Summer bathing places 2: three Scottish rivers

Given the extraordinary circumstances which delivered two separate bouts of hot sunny weather in Scotland, I managed to hit cold natural waters inland on three occasions: the Tweed where it's joined by Biggar Water,

the Tay at Newburgh

and the the Lemahamish Pool where the waters of the Forth between Gartmore and Aberfoyle become temporarily more tranquil.

The first two river plunges happened on visits to friends in Broughton (between Peebles and Biggar)

and Abernethy (near Perth)

after a short bout of Edinburgh Festival going. On the day before the plunge I walked part of the Buchan Way with old university friend Christopher, partner Ruth accompanied by dog Lily, and C's son (my godson) Alexander. Leaving behind a very lively hillrunning event, we headed up between the heather-clad hills - Wales is losing its heather, Scotland could be threatened by global warming too anon -

and down another valley before branching off the main route towards the reservoir at the Stobo Estate

where we stopped for a picnic lunch

before heading down to the water gardens. The next morning Alexander drove us over to Biggar to see his first home with girlfriend Kirsty, and we saw yellow-dyed prize sheep in a field, ready for the big show the following week,

before heading out to near Ruth's for the bathing place. She has a wonderful view over the broad valley of the Tweed between Peebles and Biggar

and it doesn't become any the less beautiful the closer you get to the water.

Ruth was first in, keenly watched by Lily and a quickly-made pal in the form of a passing pet.

Negotiating a muddy start, we were quickly in, accustomed ourselves to the cold and sat in the sun for a bit on the pebble bank opposite before swimming back. I was the last out, and Lily decided to come and join me for a second splashabout before beating me to the shore, as you can see from the photo up top.

Next to the idyllic home of Caroline and Alan near Abernethy, itself not far from a river - the Earn - along which the Fife Coast Path should continue to Perth, but an old farmer who now has dementia wouldn't allow it on his land. So we drove to St Andrew's alongside the Tay, which the Earn quickly joins, and stopped at Newburgh for a walk through the reedbeds - the largest in Europe, it's said, a fine reserve for many birds -

to a small beach used for launching boats. The current looked strong not far out, but I ventured it, found it all pleasant, and came back after a good few minutes.

We spent rather too long wandering round St Andrew's in the heat, looking for a good place to take Caroline to lunch to thank her for her hospitality. As we were about to cave in to an unpromising hotel restaurant, a chance venture down the dip towards the beach revealed The Seafood Ristorante, its big glass windows overlooking the bay. As we were late by lunch standards, a table wasn't a problem - and it was worth it: top marks for both starter and main course.

Lingering meant a brisk walk back to the car, where time was just up on the metre.

We were also eating well Chez Caroline each night, when it was warm enough to sit in the pavilion at the end of the pond. Alas, I never did see the hares which frequent the area behind it - one of the babies was killed by a buzzard after we left - but early morning and sunset walks around the garden rooms were such a joy.

The Lemahamish Pool of the Forth I only discovered on the last of my full days holding 13 sessions on Die Walküre over the weekend for the Wagner Society of Scotland. More on those anon, but in my two hours free each afternoon I never got as far as Abernethy. But I did manage to hit the cycle path, which turned out to be on the wrong side of the river to access bathing (here, the views both ways from the bridge). 

So I went to the HQ of the campsite on the other side, and they told me it was fine to walk through the site and then take a path past a small waterfall

to the very pleasant green and beach beyond. Wasn't sure that was it when I saw it,

but a couple out walking their dog assured me it was, that the water level was very low but still deep enough to swim - as their dog was doing. So in the break between the rains of that last day I took the coldest dip of the year to date. 

I wasn't submerged for long, but I did it. And then, after the few rays of sun, it started to rain again. The route from grand Gartmore House where we Wagnerites were all lodged was an especially lovely one - down the drive to the (privately owned) pool near the bottom of the hill, glorious in both the hot sunny weather of the first two days

and the onset of autumn that Sunday,

and along Butler's Path, one of the loveliest woodland walks I know. 

Last year was especially rich in fungi, because it had rained a lot and continued to do so while I was there, but at least this year the tree with mushrooms rather than bracket fungi springing from it looked good in the dappled shade. With a bit of help, I've been able to identify the species as porcelain fungus, Oudemansiella mucida.

The only loss that rainy Sunday was the chain of cobwebs which had looked so lovely in the sun on the Saturday.

I never did get as far as the hills, but at least I could see them. Next September I must take some extra days around Siegfried to explore the area.

More hermetically sealed than Gartmore House was the oasis of Tsinandali in the wine-growing Kakheti region of Georgia, where as the rivers in the valley were all dry my dip happened to be in an exquisite rooftop pool of the Radisson Blu Hotel, connected to the two concert halls - indoor and open - where the festival events I was attending took place. On those, and a wonderful monastery not far from the grounds, more anon here and on The Arts Desk.

31 today

Meaning the he-I, only partly revealed in the above photograph in the grounds of the modern-art-rich Gunton Arms, North Norfolk, where we had a superb lunch to celebrate a birthday early last month in the middle of the equally flavoursome Southrepps Music Festival. We may have between us two feet in the grave, but I don't really buy in to Webster's cynicism. Anyway, the stunt is a good substitute for the fact that The Other won't allow full-frontals or facials other than this one (wedding photo 2015) on the blog.

Since 1988 we've been civilly partnered and married, to celebrate our rights, but our relationship began in Edinburgh while we were there performing Puccini's Gianni Schicchi on the Fringe with City Opera and the Rehearsal Orchestra. Edinburgh was, is and I hope always will be my city of love - unrequited over four years as a student (what pain that was), redeemed another four years later.

'Our' opera is either Schicchi or Nixon in China, the UK premiere of which we went to see around that time, other backgrounds being a visit to see university friend Eleanor Zeal's play that year, The Tainted Honey of the Homicidal Bees, based on the Greek myth of Erysichthon (Eric in her version), which won her another fringe first, after which we had J's sadly now erstwhile friend the Houri dancing up the stairs of the Annandale Street flat where I was lodging bawling 'I'm in love with a wonderful guy', and the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens, where a pledge was made. The above programme was signed by the great man some years later, when I got to interview him in a pre-performance event before he conducted the BBC Symphony Orchestra in a Barbican concert of his music.

Friends who were recently together back in 1988, my hosts in Annandale Street, are separated now but on good terms, and their lovely children are still partly ours (at least in my mind, anyway; we put in many intensive days of work entertaining them on visits to Scotland): Alexander first, chronologically, among godchildren, Kitty nominally J's goddaughter now.  Mother Julie has this heartstopping view of Arthur's Seat, complete with figures on top, from her kitchen window,

while Christopher still lives on the other side of this amazing valley in Broughton, between Peebles and Biggar in the borders, where we went for the first time in some years after our Edinburgh sojourn this year.

'Our' boy, Alexander, is now a hard-working twentysomething who's just bought his first modest property in Biggar with girfriend Kirsty. I hope he won't mind being the only face up for close inspection here, unconsciously but hilariously reflecting darling dog Lily's head-up with the ball at our picnic by Stobo Reservoir on our glorious four-hour walk from Broughton along the Buchan Way.

And here is said dog acting as substitute for the one I want, along with a garden, to complete our more or less contented life, outwardly ruffled at the moment by what happens to J's work should the European Commission Representation in London finally close on 31 October (but I'm still hopeful that it won't, probably a little more so after the first public response to democracy under threat this past week). We're both heading out of the confluence of the Tweed and Biggar Water on a gloriously warm weekend.

And here, continuing the tradition of anonymity for J, are my more feline companion and I heart-shadowing at Kew on Sunday

with blissful Mediterranean pine and sky directly above.

UPDATE: our evening should really have been dinner for two, but how could I miss Gardiner's Berlioz at the Proms?

I blush to say I applied relentless pressure on J, who hates the Albert Hall audiences but loves good singing and all-round excellence in opera, and he got both, having amusingly pointed out that our anniversary night subject was, in real life but not in Berlioz's romantic portrait, a brawling bugger who constantly faced arrest for both the stabbing and the sodomy. Anyway, a more joyous occasion couldn't be imagined.

It was a giant bottle of champagne to Haitink's farewell concert last night, a wine of very rich vintage.

You can read about both concerts (five stars, natch) on The Arts Desk: Benvenuto Cellini here and the Vienna Phil special here. With thanks to the doyen of action photographers, Chris Christodoulou, for the photos. 

Springtime pond life

Oh to be in Borders country when the clocks spring forward. I was, for one night only, and a more Fotherington-Thomasesque mood could not have been inculcated by the purling stream beneath my bedroom window, the scudding clouds across blue skies which lasted at least until mid-afternoon, and all nature truly waking up, albeit a good few weeks later than down south.


After lunch, the father of the house - a good woodsman and Broughton-by-Biggar's most generous possible trustee of its hillsides - suggested we go and look at the frogs in his half-pond, half-lake just outside the village. He's delighted that the alders on the fringe, pictured up top alongside spawn in the water, have self-seeded from those in the plantations furter up the slope. As for the amphibians, we could hear them from a distance, and what we saw close-up was not always pleasurable to behold, but that's nature for you.


The lady frog in the gangbang is presumably not in too much distress. And yes, we did see frolicking lambs in the fields, too, but the above is also part of the spring rush. Anyway, bullrushes, waterbird song, reflections: what can I add?




Finally for a glimpse of stream and wood life, too. Our snowdrops down here are long since gone; at Chapelgill they're still hanging on


and stink cabbage is just shooting up in their midst.


Following my new-found fondness for outlines of trees before they fully leaf, the beeches along the edge of the wood proved photogenic candidates.



And then through one of the loveliest drives in the UK to the drear of Lanark, and the train journey to Glasgow for a slice of operatic bourgeois life. I think all the more fondly of the packed weekend culturally speaking since it's been flanked by such dross in London, an unusual turn of events: Peter Brook's stultifying A Magic Flute last week, and a mediocre if by no means badly sung Fidelio yesterday. Looking forward now to a longer natural break from the civic whirl.

2.30pm: re the Arts Council cuts/grants, I just don't get it: why punish some and over-award others? Latest summary here. It reads like a mess to me, and of course it was obvious that some would lose out. One good piece of news: funding for Tete a Tete Opera means we should get the production of Martinu's The Three Wishes they've been hoping to do.