[CONTINUATION...]
It had been a while since I was in Fife. In fact, well over a quarter of a century. This time, we stayed in style in Aithernie Cabin, a wonderfully homely wooden cabin situated in a semi-rural location in a small orchard at the end of the owners’ garden.
We enjoyed walks out into the adjacent farmland (including fresh strawberries from nearby Blacketyside Farm Shop), and through Letham Glen Park, and down through the small coastal forest of Silverburn Park and adjacent coastal dunes to the long, sandy beach at Leven.
On our first night in Fife, noisy thunderstorms brought us a smattering of rain, followed by cleansing sunshine on Leven beach next day. By contrast, in Kirkcaldy, less than 9 miles away, so much rain had fallen overnight that vehicles parked in a hospital car park had floated away. 25 miles due south, heavy rain caused part of the A68 to fall away in a landslide, resulting in one of the major routes to Scotland (that we had travelled just hours before) being closed for three weeks. In nearby Aberdeenshire, a landslip induced by those same storms and flooding had resulted in a horrific and fatal train derailment near Stonehaven. The line only re-opened on 2nd November after nearly three months of analysis, recovery, clear up and complex, round-the-clock repairs including laying hundreds of metres of replacement track. It makes you realise how tenuous our grasp on life can be...
Further afield from the cabin, we explored the south and east coasts of Fife, including nature reserves, Anstruther's attractive harbour and the beautiful, uncrowded, dune-backed, award-winning two miles of sandy beach at Cambo Sands. Another day, we met friends from Edinburgh for a pretty (and flat!) walk around some of the perimeter of Loch Leven, halfway between our cabin and Edinburgh.
Our evenings were spent relaxing around the cosy firepit on the cabin terrace, chatting or playing family games, with Dave and I imbibing a glass or two of wine to ensure we didn’t develop a winning streak ... as if!
Debbie and Gavin, who own and run Aithernie Cabin, were friendly and helpful and lovely, and their many affectionate cats were a real hit with the girls. However, the star attraction of our stay, as far as the girls were concerned, were the embroidery sessions emanating from our hosts’ co-located stitchwork studio.
Debbie and Gavin are masters of both blackwork and cross stitch, creating many of their own designs and stitching kits (https://doodlecraftdesign.co.uk/) and thinking about running future stitchcraft weekends. (Sure to be popular, especially with their idyllic on-site accommodation available for a really immersive, get-away-from-it-all break.)
Many people will be familiar with cross stitch, but the more intricate, open blackwork was what really captured May’s and Poppy’s imaginations - particularly its use in filigree-type work, such as bumblebee wings. And they loved counting stitches rather than merely following and infilling designs printed on backing material.
It is believed that blackwork was brought to the UK from Spain early in the 16th century when Catherine of Aragon became Henry VIII’s first wife. It remained popular throughout the 16th century, with blackwork in silk on linen used to decorate many domestic items such as clothing (e.g., smocks, sleeves, caps) and cushion covers.
After a companionable couple of hours with Debbie, learning, practising and refining the stitching techniques and even tension required, the girls became all-consumed with stitchwork throughout the remainder of the summer. They were at it constantly, stitching day and night, in the cabin, in the car, in the tent. They even set up our car as a ‘sewing room’ when we reached our next destination (a wet and windy campsite on the other side of Scotland).
[Use arrows or swipe to scroll photos] Stitching ... here, there and everywhere!
Once school restarted in September and homework hit, the girls’ stitching stalled for a while. But they both set up 'sewing corners' in their bedrooms in the autumn half-term and got restarted. Looking ahead, I’m envisioning long, cold winter evenings at home, gathered around our log fire, Dave stoking the flames, the girls hard at work on their embroidery projects, myself dealing with the usual big pile of repairs (half of which require the delicacy of a needle, the other half the delicacy of my hammer drill).
[Use arrows or swipe to scroll photos] Tentsmuir National Nature Reserve, Fife, Scotland.
Years ago, around 28 years ago, to be accurate, I had a few weeks in Fife as part of my meteorological training. With no car, I saw little beyond the areas reachable on foot from my accommodation in the small town of Leuchars.
A colleague and I once got as far as the famous seaside, golfing and university town of St Andrews, but with no time to take in the sights before turning round and hiking back. Another colleague once drove me to Dundee to look around. Reached via the Tay Road Bridge, Dundee was fascinating – as, of course, is any place with a cake named after it. My mouth is watering as I write.
I remember a return visit, 1-2 years later, to see another friend I’d made during my training. We cycled and walked east and north along the coast from Leuchars to somewhere reputedly with a seal colony. My friend suggested taking a big can of wet dog food to attract the seals. Not something I’d do now, of course, in my older, wiser years.
I think we saw seals. But they weren’t interested in our offering. Did we even take a can opener? What happened to the dog food? I’ve no idea. But it’s no secret that I let nothing go to waste and I’ve a feeling we didn’t take much lunch with us and were getting rather hungry...
For a quarter century, I had no idea where that place was. Now I do, because we visited again this summer. These days, the area is known as Tentsmuir National Nature Reserve. The four of us drove to the car park, picnicked, then trekked out along a wide expanse of sandy shore inhabited by occasional groups of cows (first time I’ve seen cows on a beach) and back through the forest. We saw distant seals, northern gannets and rare family groups of humans.
The place was remote and beautiful, particularly along the shoreline, with the promise of a fantastic, free children’s adventure play area back at the car park. What more could any family ask?
(Well, I suppose this family could have asked not to accidentally split into two halves at the furthermost point, losing each other for the entire, forested return journey. And I suppose I could have asked not to injure my hamstring quite so badly, an injury still paining me several months later. But, hey, that’s just being fussy.)
[Use arrows or swipe to scroll photos] Dee River Estuary, Kirkcudbright and impromptu pebble painting with natural pieces of chalk found on the beach at Nun Mill Bay – Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland.
Dumfries and Galloway was our next destination in Scotland – a captivating area that we reached via a scenic journey from Fife, taking in some of the Ayrshire coast and Galloway Forest Park, to reach the tent pitch we had pre-booked at the pleasant, well-spaced, well-run Solway View campsite.
A particular attraction of this campsite was that it allows campfires. Unfortunately, the grim, wet, windy weather didn’t allow campfires.
We made sure to get out between downpours for a few short walks – along the coast to desolate Ross Bay, around the beach at pretty Nun Mill Bay (complete with shipwreck ensconced in silty quicksand, which we sensibly chose not to explore), and an inexplicably grumpy family walk along the attractive Dee River Estuary from the ‘artists’ town’ of Kirdcudbright.
Sadly, things came to a head on our second night. It was wet and very windy (45 mph gales) and the ground so soft from prior rain that the pegs of our excellent tent (proven windproof on many a previous occasion) just wouldn’t stay secure. Our poor, pummelled tent kept pulling out of the ground and collapsing over sideways.
Things got so bad that even Dave woke up when the tent bowed down onto his face and he then found me clambering over him and loudly whizzing the tent zips up to investigate just how bad things were. However, he never appeared beside me outside the tent and I began to suspect he was drifting back to sleep. I called to him for some help.
“Nah,” he muttered, groggily, “Don’t think we need to do anything. Tent seems to be sorted now.”
Fuming, I spluttered over the raging, ripping wind, “That’s because I’m hanging onto one side of it for dear life! Get out here right now!”
He reluctantly staggered out and we re-pegged with two pegs per eyelet and extra guy ropes, moving the car to shield us along the windward side (not quite windy enough to roll the car over onto us, we hoped) ... and somehow managed to stay put through the rest of the night.
Next morning, having just about survived a night of truly rough weather, we had to decide what to do. We had pre-paid for 4 nights’ camping and were only halfway through our stay. Might things get better if we waited it out or should we head back south early whilst our tent was at least blown dry?
We consulted the weather forecast. The following night’s forecast was for strong gales up to 55 mph with heavy rain and thunderstorms. But, if we got through that, then we’d be back to gales of just 45 mph and a good dousing of rain on our final night, with a wet tent to pack away.
For Dave (and, no doubt, the rest of humanity), it was a no-brainer. But me? I wasn’t sure: we'd paid for those two extra nights and I don’t like to be out of pocket. But when the lovely, understanding campsite owners agreed to refund our two unused nights, I too came round to the decision that we should leave.
We mournfully packed up and headed off, along with approximately 99% of the other campers. We had given up – something we had never done on any of our travels.
We’d camped in New Zealand with the girls as pre-schoolers in a fierce impending cyclone that felled trees in a swathe 50 miles either side of us. We had climbed a mountain in Central America, pre-kids, in such severe winds that we had to proceed on hands and knees, gripping low-growing vegetation in our fists to stay on the mountainside – only to reach our intended waterfall destination and find it blowing sideways into an evaporating wisp across the tall cliff face after a mere 1 metre drop. We had staggered across a steep mountainside in Patagonia in winds so strong that, when we briefly put down our huge rucksacks, they began blowing UPHILL. We had never surrendered. And now we had.
The question was, where would we head to next?
[TO BE CONTINUED]