First day at nursery



[Image of Humuhumu in khaki trousers and a stripey jumper, being held by a pretty blonde nursery staff member in a red t-shirt.]

On her first day at nursery, Humuhumu had a fabulous time. She’s quite sociable, plays on her own for long stretches of time and will happily eat most things. The big culinary discovery this week was custard. I think she’s wondering why we’d never given it to her previously. She’s even managed to pick up a new trick over the course of her first three days. She now knows how to throw a toy out of her reach and then wait for us to pick it up. It is even more tedious than I had previously imagined.

On Humuhumu’s first day at nursery, her mummy went to the campus cafe to hide behind dark glasses and a large cappucino and pretend not to be crying. She did manage to do a bit of work and to have a long walk, but she went to pick up Humuhumu fifteen minutes early because she couldn’t stand it any longer.

First day at work



[Image of me with shiny salon hair and dark sunglasses in front of the Floozie in the Jacuzzi, central Birmingham.]

My first day back at work was last Friday. On Thursday, I got my first non-self-inflicted haircut in 18 months, pictured above. On Friday, I got up at 5:30 am to breastfeed Humuhumu and was out the door by 6. I ended up missing the 18:15 on the way back and had to take a later, slower train, so I didn’t get home until 10 pm. However, I had good briefings with colleagues and a tasty pub lunch and I moved my desk to a new office.

Additionally, I took part in the following exchange.

Me, re an ex-colleague: He’s gone to work on software interfaces for a Russian moon lander.
Labmate: In Soviet Russia, moon lands on you!

This is why I missed my work.

Viennese shop windows

I've been going through the photos I took in Vienna and these made a little series.



Image of a little stone angel with her tilted head resting on her hands.

( +3 )

And in conclusion, BABY.


[Image of a shirtless Humuhumu laughing at her daddy, reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe behind her.]

We have returned from Vienna intact, if exhausted. Humuhumu has now been on an airplane four times. She was completely unfazed by the flights, even though she was both teething and recovering from a cold when we left.

Since we couldn't fly directly from Birmingham to Vienna, she also has experience of three European airports. Yes, we've just returned from one of the most beautiful, well-preserved and welcoming centres of culture in the northern hemisphere and the first thing I'm going to tell you about is airports. Maybe it's because we actually saw a large group of Germans in inexplicable yellow polo shirts while in Frankfurt airport.*

I have always been one to ascribe to Douglas Adams' stand that all airports are basically the same: soulless and depressing, with signs that serve to direct you exactly where you don't want to go when you only have two minutes left before the gate for your flight is closed. However, this journey showed me that we were wrong, or at least that the Austrians and the Germans read The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul and took the first chapter seriously enough to have revised their airports. The Belgians, on the other hand, need to be sent a highlighted copy with a Post-It note stuck on the front featuring a large sad face drawn in red felt-tip pen.

Without further ado, here are my brief reviews of said airports.

1. Frankfurt Flughafen: We had to stay here for three hours. It is nicely laid out, clean and well lit, with clear signage and immigration officers who are tolerant of unhappy babies who don't understand that waiting in queues is something that simply has to be done sometimes. The baby changing rooms (babyraums) were plentiful, accessible to anyone (i.e. not in in the ladies' only) with paper provided for changing tables. They even had a chair in which one could sit and comfortably breast or bottle feed a baby. The terminals had free lounges with comfortable chairs and free wi-fi. It was all terribly civilised.
   
   
2. Vienna Flughafen: This is the winner by a country mile. In addition to Frankfurt's charms, including babyraums, the Austrians have gone one better than the Germans and provided comfortable sofa-style seating at the gates (you can actually lie down if you want to), cubicle tables with power points and free wi-fi for those who wish to work and safe padded play areas for infants and toddlers. Also, some areas had a large projector screen with an Xbox-360 style interactive game on it for children. The airline staff took us through priority check-in and boarding, even though we were mere economy-class passengers. The security staff whisked us through a special queue for people with children. The only way it could possibly have been more pleasant is if someone brought you your coffee and cake instead of having to walk to the cafe to buy them. I was almost as sad to leave the airport as I usually am to leave Vienna anyway.
   
   
3. Brussels Aéroport: After being uplifted by the previous two, Brussels airport brought us back down with an unceremonious thud. If your connecting flight is less than an hour after your previously flight has landed, you will have to spend the whole time running from one dismal situation to another. The immigration staff ignored the sobbing baby and carried on serving people at a stubbornly slow pace. The security staff were unhelpful. The already-inadequate seating at the gates was occupied by a lot of people who seemed to think their bags also needed a seat. I left thinking that Brussels was a particularly horrible airport, but then I remembered that that is what airports are normally like.

The moral of this story is that if you ever have to have a layover in Europe, try to make sure it's either in Germany or Austria.

* See: The opening chapter of The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

The bloke wanted to spend his birthday weekend in a tiny rural cottage near a canal.

I imagine that your brows have knitted themselves. “But nanila,” you’re thinking. “You live in a tiny rural cottage near a canal.” However, our cottage is only 18th century, not 15th. And it isn’t built over a sacred well dedicated to the Welsh princess St Winifred. Also, it has a television and internet connection.

Your frown has deepened. “But nanila,” you’re thinking. “Why don’t you turn off the television and internet, light the fire and pretend you’re sitting over a sacred well?”

Yes, well, anyway. We went to this lovely spot in Shropshire to celebrate the bloke’s thirtymumbleth birthday. In the fifth century, Welsh princess Winifred dedicated her life to the church. A prince came along and wanted to marry her. He was quite persistent, forcing her to flee her sanctuary. The prince caught up with her and being unaccustomed to having his wishes denied, he cut off her head. (I wonder why she wouldn’t marry him.) Fortunately, her uncle was at hand and placed her severed head on her body, which miraculously restored her life. The legend says that a wellspring emerged from the spot where her blood had drenched the ground. This well is in Flintshire, Wales, with a grander stone structure built over it.

No one is quite sure how the well in Woolston, Shropshire came to be associated with St Winifred, but it has certainly been a holy place for Christian pilgrims to bathe in and drink of the restorative waters for quite a long time. The original single-room timber-frame cottage has been beautifully restored and stands directly over the well, a rather unusual arrangement. The restoration preserved as many of the original beams as possible and the join work between the old and the new wood adds character rather than detracting from it.


The back of the house, showing the stepped stone baths leading from the well. (The bloke took a dip in the water. I didn’t.)


A closer view of the house, showing the original dark timbers and the newer, lighter wood.

( Inspecting the well. )

The bathroom, formerly the pigsty. It was lovely to wallow in (sorry, sorry), but also a scary to visit at night. The rural location means it’s pitch-black once the sun goes down. It makes for good star- and moon-gazing, but causes some anxiety when fumbling along a cobblestone path after a couple of glasses of wine.


The waxing gibbous moon, taken with my new 70-300 mm lens.

The interior of the house has been furnished harmoniously, with plain dark wood pieces in keeping with the rustic feeling.


These photos depicts the way the majority of our time was spent: sitting in the faded red armchairs, reading by the fire...


...or napping in the comfortable bed. (Humuhumu’s paw and head can be seen peeping above the covers.)

( More of the interior. )

We did venture outside for purposes other than visits to the pigsty, such as a visit to Chirk Castle. (I took my Holga so there won’t be any photos until I get the film developed.) The best trip was the walk along the disused Montgomery Canal.

( Canal walk. )

Great fun was also had perusing the three volume Visitors Log. The Landmark Trust has been running the cottage as a holiday home since 1991, and making an memorable entry has clearly become a goal for all those who come to stay there, probably in part because there isn’t much else to do. I read all three volumes. It deserves its own entry, which it shall get in Part 2.

I still can’t quite believe we were able to go to St Kilda. It was the highlight of the trip. I suspect it will be a highlight of our lives.

For those who don’t know, and I certainly didn’t until the bloke & I stumbled across it in two books in quick succession (The New Naturalist Scotland book and Kathleen Jamie’s Sightlines), the St Kilda archipelago is the remotest part of the British Isles, 41 miles (66 kilometres) west of the Outer Hebrides. It is no longer permanently inhabited. The last 30 native occupants were evacuated in 1930. Today, the MOD, the National Trust for Scotland and Scottish Heritage assume joint responsibility for maintaining the islands, mostly for conservation efforts.

St Kilda is a World Heritage Site and is possibly Europe’s most essential breeding location for North Atlantic seabirds. (Seabirds formed the major part of the native St Kildans’ diet.) It also plays host to a unique species of mouse and wren (which we saw, but I couldn’t photograph well), and the Soay sheep, which are a primitive breed dating back to the Bronze Age.

To reach St Kilda, you have to either: work for Qinetiq or the MOD, pay to volunteer for a stint on Hirta (the main island) or pay someone to take you there by private hire boat. We selected the last option, as it’s the only way to commit to a mere day trip.

Day 6
We rose at 6:30 AM (although I was awake at 5:30, scared we’d miss our phone alarms and thus the boat), ate a quick breakfast and packed up our tent. We’d been told to arrive at the speedboat that took us to St Kilda no later than 7:45 AM in Leverburgh and though we were a few minutes early, we were the last ones there, so we were ushered quickly on. I was allowed to go on the condition that I remain seated in the cabin for the entire journey, which I did. Of the 12 passengers, three were seasick. I was not one of them. Of the 12 passengers, three were under the age of fifty. The bloke and I comprised two of the three.
( Speedboat to St Kilda. )

Even by speedboat, it takes three hours to get to St Kilda from Leverburgh on the southern end of Harris Island in the Outer Hebrides. By the time we arrived, we were itching to get walking through the glorious sunshine.

As soon as they would let us after the dinghy ride to the tiny pier, we started to climb up the slope of Hirta, the main island, from the MOD base into realms of the cleitean. These low stone turf-roofed structures were used mainly for food storage and they were all over the St Kildan islands. Presumably cleit-building was a major source of entertainment as well as a necessity, as they appear to be in some rather impractical though aesthetically pleasing places. The isle of Dun can be seen across the harbour in the photo.


( Our hike up the slope to the cliff edge. )

Nesting fulmars and their chick in the cliff. You can probably tell that I’m lying down again to take this photo.


We walked up the edge of the cliff a little way before my pregnant body protested at being hauled any further in a vertical direction, and we stumbled across these rocks. It looks to me as if they’ve been deliberately arranged to reflect the shapes of Boreray and the sea stacs in the distance.


We hiked back down the grassy slope. My only regret on this trip was that I couldn’t manage to walk all the way around Hirta, which we had time to do (3.5 hours). Instead, we visited the little museum and then went to sit out at the edge of the village to watch the flotillas of seabirds - and the seal! - in the harbour.

( Harbour views. )

It occurred to me when we went to the post office to get postcards that it would be good to have at least one photo proving that both of us were there.


We returned to the boat at 3:30 PM. It’s the one furthest right in the harbour.
( Last view of Hirta harbour. )

Everyone was exhilarated as we clambered from the dinghy back into the speedboat. The crew met us with cups of tea and generous slices of rum and raisin cake, which we devoured sitting on the deck. I was happy when we set off to circle the other islands and they didn’t ask me to return to the cabin - presumably because I’m still pretty mobile and I didn’t get seasick. This is Boreray and the stacs as we headed toward them.
( Next destination. )

I was not prepared for the effect the leisurely boat trip around the stacs was to have on all of us. It was truly like being dropped into a wildlife documentary. Imagine seeing Stac Lee in its 175 metres of glory, which hosts an estimated 6000 breeding pairs of gannets, and then riding straight up to it. It’s overwhelming. The silence - apart from the calling of the birds - was largely unbroken by conversation.


At first we thought all that white was bird droppings. Well, some of it is, but the rest of it is birds. Birds, birds and more birds.
( Did I mention the birds? )

All those black specks are birds. The noise was phenomenal. So was the smell.


( Puffins and guillemots and gannets, oh my! )

As the sun finally began to dip toward the horizon, we regretfully turned our backs on the stacs and Boreray. No one was seasick on the three-hour journey back to Leverburgh. We were all too worn out from excitement and sun. Most of us fell asleep.


We drove from Leverburgh to Luskentyre to check in at our B&B. Our kind hosts warned us that we should go immediately to Tarbert to find something to eat as there was only one restaurant on the island open past 8 PM, in the hotel. We ate in a state of quiet exhilaration, exclaiming periodically over the day’s observations, before driving back through a glorious sunset.


I feel privileged to have spent an afternoon simply being at St Kilda. I feel privileged to have been able to afford to make the journey. I feel privileged to have been allowed to travel there despite being almost six months pregnant. I feel privileged to have had calm seas and clear skies on exactly the day we had planned to go there. Many would-be St Kilda visitors spend their entire holidays hanging about on the Outer Hebrides, hoping to go, and because of the weather or rough seas or both, are unable to make the journey. We were so, so lucky. I will not soon forget the experience.

This is part one of three of the Epic Driving Holiday from Cambridge to the Outer Hebrides. We decided to drive and alternate between hotels/B&Bs and car camping, given my current knocked-up condition. The bloke bought me a special inflatable mat, dubbed “The Princess Mat” for our camping nights. It was luxurious indeed, although he didn’t get one for himself and instead insisted on sleeping on foam pads, aka “The Pauper Mat”. There is probably some interesting logic involved in this, whereby it isn’t proper camping unless you’re cold and uncomfortable. I’m perfectly fine with this logic, as long as no one tries to apply it to me.

Day 1
We made it to Scotland! 430 miles from Cambridge to Callander, a sleepy little town with some lovely hikes & one outstanding pub, just outside Stirling.

We stopped at the National Trust property Sizergh Castle for lunch in Lancashire. Very pretty rock gardens and deer park...and some rather terrifying scarecrows. The castle was shut as it's still occupied but we didn't mind as it was just a quick stop to eat, have a walk and break up the journey.

( +4 )

We got to Callander at 4:30, checked in to our hotel - which was probably a grand affair in the 1960s but whose glory has considerably faded since - had a cup of tea and drove to Bracklinn Falls for a 2.5 mile walk. It was to be the only time on the entire trip that we needed our wet weather gear. We felt we’d earned our supper by then, so we consulted the Lonely Planet guide and chose the Lade Inn for a seafood dinner. I had prawns. Francis had mussels. All local food and very good indeed.

We were early to bed so we could have the energy to tackle Ben Nevis. (Not really, given that I have to rely on my walking poles to ascend even a gentle slope.) But it would be nice to walk at least a short length of the West Highland Way, which stretches 96 miles from Milngrave to Fort William.

Day 2
We drove to in Kinlochleven today, our stopping point on the way to Skye. Did a spot of walking in the Mamores in the afternoon, so I’m satisfied to have walked a couple of miles of the West Highland Way. The poor bloke got bitten badly by the midges which is doubly unfair because I'm pregnant, therefore supposedly tastier and also unable to wear DEET. But the views were lovely.

House on the loch, taken from the car, prompting fantasies of retiring to the Scottish countryside.


( +2 )

Camping tonight. It was dry, which was a bonus. I had a nap on The Princess Mat earlier after our walk, and it met with approval.

We also splashed out on a really nice dinner at a special seafood place on the loch. They grow their own shellfish in tanks - making them very clean - and fish from the sea (accessible from the loch). We shared the cold seafood platter. The bloke had to eat all the oysters & cockles because they were raw. He assures me it was a terrible sacrifice. Hm. But at least I could have the razor clams, mussels, clams, langostines, lobster & crab, so I didn't feel too hard done by. Passenger seemed to approve of it all too. Supposedly a fetus can start to taste what you're eating around this time so I have to make sure she has a healthy & eclectic palate!

The Place of Feasting.


We're off to Skye in the morning so next update comes from there.

Day 3
Today we drove to Skye across Kyle of Lochalsh bridge. On the way, we stopped at a popular Point of View over Loch Garry (which looks like a map of Scotland) and were accosted by a very friendly bagpiper and his daughter. He insisted on playing “Yankee Doodle” on his bagpipe in my honour. The bloke insisted on taking pictures. Ack.

( +2 )

Oh my.


We stopped off in Fort William for coffee & cake and a look around the delightful little museum before heading north. There seems to have been a long history of feuding in the area. Intraclan feuding, inter-clan feuding and, when opportunities presented themselves, feuding with the English. Apparently the Highlanders can really get their teeth into a good grudge.

We passed by stunning views over lochs and the restored Eilean Doran castle which is probably the most photographed castle in Scotland. We didn't go in because our guidebook gave us the impression that it's a tourist trap. But we felt quite lucky that we got to see it on a sunny afternoon.

Eilean Donan castle


( +1 )

We got to Uig and booked into our hotel for a quick refueling and rest before going for a long walk on the rocky beach. Lots of sea birds - noisy little oystercatchers, herons and small gulls. Saw the ferry come in too. We'll be on it (going to Tarbert on Harris Island) tomorrow morning. V exciting.

Uig pier, Isle of Skye.


Coming in Part Two: Harris Island and Lewis Island, featuring stone-based ruins and white sand beaches.