Language lessons

The whirlwind trip to Thurso for the Mod was successful for my daughter and her clarsach duet partner. They won the duet competition for their age group, gaining a trophy and the coveted gold badge, above. The wording round the top says, 'The Gaelic Association', and below, 'Our Language and Music', and at the foot, 'Royal National Mod' (the Queen is the patron).
The pieces the girls played were Crodh Chailein (Colin's Cattle) and Tha 'Bhuaidh aig an Fhigheadair (The Weaver's Triumph).
As a family we do not speak Gaelic. My husband and I both hail from the east coast of Scotland, where Norse is the greater linguistic influence in local dialects of Scots. Our children have learned several European languages at school, and our son has made inroads into Mandarin Chinese, but Gaelic hasn't featured in their schooling. There is Gaelic-medium state schooling in Edinburgh, but it's not a route that we chose.
At the Mod we had the unsettling feeling of being foreigners in our own country. We found ourselves deciphering signs and making (very) small inroads into understanding Gaelic. There were some sweeteners in this process - literally:

Mint Mod sweets, saying 'Caithness Mod'.
Easy readers, such as 'Spot's Snowy Day':

That quintessential English children's book, 'The Tale of Benjamin Bunny':

I even came across a personable young lady selling my husband the idea of taking Gaelic evening classes one day...

Many mountains to climb

A nameless mountain, somewhere in the Southern Cairngorms. Front view, above. Back view below, after an hour of hard walking with a heavy rucksack.
Photos are from my daughter's Duke of Edinburgh Award Silver practice expedition at the end of June. Practice - the real thing is in October. Brrr.

Scottish skiing

Or rather, the frustrations of Scottish skiing. On Saturday my husband and a friend set off early to drive north to the Glenshee ski area. With decent snow cover at last in the Highlands this was their first ski venture of the winter. A clear, calm day, roads bare of snow - looking good. Until this point.
They persevered and got to within 4 miles of the slopes. The weather was still calm, but the snow gates were across the road. Thanks to Scotland's micro-climates, 4 miles away a blizzard was beginning to block the access roads, and the police were taking no chances.
This Saturday they'll make a second attempt, along with the hundreds of other skiers who spent last Saturday making futile round trips.

Upper Ormeauning

I'm not saying where that picture is taken from, because nobody would believe me if I did. On Saturday morning Martin and I decided to go for a century ride on relatively short notice, heading through the relatively flat stretch through Ormeau and Yatala (with only one noteworthy climb at Upper Ormeau), before doubling back on Stanmore Road to Mt Tamborine, and returning over Wongawallan. That was the plan. I actually "slowed" us a little by forgetting my repair kit early, but it didn't really slow us at all, because the time I spent going back to retrieve it would have just been expended sitting at a red light at the Bermuda Street/Hooker Boulevard intersection. In fact, I think I timed it pretty well, arriving just as that particular light was turning green.

In a strange way, I was actually enjoying the early stretch to Upper Ormeau. Flat rides aren't normally my thing, but I guess I hadn't been in that area for a while. I certainly hadn't taken the detour to Upper Ormeau for a while -- and that's a situation I'll have to rectify more often. We still have a dirt road behind a quarry to explore up there at some point. The contrast between the flat plains and the vegetation up here is actually quite startling.



The only other interesting thing that happened on the flat stretch was me wondering where a dirt track off the western M1 service road went. One of the local yokels (a kid on a trail bike) had an answer -- albeit not one that fired any great enthusiasm in either myself or Martin. We declined to ride it this time on the grounds that Martin was on a roadbike, when the yokel looked at Martin and said "bit of a f*ckin' pussy eh mate?". I'm not entirely sure he realised that he was talking to someone who has actually placed highly in 24 hour MTB races on much rougher terrain than that particular track, but that didn't stop us having a laugh about it later on.

It felt good to return to Mt Tamborine. It was the first time I've climbed the northern approach of it in over a year, so I decided to make a statement. I was actually surprised at how good I felt, and how easily the mountain seemed to crumble. I felt so good, I decided to double back after cresting the summit and decided to ride the last bit of the climb again.





There was one more bit of drama. On Wongawallan I took off again, largely because I was feeling so good on the climbs. On the descent I copped a bug in my right eye at 65km/h. I held it together calmly until I had cleared the descent and reached the flat, where I could wash it out. After doing this I noticed that Martin hadn't caught up to me. This was a concern given that he usually catches me on the descents. Eventually I turned back and saw him free-wheeling down the slopes, before he reached the flat bit and told me to "spot the missing bit". He'd snapped a chain on the climb. He didn't have a chain-breaker, and I realised at that moment that mine was still packed away with the things I took to New Zealand. I suppose that gives us something to moan about.

As it was, Martin was able to phone someone to come and get him, while I just completed the relatively flat ride home through Oxenford and Paradise Point. The fact that I had a tailwind meant that I didn't bother stopping at any of the bakeries. I regretted that a little when I reached Broadbeach, but with just 3km to go, it didn't concern me unduly. 163km in the end, with 1,495 metres of climbing. More importantly, I know there's one item I won't be thinking of lightly next time.

Stinson track, Christmas Creek

The day after this ride, and continuing on this seemingly endless quest to bring this blog up to date, the day after the adventurous night ride saw one of the most incredible walking experiences of the year to date. The initial objective was the 6km ride to the start of the track. It was actually quite a bit hillier than I'd expected, and thus took a little longer to cover. I was in no hurry, as the group I was walking with weren't arriving until 9am, meaning that I'd had time to sleep in, then amble across the pretty ride at a snail's pace.

There were 13 of us in the group, following the track first to the grave of James Westray, a crash survivor (more on that later), and then on to Larapinta Falls. The early part of the walk set the tone, with the track criss-crossing the creek several times (the creek now swollen with the previous evening's storm), with some rather interesting footwork required at times. Whatever we had to go through, the surroundings made it worthwhile.




Several decades ago, a mail plane attempting a flight from Brisbane to Sydney had crashed in the middle of this wilderness. Of the seven people on board, three had been killed instantly. Of the four survivors, one (James Westray) had some hiking experience in the UK, and decided to attempt to tramp his way through the forest to a local farm for help. He would never be seen alive again.

In the meantime, the official search by whichever organisation was responsible at the time was called off. A local farmer, a member of the O'Reilly family (after whom a nearby mountain resort was named) decided to do his own search. It's believed that he stood atop a mountain, and noticed a fallen branch on a tree several kilometres away, and calculated that this was caused by the plane falling from the sky. Incredible as it might seem, he went to the location and found the three remaining survivors.
As they made their way out of the forest (now with an experienced navigator leading the way), they found the body of James Westray. Evidently he'd fallen down a waterfall, but still continued until he reached a place alongside Christmas Creek. It's believed that he stopped for a cigarette, and died while smoking it (I said it was a health hazard). His grave marks the spot. I don't know if it was any consolation at the time, but he did spend his final moments in some incredible surroundings.

Our intrepid group continued upstream, the track disappearing after the grave site. We were left rockhopping creek crossings, and surveying the ground to find the smoothest passage. It's possible that a few mistakes were made, but most of those were apparently corrected on the return by the same route. Along the way I found a new way to deal with a leech. When I took off a shoe to check for leeches, I found a dead one inside. There's probably a certain element of bad blood between myself and the leech population of the world, but this was taking things a bit far, even for me.



Several waterfalls were passed, en route to the big one, the famous Larapinta falls. The final part of the trek became considerably rougher, and our "official" leader decided she wouldn't make the final push. It was rather difficult, but pleasant all the same. I managed to twist an ankle, but not enough to compromise my ride home the next day. Whatever happened along the way, the final result was worth it.

The walk back, being downhill along a route that we "knew" (sort of) was considerably quicker and less eventful than the climb had been. The most notable event was the local leech population attempting revenge on my right foot for the earlier death of their comrade -- I counted ten of them. Now it was time to say goodbye to the rainforest (until my next visit at least), and while the remainder of the group headed for the Beaudesert pub, I opted for a leisurely ride back to the Stinson Park campground, and another evening by the campfire. This time I'd use it to get my shoes dry (which had been drenched on some of the creek crossings). A pleasant way to end yet another amazing day. This is what living is all about.

To All Moms!

My Favorite Soldier

I couldn't let Veterans Day go by without mentioning my favorite soldier, my oldest son Garrett. He's now serving in Iraq and will be there until sometime next fall. Here are some photos I took of him in various disguises and as he was getting ready to leave home for the last time before being deployed.
He's such a goofball. When he walks into a room it lights up. We all miss him so much and pray constantly for his safety. We love you Garrett!