Gaming Tool for White House Advisers

I have finished a rereading of Nineteen Eighty Four and whilst I still find it a tedious slog, it contains some imaginative, but morally corrupt, concepts to destroy democracy that the White House have adopted.When thinking about doublespeak in the time of Trump, it occurred to me that triple gestures would make a good game for children or the White House advisers. Instead of Rock (fist), Paper (flat hand), Scissors (two fingers) it could be renamed War, Peace, Trump. Obviously two fingers would be Trump, fist would be War and flat hand would be Peace.

Trump beats Peace, War beats Trump and Peace beats War. Even the obsequious advisers in the White House might be able to explain this to Trump, although whether he could convince Netanyahu might be a stretch. And the game could be sponsored by those clever Norwegians who decide the Nobel Prize.

Rob Roy Way: Killin to Lochearnhead

Killin - Dochart Falls

Tuesday 7 April, 2026

Ascent:    276 metres
Distance: 13 kilometres - including walk to/from Lochearnhead car park
Time:       2 hours 53 minutes

At last, a day without rain or wind and the temperatures rising to 15°C. I decided to attempt the section of the Rob Roy Way from Killin to Lochearnhead. I drove to Lochearnhead and parked in the village car park on the A85 and caught the C60 bus. I fell into conversation at the bus stop with a young woman who lived in one of the social rented houses that we had obtained funding for in 1999. She worked in the Recycling shop in Killin and was hoping to get entry to a vocational course in Public Health or Psychology in Edinburgh. She had values that gave me hope for future generations.

The day was bright as I left the bus just before 11am and began the walk by crossing the Bridge of Dochart. The falls were sparkling in the sunshine and quite a few tourists were enjoying the weather at the fag end of a miserable Easter weekend. After walking half a kilometre, the Rob Roy Way and Route 7 national cycle trail dive into the forestry plantations. 

The Rob Roy Way follows the old railway branch line that ran into Killin until it was closed in September 1965. This resulted from a rockfall in Glen Ogle that shut the Callander to Oban Line just months before the Beeching proposals would have done so. There is a 1-in-50 gradient from Killin to Killin Junction, west of Lix Toll. This provided a gentle incline on the Rob Roy Way. Thereafter, the trail zig zags up steeper terrain, climbing almost 200 metres through the forest towards the summit of Glen Ogle. I had made good time and reached the Memorial to the Tornado fighter jet that crashed here in 1994. It had flummoxed our Emergency Planning procedures, which until that time had focused on flooding and coping with an incident at Grangemouth. 

I stopped for some food before crossing the A85 and hitting the disused Glen Ogle railway track. It sidles past the attractive Lochan Lairig Cheile before entering a deep cutting.  The descent down Glen Ogle had been on my to-do list for fifty years since hearing Duncan, who had been a signalman on the line, describe the rockfall and subsequent closure of the line that was his pride and joy. He became a postman and part-time gardener for Aileen's parents and had a formidable commitment to all his occupations. 

During the early part of the walk, I had seen only one couple, but hereafter there was a steady stream of cyclists, walkers and one runner. The descent was steady, and after examining the viaduct and admiring the stone embankments that were mainly intact after 150 years, I was beginning to weary. I decided to take a steep path down to the centre of Lochearnhead. It was 2 pm and I had managed 20,000 steps and 13 kilometres for the first time in 9 months. I hobbled back to the car; it was sore feet, not my hip, that was the curse. There is now only one leg of the Rob Roy Way remaining to be walked, Aberfeldy to Acharn.    

Dochart Falls and Ben Lawers range

Old Killin Branch Line to Lix Toll

Looking back to Ben Lawers from Mid Lix

Memorial to the Tornado Pilots at Grenoble Cottages

Glen Ogle cutting

Top of the Glen Ogle descent

Glen Ogle Viaduct

Descent to Lochearnhead

Bonus - Killin Branch Line

 

Last of the Winter Ale

There were six of us, all having cleared seventy. It was our monthly get-together to sort out the problems of the world by tapping into our lived experiences and telling tales that grew taller by the telling. The world was falling apart, the yanks were off to the Dark Side of the Moon whilst bombing Iran and threatening to abandon NATO. The Scottish Parliament election was imminent, and the blandishments offered by the six parties that aspire to be part of the next government were gaining no traction. Voting in the election will be as much against who the voter doesn't want as the candidate or party that they might have once supported. We had an ex MEP and two ex-Scottish Parliament candidates in our mix, so we had insider information. Our two Celtic fans were less buoyant than usual, and the two Kilmarnock fans more optimistic. 

One of our number had just had a Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA)test and threw it into the conversation; he was asked to circulate details of how to get the test. It had been part of my recent annual health check by the GP, and according to the others, my score was very low(good). The session was working for me, particularly as the pub had Timothy Taylor's Landlord on tap. We lapsed into a discussion of our ailments; one was recovering from an ankle operation and still using crutches, and another was on a strict diet to avoid becoming diabetic. Several had become carers for ageing parents or partners, and one was having to sell a holiday flat because one of his company pensions had exhausted its funds and been withdrawn. Ageing, unlike Scottish Government policies or CalMac ferries, is fast-paced and not subject to cancellation.

Inevitably, we had half an hour of lacerating contempt for Trump. I mentioned that in Nineteen-Eighty-Four, there had been a daily Two Minutes of Hate against the opponents of Big Brother. Trump had resurrected this concept with his daily Hour of Beautiful Hate for whoever was on his list to be insulted, annihilated or vaporised. Trump has also adopted a form of doublespeak to advance his authoritarian dystopian revision of the American Constitution. He had also reduced the need for adjectives apart from Greatest, Beautiful, Big and Bad. The Trump interlude morphed into a discussion of which podcasts or YouTube videos were worth a listen or a watch. 

Another of our number had a part share in a horse that had to be put down after a fall. What are the odds on that? Our AI expert, being on trend, had bought a new phone to salivate over the tendency of AI to manufacture porkies. He claimed he could edit a photograph in the style of famous painters. We challenged him to prove his claim. The waitress took a photo of the group, and I suggested Edvard Munch for the style - 30 seconds later, we were barely recognisable, just a table of sad has-beens. Maybe vaporisation is the answer now that assisted dying has been denied by the Scottish Parliament. Orwell's fiction is increasingly today's fact.

Buses

My first bus - Farringdon Park to Preston Town Centre

I was daydreaming about my lifetime experience of buses on the Ember Bus back from Glasgow. It has become a familiar journey over the past eighteen months, as I have given up going to Glasgow by car; the traffic congestion is horrendous. Parking is too expensive or dependent on an App (RingGo) for all on-street parking. The Council has effectively hived off one of its income streams to a commercial money maker. There are no longer any public toilets in Glasgow, but Ember buses terminate at Buchanan Street bus station, which is handy for the conveniences at John Lewis. 

Ember buses have revived my faith in buses. They operate with new electric coaches that travel at least as quick as cars and have internet access and comfortable seats. Booking could not be simpler with an App that shows you where your bus is and sends you a message if it is more than 4 minutes late. They have recently acquired a massive grant from the Scottish Government Zero Emission Bus Challenge Fund to purchase a further 100 Yutong electric buses. This will allow them to complete a network of routes between Scotland's cities and main towns, a sustainable alternative to car travel. And looking at the passengers on Ember Buses and talking to fellow travellers has convinced me that this is happening. For the most part, they are folks who have forsaken their cars for less hassle and the comfort of the Ember coaches. Admittedly, many use their Entitlement Cards, but the aim of the net-zero plan was to reduce car travel by 20%. The other losers to the Ember buses could be ScotRail, which may be slightly faster, but also far more costly and less comfortable.

The last time I was so excited by bus travel was as a child, when buses were the only way to travel in most towns and cities after the trams and trolley buses were scrapped. I travelled from my grandparents' house, where we stayed, to the town centre for shopping on the Farrindon Park route twice a week. It had a 5-minute frequency, and the buses ran to tight timetables, dictated by work hooters and school bells. Going to school, I became a great fan of step-on back platforms that could be accessed by running after the bus and jumping on as it accelerated and then being admonished by conductors in municipal uniforms with shiny ticket machines and a normally cheery countenance.

There were also long-distance coaches like the Ribble Leyland Tigers that took me to London when I was three. Apparently, I became very worried when we stopped in Birmingham for a break, shouting, "Where's the driver?" as he drifted off for a cup of tea and a pee. Ribble buses also provided a wonderful service in the north west, and I was taken on regular trips to Blackpool, Lytham and Morecombe by doting grandparents. Further afield, Ribble buses facilitated Alfred Wainwright to travel from Kendal to all parts of the Lake District, from where he could climb 214 Lakeland Fells. They were eulogised and became immortalised in his seven books about the Lakeland Fells, now referred to as the Wainwrights. They were chosen as much by accessibility via the Ribble Bus timetable as by their height or difference in height from adjacent hills.

For 10 years, I travelled every day by bus to secondary school and then to university in the 1960s and early 70s. Living in Glasgow in the 1970s, I had the choice of bus or underground. In the 1980s, I used to run to work or occasionally catch the bus or use the car. Buses were slow on the clogged-up city centre roads and were smoke-filled on the upper deck. They became a source of disdain, as when Mrs Thatcher was alleged to have said: "If a man finds himself on a bus by the age of 26, he can count himself a failure." She didn't say this; according to Alistair Cook, it was attributed to the Duchess of Westminster, a cut-glass snob in the 1920s. 

Mrs Thatcher did, however, introduce the 1985 Transport Act, which deregulated local bus services, allowing the privatisation of bus services. This led to the effective demise of local authority bus services in all but a few places: Lothian, Dumfries and Galloway, Nottingham, Cardiff, and Blackpool, which had also maintained its trams, amongst them. By the 1980s, buses were not a lifestyle way of travelling for those with cars.  But they were the only way to travel for the poorest in society. Standards dropped, timetables became fictional, prices increased as competition between companies inevitably gave way to monopolies and further price increases.

In the early noughties, I was involved in a Scottish working group to introduce a Scottish-wide identity card. It involved the Scottish Executive (now Scottish Government), the Councils and the NHS. We were seeking to establish a citizens’ account or identity number integrating National Insurance numbers, NHS numbers and electoral roll and council tax address information from Councils. It was seen as a means of sharing information between Health, Education, Social Work, and Police, and a way to keep the electoral roll up to date and to give entitlement to council services like libraries, leisure facilities and school dinners. It would also have significantly reduced the number of people on the list of local medical practices. In Glasgow, there were over 10% more people on these lists than the total population. People did not tend to notify practices when they moved elsewhere.

The citizen account number would be linked to a single address, and this identity would provide the entitlement to a wide range of public services. It was going well, not least because of the creative work carried out by Dundee City Council, which had a working example of an identity card. Alas, following the 2007 election, the citizens’ account was dropped as a comprehensive scheme by the new government that was feart of the civil liberties lobby. The only parts that continued were the National Entitlement Card, essentially the bus pass, and a Proof of Age scheme, both of which were voluntary. Fears of Big Brother saw the rest of the initiative being too radical for our increasingly centralised democracy, which was too distant to understand the operational benefits of citizens' ID.

The Entitlement Card had an upside in that hundreds of thousands of pensioners and young people were given the freedom of Scotland by Scottish-wide bus travel. Edinburgh trams were excluded, except for Edinburgh residents, despite being largely funded by the Scottish taxpayer. The mock-ups of the Entitlement Card were in the name of Winston Smith of Nineteen-Eighty-Four notoriety; perhaps there were some humourists in the Edinburgh City Council. Winston was fighting against Big Brother whilst getting laid by Julia. 

After retirement, my Entitlement Card was used regularly to catch the 915 City Link Bus from Crianlarich to Skye. The bus was always full of elderly folk mesmerised by the scenery as they travelled across Rannoch Moor and through Glencoe or caught the views into Knoydart and the Five Sisters before reaching the Skye Bridge. It was a better tonic than a visit to the Doctor; the bus was a happy place. I was often queried about my age by the regular female driver as I heaved my rucksack onto the bus and asked to be dropped at a remote location in Glencoe or Glenshiel.  I would spend two days walking over and camping in the hills, and get picked up the next day at another stop for the return journey. The flexibility and the comfort of a City Link bus were a prized service to explore the Scottish Mountains. Like the Ember Bus trips to the cities.

Yes, buses are becoming a lifestyle choice again as well as an essential public service.

Leyland Tiger - where's the driver

Ribble Bus - Wainwright's Side Kick

Glasgow Corporation Bus - Journey to Work in 1970s

City Link Bus in Glencoe

Ember Bus

Someone's taking the piss

Glasgow Central Station Fire

It looks like Dresden, I thought as I peered over the fencing and looked down Union Street. The dreich Glasgow afternoon provided the perfect setting for what was left of the building on Union Corner at the epicentre of Glasgow. The cupola that had adorned the building had been shed following a fire started at a vape shop. An unintended consequence of the 2006 Scottish Smoking Ban.

All trains into Central Station had been cancelled, even 8 days later, and the usual search for culprits was underway. The locally based high-reach appliances in Glasgow were not available, and others had to be brought in from Coatbridge, Falkirk and Edinburgh. Would they have saved the cupola? Who knows, and that will probably be the answer in a year or so when the inquiry is published. Unfortunately, there have been far too many splendid Victorian buildings subjected to fires or, more commonly, developer vandalism in recent years

The Lord Provost has suggested a five-star hotel on the site. After all, it is handy for buses and trains, and there is a Greggs just across Gordon Street. There were a few other voyeurs like myself, and Drury Lane was filling up with groups of middle-aged construction workers in search of a bevvy. I had spent too long sitting in a restaurant for a reunion lunch with work colleagues, and my hips were sore. I dragged myself up Buchanan Street to catch the ever-efficient and comfortable Ember Bus back to the Park and Ride.

View from Hope Street with Central Station frontage

View from Renfield Street

 

Iran: evidence that the UK needs a revised democracy

The illegal declaration of war on Iran by Netanyahu, quickly endorsed by a miffed Trump, who was not happy when his America First mantra was outgunned by Israel First. His characteristic dismissal of the United Nations and belief in the USA's right to exert its power have not just disrupted but exploded the world's peace efforts. His lack of diplomatic skills meant that the UK and Europe, supposedly NATO allies, were not informed until the day before the attack. Starmer, unsurprisingly, refused to join the attacks given the lack of legal justification and with the nagging experience of the Iraq war in mind.

The consequences of the action are not going well for Trump as the war has cascaded to all the Gulf States. Deaths are already in the thousands, retaliatory strikes have been made on American bases and oil refineries across the Gulf, oil and gas prices have rocketed, and the cost of living is on an upward trajectory. According to the latest Reuters/Ipsos poll, only 27% of Americans public agreee with Trump's war, and that seems to be diminishing every time Pete Hegseth, the appropriately named Secretary of War, updates with undisguised glee the damage and deaths inflicted on Iran.

Meanwhile, in the UK, the latest Survation poll shows that 69% of the electorate oppose the war or believe we should remain neutral. Only 6% agree with Kemi Badenoch's argument that we should have joined the war effort. No surprise there, she is ferociously binary on most issues, and belligerence is her core value in any debate. On the assumption that Farage is in Trump's pocket, it suggests that the so-called right-wing parties, by being in hock to Trump's American policies, are totally out of touch with the UK electorate. Trump is becoming one of the defining issues influencing voters; woe betide parties that have supported his fiction of facts and flip-flappery.

Set this against the most recent opinion polls in the UK. These suggest that Reform and the Conservatives would receive around 45%of the vote, with the vote for the centre-left parties: Labour, Greens, Lib Dems, and the Scottish and Welsh Independents split fairly evenly. With little likelihood of the Conservative and Labour parties obtaining a clear majority, it is surely time to introduce a proportional voting system for the House of Commons that accommodates the multi-party reality that is the new norm. Reform and the Greens, influenced by the Gorton and Denton by-election and the opinion polls, would prefer to risk continuing with the present first-past-the-post system. We need a democratic abacus that is fairer but also retains strong links between the MP and the constituency.

The UK Parliament is no longer fit for purpose. In a bicameral system, do we need 650 MPs? Reducing the Commons to 450 MPs would still leave it larger than the average representation in the parliaments of the six largest European Union countries, and 450 MPs would match the capacity of the benches in the chamber.  It would also allow them to focus on national policies and possibly reduce their interference in local affairs that are the responsibility of Councils. 

Similarly, how can we justify 850 members of the House of Lords? A second chamber focusing on scrutiny and revising legislation would work better with a combination of elected representatives from the regions, together with independently chosen individuals (tribunes) for their specialist knowledge, and a people's jury (boule), drawn to represent the wider public. In other words, providing a bicameral system where the revising/scrutiny function (Senate) is independent of the Commons and comprises a balance of elected representatives, a comprehensive range of expert opinion and a representative voice of the public. It would be more balanced, nuanced and about a third of the size of the House of Lords; again, this would match the capacity on the benches. This approach would take some of the elements from the earliest democracies in Athens and Rome, along with directly elected members. 

Rob Roy Way: Lochearnhead to Strathyre

Leaving Lochearnhead

Friday, 6 March 2026

Distance:    10 kilometres
Time:          2 hours 16 minutes

Aileen and I began walking the Rob Roy Way after we retired. The intention was to start at Pitlochry and walk north to south, the opposite way of the normal route. For reasons of bus timetables changing and, in my case, the perpetual pull of Munros, we never completed the sections.  I still have two of the 8 sections to complete: Aberfeldy to Acharn and Killin to Strathyre. I decided to walk half of the latter section today as part of bedding in my new hip. I figured that 10 kilometres would be challenging enough, my longest walk since last July. 

I caught the excellent C60 mini bus to Lochearnhead and met a woman who used to live in Brig a'Turk and was a friend of Ellie and Stanley, my in-laws. She had run a care home and was visiting her husband, who was in the community-run care home in Killin. She was angry that Callander's private care homes had both closed, but was full of praise for Killin, which had taken over a private care home. This was largely down to John MacPherson, a redoubtable community activist, who had been the chair of the Community Council and had badgered the Council to provide the support for a community buy-out. My colleague, Helen Munro, had responded to the request with characteristic vim and chivvied the Health Board into giving support as well. The home remains a lasting example of community engagement and the willingness of the Council and Health Board to be proactive in their support.

I got off the bus at the centre of Lochearnhead at Cameron Crescent, a group of 15 social rented houses that we had obtained funding for from the Scottish Office in 1999. The sun was shining, and my mood was euphoric as I headed south for a kilometre to reach the side road leading to the Rob Roy Way. Could I manage a 10-kilometre walk?. Until a few years ago, I would run this distance 3 or 4 times a week.

Arriving at the gate that gave access to the Way, the buds of Spring were bursting with colour.  I settled into a steady pace, rotating my head to observe the arc of snow-capped hills. After making a mistake in following a road to Edinchip, I quickly returned to the route and met a father and daughter enjoying a break on one of the benches located on the route. The man was in his sixties and had an infectious enthusiasm, having taken up photography after a hip operation and discovered the delights of walking the trails. 

I battered on through the native woodland on a twisting path towards the Balquidder junction, where the views to Loch Voil opened up. Stob Binnein was visible, its snow-white, flat-topped, distinctive profile reminding me of eight visits to one of the highest Munros in the South Highlands. The first time was in 1978, it was my first Munro after recovering from a broken leg and meeting Aileen. She dropped her two brothers and me at Crianlarich, and we walked over Ben More and Stob Binnein to Inverlochlarig. The most recent occasion was in August 2022; it was the last Munro I climbed before she passed away. Stob Binnein would now be a memorial to those 44 years.

There had been several cyclists on the route. Some on sturdy mountain bikes, quite a few on electric bikes and some on gravel bikes. A lone elderly female runner had passed with a smile that suggested she was oozing endorphins. I envied her; I had not run since last May, and even that was downhill.

Beyond the Balquidder road, I inadvertently continued on the cycle path rather than crossing the A85 on the Rob Roy Way, which took a route through the forestry plantations. It was an easy section passing alongside fields with horses and stables, others with sheep, but no lambs yet, and there were even some pigs. I arrived in Strathyre knowing that I had probably gone further than I should. I visited the local shop and post office that had been managed by a community activist who had been elected to serve on the Board of the National Park when I was the returning officer. The present owners of the shop had no knowledge of what had happened to him, despite his vigorous campaigning for many initiatives in the area. I eased my aching legs into the car, drove home and soaked in the bath. I have missed returning home at the end of long days on the hills to Aileen, a beer, bath and meal. The bonus today was being invited out for dinner by a neighbour. 

Entering the Rob Roy Way at Craggan

Its part of the National Cycle Route 7 as well

Replacement for the viaduct

Edinchip

Cycling nirvana

Stob Binnein, the white peak

Munro Hotel Strathyre, venue for drinks after Munro bashing

For Aileen

 

Rachel Reeves Spring Statement

 

Blue Labour at the despatch box

Today's YouGov poll, taken on 2 March 2026, puts Reform UK on 23%, the Greens on 21%, and Labour and Conservatives on 16%. Who would have thought it even 12 months ago, when the Tories were haemorrhaging votes to Reform UK and Labour were beginning to reap the anger following Rachel Reeves first budget. 

The spring statement had Chancellor Reeves facing Mel Stride, and they gave a performance reminiscent of Millwall versus Wimbledon in the 1990s. All pent-up anger and aggression with little finesse and no goals. Reeves was adamant that her plan for the economy was working. Strident said she had no plan. I switched off in despair. I had learnt nothing apart from the fact that 16% seemed a high bar for the Labour and Conservative parties. Their rampant tribalism, wound up by an ever bellicose Kemi Badenoch, is a major factor in their demise.

Mel Stride was a player in the economic decline foisted on the country during the Tory years, and his use of selected statistics to divert the blame to the Labour Government has all the authority of a toddler playing with an abacus. Reeves has no self-awareness that her tone and claims of righteousness are as much a turn-off as Trump's posts on Truth Social. Moreover, she continues to believe in controlling public finances, supporting big projects that will take decades to come to fruition and thinking she knows best. Her failure to trust localities and businesses to take responsibility for the parts of the economy they know best should prompt her early dismissal. 

There are some talented economists on the Labour benches with radical ideas to streamline taxation and devolve budgets. They would be far more adept at challenging treasury rules and setting a path for the future economy of the UK. If Starmer has any bottle after the Gorton debacle, he would bring on his bench.

Winter Olympics Milan,Cortina and Livigno

In the past, the Winter Olympics were for watching the skiing, with the elegance of Jean-Claude Killy or Bernard Russi, or the brutal determination of Franz Klammer. The bobsleigh was watching the Germans schuss their BMW-like bobsleigh with a precision that made the British ex-public schoolboys look like amateurs as they rattled down their faux Austin Allegro bobsleigh as it bounced off the walls. We had highlights such as Eddie the Eagle becoming the favourite plucky British loser, and a rare medal when Torville and Dean had chosen the best tune to dance to. Ice hockey was like watching a fight in the school playground, justifying the lyrics of Al Stewart's Russians and Americans. 

Times have changed; this year, it was the Canadians and Americans who went to war in the men's ice hockey. Trump invited the men's team to the White House, as they had won a gold medal for the third time in the 26 times it had been held. Meanwhile, he mused that he didn't want to invite the women's ice hockey team despite them retaining the gold medal and winning it for the third time in the 8 times it was held. The locker room celebrations were joined by the freeloading Director of the FBI, Kash Patel, who was seen spraying beer after the defeat of the Canadians, who had won the Ice Hockey Gold Medal 9 times, the same as Russia. It epitomised the American supposition that they are the greatest sporting nation. 

Despite having more winter resorts than any other country and a population of 350 million, that is 78% of that of the population of the EU countries (450 million). The USA won 12 gold medals and 33 medals in total compared to the 54 gold medals and 163 medals in total by the EU countries. That's 22% and 20%, barely of a a quarter of 78% of the EU total on a population basis.. Moreover, Norway, not in the EU and with a population of just 5 million, trounced the USA with 18 gold medals and 41 medals in total. It is time that Europe realised that, whilst America likes to boast of its greatness, Europe delivers through the diversity of its nations.

Leaving aside the competition between nations, the greatest joy was watching the new freestyle skiing and snowboarding events, where the obvious fraternity between outstanding athletes, or should that be gymnasts, from Japan, China, Korea, Europe, Canada, and America, epitomised the spirit of the Olympics. They gave us displays that defied our imagination as well as gravity.

Back to Lime Craig

Ben Lomond from Braeval

The first blue sky in February prompted me to make my first attempt on Lime Craig for nine months to test my new hip. I made it, although it took 45 minutes, about 15 minutes longer than it used to take on cold winter days. The shock was the devastation caused by recent felling operations; the planting had been carried out in the 1930s, so by now the steep slopes were smothered by giant spruce and pine trees. I suppose I have been lucky over the past 38 years to have enjoyed the protection of the trees on wet and windy days. I have made the best part of a thousand ascents during this time; the birdlife and red squirrels have made every excursion a treat. How they will fare in this coniferous holocaust is another matter.

The well-graded trails have been churned by tree harvester machines and lumber lorries, creating a veneer of undulating mud and timber debris across the logscape. On the ascent, I met a couple teaching their one-year-old daughter to walk; her smile was almost as wide as her parents' pride. On the descent, I met a lady dressed totally in pink with a nervous four-year-old greyhound. The lady was as desolate as I was about the felling, and her dog could no longer chase the squirrels, which were as elusive as electric hares.  I am now aching, but happy and celebrated with my first beer of the year.

Logscape

Pine Relief

Balquidder Munros

Ben Vane and Ben Ledi

 

River Ribble

Preston Docks

Another trip to Preston to visit my sister and a chance to explore old haunts alongside the River Ribble. I had spent most days when not at school going through the nearby Brockholes Woods to the river at Halfpenny Bridge to fish, swim or slide on the ice during the winter freeze-ups. When the M6 was being constructed in 1958, we used to see how fast we could freewheel down the steepish gradient of the unfinished carriageway to the new bridge over the Ribble. At secondary school, I had run cross-country races against the hundred or so boys in my year along what is now the Ribble Way on the weeks when rugby or football had been cancelled because of waterlogged pitches. As a teenager, I had cycled up the Ribble Valley to the Trough of Bowland to climb the hills or fish for trout in the Hodder, a tributary of the Ribble. 

The Ribble was the timeline of my childhood. What I had not revisited in decades were Preston's celebrated Miller and Avenham Parks, which provide glorious green space between the river and the city centre. I had also not visited the massive Preston Dock to the west of the then town centre, next to the British Aerospace factory. The Dock, which closed in 1981, was accessed by 16 miles of the Ribble estuary that was dredged daily but was unable to take the larger ships that became dominant. This was a chance to revisit sections of the Ribble and conjure up more memories.

We started our walk at Broadgate, next to Penwortham Holme, just across the river, where my primary school had entered me in the Lancashire Primary Schools Sprint Races. My Dad had taken the afternoon off work to watch. Despite the Elliman's Muscle Rub for horses and dogs that he had bought for me and insisted I rub into my legs. I did, but in my 3s 6d Woolworth's goloshes, I was no match for the boys in spikes. I made the final but only came fifth. 

Broadgate had benefited from some impressive flood-protection measures, with sturdy concrete walling topped by thick glass to prevent the Ribble from bursting its banks onto the low-lying houses of Broadgate. We entered the recently upgraded Miller Park under the main railway bridge. I had spent many hours here on Saturday afternoons and school holidays as a 10 and 11-year-old watching the magical procession of steam locomotives whilst playing football with other train-spotters on the asphalt footpaths below the magnificent offices of Lancashire County Council. Austerity has resulted in the offices being sold and then emptied by developers and subsequently vandalised. The developers planned to redevelop the offices into a hotel. The location adjacent to the railway station and splendid Miller and Avenham Parks, and proximity to Winckley Square, could not be better, but developers are notoriously fickle when it comes to delivering projects. I can envisage it being demolished to make way for luxury flats.

We walked along the banks of the river to the new Tramway Bridge, which provides a direct footpath/cycleway from Bamber Bridge and Walton-le-Dale to the City Centre. We wandered through Avenham Park, which the family had visited every Easter Monday for the pace egg racing down the slopes. In those days, before the commercialisation of Easter by the chocolate companies, easter eggs were boiled eggs that had been painted. Avenham Park is a natural amphitheatre below the city centre and, as well as being a popular park, also hosts outdoor concerts and the Preston Guild every 20 years. 

Preston's City Centre is built at the top of the scarp slope above the parks. It takes you into Winckley Square, a green space in the midst of Georgian buildings that host professional offices, numerous restaurants, the majority of Preston's blue plaques and an asylum centre. We reached Fishergate, the main shopping street that has been made pedestrian-friendly and traffic-calmed, allowing only one-way movement of buses and taxis. It worked well, and even on a dull Tuesday morning, there was a good footfall, interrupted only by the ubiquitous scourge of city centres, the Uber e-bikes that are ridden with little respect for pedestrians. We retreated to the 1950s for a coffee in Bruccianis, which has hardly changed since I was taken there as a toddler by my mother every Friday morning to meet my gran and be bought a hot milk and toasted teacake.

I had walked 4 kilometres by the time we returned to the car; my third-longest new hip walk. On the way back, we took a diversion to see the old Preston Dock, which had been the largest single dock basin in Europe before it closed in 1979. It was where cotton, bananas and wood had been imported. I had often visited it with my parents or with Uncle Jim, who was a lorry driver who would get access to the dockside, where I could watch the ships being unloaded. It was a busy port with twenty or so cargo ships docked in the basin, but the Ribble estuary could not take the larger ships, so it is now a massive marina, largely unused. My nephew has a flat in the residential development that overlooks the dock on the south side, whilst business units are on the north and east sides. Jaunt over, the next step was for only the second time in seven months to find an EV charger that was available and worked; range anxiety was real.

Avenham Park and River Ribble

New Tramway Bridge

Winckley Square

Fishergate

Brucciannis

Lancashire County Buildings in distress

 

Epstein's Entitled and Exploited Brits

Going

Going

Gone

Whilst we await the Epstein Files to unveil Trump's unredacted past, the latest batch has certainly nailed some worthy British scoundrels. Peter Mandelson, an ex-Lord, and Andrew, formerly known as Prince are both known knowns. In the past, I have had the misfortune to cross the paths of both of them, not directly but through their intermediaries. They both shared a sense of entitlement that semaphored their innate greed for wealth and ambitions for the highest office. 

Peter Mandelson had  been appointed the Director of Communications for the Labour Party in 1985. Along with a senior councillor, I had made a presentation of  Strathclyde's new Pre-Five policy at a large conference at the  School of Advanced Urban Studies (SAUS) at Bristol University. It had gone down well, and I was accosted afterwards by one of Mandelson's colleagues and asked if I could make the presentation to Mandelson in London. The next morning,  I caught a train to London on my return to Glasgow. Mandelson's stooge followed me onto the train, sat next to me and said that Mandelson would like me to go to see him. It would mean interrupting my journey back to Glasgow, but I had three young children, and I wanted to see them before bedtime. I suggested that if Mandelson wanted to come to Glasgow, we would be happy to brief him. It struck me at the time that Mandy was someone who took without giving, unlike Barry Manilow's Mandy, who gave without taking.

I watched his career oscillate, soaring and diving as he garnered friends in high places and exploited their friendship to satisfy and inflate his ego, wealth and influence. I cheered every time his reputation plummeted as he was caught breaking the rules and the bonds of friendship. His strong connection with the financial sector was evident when he championed the Private Finance Initiatives for schools, hospitals and the London Underground. His lack of concern for the underprivileged went under the radar; the $75,000 he received from Epstein in 2003, but has no recollection of, was two and a half times the UK average annual wage at the time. Mere loose change as his net worth climbed to £10m.

We now know from the Epstein Files that he attempted to safeguard his financial friends during the banking crisis. He managed to dupe Gordon Brown, but Alistair Darling was less willing to respond to Mandelson's lobbying and taxed the bankers' bonuses. After 2010, when he set up a corporate lobbying company and published his third man memoirs, he was criticised by the Labour Leadership contenders Ed Miliband, David Milliband and Andy Burnham. They got it right, unlike Starmer, who was easy prey for Mandelson, the whisperer to aspiring leaders.

Andrew Mountbatten Windsor was the wild child of the royal family and an unreliable business envoy who befriended a gaggle of unreliable contacts from rogue nations long before he was grounded by Emily Maitlis in his disastrous 2019 interview. His love of golf, uniforms and wealthy donors to maintain his lavish lifestyle, was exploited during his time as the trade and business envoy after leaving the Royal Navy in 2001. 

This involved making contact with UK companies. We were occasionally asked to arrange visits with local companies by his private secretary. Most companies were pleased to welcome Royal visits and would go to great trouble to make preparations that were costly in time and money for the visits. On at least two occasions, he pulled out of these visits, citing other engagements. When we discovered that one of these was to spend the day golfing at St Andrews, using the flights that had been booked for his visits, it told us all we needed to know about his commitment to his role as business envoy. Discussing this with other colleagues, including senior police officers involved in royal duties, confirmed that this was typical behaviour. He was widely regarded as the rotten apple of the royal family. and generated a deep resentment from most people who had any dealings with him. 

Add the incredibly pathetic emails from his former wife, Sarah Ferguson, who was begging for money from Epstein and together the former royals and the former politician have become the celebrity British victims of the Epstein Files. Meanwhile, Trump escapes scrutiny again, partly due to extensive redaction and partly by the hesitancy of the American fourth estate to challenge the peace-loving oligarch.

Labour isn't Working

Eighteen months ago, the UK dismissed the four failed Tory Governments led by 5 Prime Ministers that had overseen no growth, a massive decline in public services, austerity, a disastrous Brexit, and the worst response to Covid in Europe. The loss of world influence and respect, and spiralling immigration, simply added to the reasons to fumigate the lethal legacies of Johnson and Truss. The 2019 intake of Tory MPs had culminated in 24 being suspended or resigning amid corruption charges or failures to observe ministerial codes of practice. 

Keir Starmer was the beneficiary, gaining a massive 174 majority of MPs from only 33.7% of the vote. It was a tepid victory for a Prime Minister who was seen more as a steady hand than an inspiring leader. The subsequent collapse in support of the Labour Party to 20% has stemmed from poor financial management by the Chancellor, too many U-turns and a dictatorial centralising tendency by Number 10. Like many, I thought that Keir Starmer would provide some stability and begin to rebuild the UK's economy and public services. With his legal background, he would also bring justice to all those who had been let down by the previous governments, from the infected blood scandal, Hillborough disaster, the Post Office Horizon scandal and the Grenfell Tower fire, as well as restoring our relationship with Europe. 

He has made progress in foreign affairs, but has abandoned many Labour policies, reduced International Aid and made little progress on the cost of living and community care. Projects like the Heathrow expansion and the Oxford to Cambridge rail corridor suggest that there is still a London-centric bias in political decisions, whilst investment in rail modernisation in the north has been further delayed.

It's a Labour of Love to get any London government to support Manchester, even the train fares are designed to add friction to the relationship. There is only a curmudgeonly recognition by Starmer and his acolytes of Andy Burnham’s achievements in Greater Manchester.  Keir Starmer has plummeted down the popularity charts, aided by the rapacious right-wing press, social media and his own inability to inspire the electorate. His premiership is on a shoogly nail, and the prospect of the effervescent Andy Burnham returning to Parliament could not be entertained.

The vacancy created by Andrew Gwynn, the MP for Gorton and Denton, resigning, should have created the opportunity for the local constituency Labour Party to select who they thought would have the best chance of retaining a seat. It had a majority of 13,000, but is under serious threat from Nigel Farage and his plague of failed Tory MPs. Not so, the Labour Party showed once again that it is a centralising body. Its National Executive, including Keir Starmer, voted to prevent the Mayor of Greater Manchester from standing on the dubious grounds that it would cost too much to have an election for the Greater Manchester Mayor.  Since when has the cost of elections been a reason to ditch local democracy? Starmer's eyes narrowed as he tried to explain the reasons for the decision. He fooled no one; this was a blatant attack on a possible future rival.

The mendacity within the Labour Party had reached breaking point; London had stamped on Manchester's right to choose. Later in the day, there was some nemesis as Keir Starmer's beloved Arsenal were put to the sword by Manchester United. It was the first time I had cheered Manchester United since they won the European Cup in 1968. Starmer has rolled his last dice.

Walk Alone

 

Source of the River Forth

After 4 or 5 weeks of being housebound as I recovered from becoming bionic with a new hip, I have begun to take my legs for walks in familiar haunts. The occasional shopping trip started the comeback once I was able to ditch the crutches, and then I attended some exercise classes in the nearby community-run leisure centre. It was time for a walk on the wild side, so into the Trossachs forests, where I had run over 18.000 miles whilst wearing out my original hip. I did a couple of kilometres frolicking about on a dank winter's afternoon, taking photos of places I had run past on thousands of occasions. Walking alone seemed just right.

Loch Ard

Exit of Loch Ard

A couple of days later, I had met Gregor and Emily for a Sunday Lunch on an equally dull, drizzly day and decided to take a stroll around Flanders Moss on the way home. The chill wind and harsh, boggy, washed-out landscape had a bleak beauty. I ambled around with hands deep in the pockets of the insulated jacket and the hood up. This was reminiscent of hundreds of mountain walks, but with no gradient. That is what I am looking forward to next.

Flanders Moss Viewing Tower

Under the Boardwalk, having some fun

Carbon Capture

Flanders Moss below Thornhill