost to the tax payer of £323m, with West Ham contributing a mere £15m. The stadium has been sadly downgraded and is surrounded by fast food outlets and shipping containers. It has been graffitied with claret and blue signage that demeans the original stadium. A tour costs £20 or £45 with a West Ham legend, unfortunately Julian Dicks was not on duty. Instead I got talking to a group from Murphy Scaffolding who were having a training day in the facilities, they offered me the chance to sneak in with them. Unfortunately, I would not have convinced the doorman as I was too slim, too old and lacked an Essex accent to pass as a scaffolder.

On the way back to Stratford station I was pleased to see that there was a significant development taking place with new buildings under construction for a cultural quarter including the University of the Arts London College of Fashion, the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Sadler's Wells, and the V&A. Quite a lineup and, hopefully, it will help ensure that the landscaping around the Olympic village is brought back to a reasonable standard. I looked for a place to eat but nothing appealed so I returned to Bond Street on the new Elizabeth line. The over-engineering of the platforms and stations explained why Crossrail had greatly exceeded its budget, £20bn compared to the original estimate of £14.6bn. Bond Street Station alone cost £570m, five times its estimated cost. No wonder there is no cash left for upgrading the rail lines and rolling stock between the northern cities.

I alighted onto Bond Street and was pleased to spot John Lewis across the road. It is one of the few remaining department stores that seem to provide everything including a good cafe for some lunch. I had not been in a shop other than a supermarket since last July so enjoyed the chance to browse on a quiet Monday. I was even enticed into the in-house travel agent where the adviser recommended a holiday in Argentina and Chile, Japan or Costa Rica. On hearing that I would be travelling alone having lost my wife she asked if she could give me a cuddle. Customer care is never knowingly undersold at JL!

The next day I returned home, I had paid £10 extra for a flexible ticket but I had inadvertently booked a train from Euston to Stirling. I had forgotten and taken the tube to King's Cross, which is the usual station for the journey, but by the flexible ticket, I could catch an earlier and faster train that got me to Stirling an hour earlier. There was time to buy some food before the bus home but even better I bumped into an old neighbour. She offered me a lift home and brought me up to date on the news from our old village. I thought it might be difficult returning to an empty house but I felt pleased to be returning home.

Covid Memorial Wall on the Albert Embankment

Battersea Power Station

Statutory Citroen Food Truck in Battersea Power Station

Aquatic Centre has lost its pizzazz

The Olympic Stadium: downsized and debased by West Ham