the Borders

I'm sure I saw it. I didn't imagine it. Suddenly it crossed my meadow path and then disappeared. The Northern Brown Argus butterfly. Here for only for a few weeks in its great migratory journey. Feeding off of the leaves of the rambler roses (such a sweet fragrance they give!)...





...drawing nectar from the flowers of the wild thyme.

As I write this, I am eating an excellent little cheese scone, accompanied by great tea at the Old School House cafe in St Abbs, Scotland. I suspected the scone would be good because when I asked after a cafe in this lovely seaside village, an earnest mom and daughter told me to come here and to stop, too, in the room next door to the cafe, as they are holding the weekly market there today and the cheese scones are outstanding.

In Scotland you get this prideful detail when you ask a simple question.

But wait, Scotland? Yes. This day trip is entirely due to the recommendation of my Granary Guest House hosts who put St Abbs on my short list of places to visit when in Berwick-upon-Tweed.

Am I ever grateful for that recommendation!

So after breakfast - I asked for porridge this time, which is served here with caramelized bananas...







...oh, wait one sec -- do you see Penelope there, in the background? She is a mannequin, appropriated from the antiques shop across the street; she is dressed for an English win in the World Cup; now Pam is considering donning her in Scottish garb to cheer the Scots on in their September referendum for independence.


In any case, after a fitting breakfast, I catch my bus to St Abbs in Scotland. A long journey indeed: only a half hour, to cover 13 meandering coastal miles.

As we get deeper into Scotland, the weather changes. I'm not kidding. The rain clouds have been hanging back in Berwick-upon-Tweed, but here, the windshield wipers are working briskly. Well now, I'm having sympathy rains, even as Americans are bracing for East Coast storms this Fourth of July.

It's always a tad strange to be in a country that doesn't react to this date. Dear ones, over in America -- have a happy holiday today!

So here I am in Scotland (they call this region the Borders); now, am I to slog through rain? I'm equipped for it: I have my camping rain jacket (I did not think that in my three weeks in the UK I would escape rain). But before I set out to follow the trail sketched out for me by Dave, my B&B host, I explore the village.






Starting with a look at the wee market.

Oh what loveliness! The smoked fish...






And this vendor who insisted I try her charcuterie mutton (from here) even though I explained I am not allowed to carry any back home.





It was excellent!


And a vendor who sells stuffed things -- pillows and bears and such -- made with Harris tweed.






And this sweet woman with pink curls who did have a plateful of cheese scones. I asked if she'd sell out if I returned later - she didn't hesitate: Aye, I'll put one away for you, dear, she tells me. Everyone here says "aye" a lot.





That little scone. That extra mile. Scottish people go there for you.


Alright. The time of decision: do I stay around the village or do I hike?

Oh, I hike, of course. So my pants will get wet. So what. I'm in Scotland! It should be thus! Forge ahead!

St. Abbs is at the edge of Scotland's St Abb's Head Nature Reserve. This is where my hike takes me.

The grasses that edge the path are knee high and it doesn't take long for my pants to become completely soaked. My camera darts for cover constantly and still I cannot keep the drops of rain from the lens. The look back toward the fishing village looks drab indeed.






But not for long! There seems to be a lessening of drops as I plow my way along the coastal path. And it isn't cold, so that the wetness never really bothers me. And the sights! My kind of walk! Sea to the right...





...a pastoral landscape to the left.






And as the path twists into the hills, I see that they are covered with meadow flowers. And too, I see the distinct clumps of Scottish heather. (Needless to say, I'd already passed numerous samples of Scottish thistle: it's as if the land itself is speaking a different dialect here!)











The sheep are well sheered. Does that make them wool bearers? Or are they tomorrow's charcouterie mutton?






As I get closer to the light house and the cliffs...






...I hear that distinct call. It's the shags and the guillemots!

This rocky coast, too, attracts the nesters. Not puffins, but the others are well represented.

I will never get as close to the birds as I did on the island, but as I climb down closer to the shoreline I have a full panoply of black and white birds.






I come across, too, a small group of Edinburgh artists. Students maybe. They're busy painting or photographing the bird habitat.










I can't resist asking one to take this photo:






Perhaps you cant tell, but they used their light reflector to achieve a good light balance. Here they are -- the three art geeks.






From this point, I follow the path recommended by Dave. Splendid, all of it! Just a few photos for you as I twist around a lake, back through the hills and dales, to alight at the village church again. (Total walk: 3 hours, with only the first part under rainy skies.)



to the north





surprisingly, a lake





verdant meadows





sheep against a threatening sky





in a resting position, they're well braced against the strong gusts of wind





oats and the village church



In the village, I am loyal to my scone baker. And I settle in for my tea and it is lovely, but you already know that.






After, I have just a few minutes before my return bus. I spend them in the harbor...






...watching the fishermen bring in the mackerel.











And in the late afternoon I am back in Berwick-upon-Tweed. I walk at a slow pace now. The street of the Guest House is lined with curious shops carrying antiques, vintage this and thats, teas and chocolates, even a grocer who sells jars and boxes of foods from Poland.

I stop in a shop (Jones and Jones) that has a pretty window display, even as I'm not quite sure if they're an "all things tea" place, or more of an "England of yore"  or perhaps a "country England" venue. I'm not buying much of anything these days, but I still enjoy poking around little shops in a distant land, and so I poke.





At first I think -- it's lovely here, but I really do not want to spend money so let me just purchase a sweet (because they sell these too) and go.

In the process of paying for the candy, I get to know the owner, Gavin. (Or one half of the ownership, as the second Jones in the partnership is his wife.)





His is the story that I so often forget exists everywhere, not only in the States. The work that takes you from your homeland (from New Zealand in his case) to a new place (to London then Edinburgh) and eventually, for whatever reason, you make plans to stay. And slowly you move away from your principal professional life to immerse yourself in whatever passion is driving you (for Gavin -- away from IT and into selling interesting English things -- see their website here) and now here you are -- in Berwick-upon-Tweed. It's not terribly different from my story, or that of endless others who have traveled far and then for some undefinable reason, decide never to return home again.

I can't resist asking him if it's easy to adjust to life here. Are the people welcoming?
And here I should tell you that in all that back and forth, when Berwick was tossed from one nation to the other, the people developed (and Gavin speaks of this) a real Berwickian identity. You're not  English, nor Scottish, you're from Berwick-upon-Tweed! There are Berwick families that date back to here a long long time. I suppose moving away is like emigrating from your homeland.

We chat for a long time. (I purchase another item, too. It's a gift from Scotland, even as I am not yet really in Scotland, though if I absolutely cannot stop loving it as much as I do now, I may keep it.) And because Gavin is an ever earnest and helpful person, he writes down the names of two gardens in Scotland that he thinks I may enjoy visiting. I cannot do it this time -- they are rather remote, but you can be sure that my next UK trip will include them.

For dinner, I return to Audela's. They have a Berwick crab salad as a starter that sounds perfect and I add to it a small cheese and leek souffle with an apple salad at the side. Mostly, they have the comfort of familiarity and lots of space, so that I can eat, yes, of course, but too, work on my post a little, because last night's past midnight finish just wont do for two nights in a row.

And so you wont be surprised that when I look outside afterwards and see a tempting sunset sky, I resist the impulse to chase it with my camera. I'm home for the night. In my Berwick-upon-Tweed room. In England, after a short time in Scotland. In a place that is neither, though a little bit of both.

Farne Islands

I am sitting in a very average cafe, sipping good strong tea and nibbling on an indifferent scone. It doesn't matter. It's warm in here and the floor is steady. As a bonus, they have internet. I'm waiting for the bus back to Berwick-upon-Tweed.

Perhaps a point worth noting about Berwick-upon-Tweed is that it is a great base for outings. For example, you can make a fairly easy day trip to the Farne Islands out in the North Sea.

You wouldn't think I would look for an opportunity to step onto a small rocky boat that would spend an hour or two bopping about in the choppy cold waters. My sea legs are nothing to be proud of. Still, how can I not go? Farne Islands are home to one of the largest seabird colonies. And for just a few more weeks, you can go and see this year's hatch of puffins. (Toward the middle or end of July, one night they will up and leave. Just like that. Without notice or warning. To spend nine months far away out on the cold waters of the North Sea.)

The morning sky is promising. Looking out my bedroom window, I'm thinking it looks mildly blue. Mildly.

The Tourist Office has equipped me with bus schedules. I can take the 10:07 to the fishing village of Seahouses. From there, a handful of boats alternate in put put putting small groups out to the islands. Not all day. The National Trust stands guard here and only two of the islands have landing stations and neither is open to visitors for more than a handful of hours. It's all very strict and properly respectful of the nesting birds.

And so after an incredibly elaborate and quite sumptuous breakfast (of fruits, juices, yogurts, eggs, fish, more eggs, toasts, honeys -- all locally sourced and where possible, organic)...





... I set out. Due south along the coast, on the local bus.

By 11, we pull into the tiny fishing hamlet and just at that moment, I (and two other travelers taking the same bus) notice a passenger boat is getting ready to leave. We run for it and are enormously gratified to be told it has three remaining seats (meaning everyone else has to squeeze on the side benches to make room for us).

In retrospect, I see that I am lucky for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that even though two later "landing" boats will be going to the islands this day, the sea does get rougher with each hour. I would have had a really awful time of it on a later boat.

We're out to sea.






A photo for you of the coast -- with castles and abbeys and lighthouses in the distance...






...and now lets face the islands:


 








My boat is within that three hour window with permission to land on Staple Island. How fortuitous that is! Staple Island has a large number of puffins right now. Thousands of them! But let's not neglect the other birds: the loud shag, the arctic stern, gulls of course, and the most obvious bird on these islands -- the guillemot, nesting noisily in large colonies and looking a bit like penguins.



puffins, like a painting: with two landing



 
noisy shag families





nests of kittiwake gulls




guillemot families




and of course, the star puffin



I didn't take my telephoto for this trip so what you get is what I can get with my Sony Nex workhorse. Believe me, there were a number of professionals whose equipment was worth a hundred times that of mine. Some of the photographers were supremely nice and let me through to get closer to the birds. Others were rather protective of their space and wanted no one else around them. It was an interesting community of mixed dispositions. I wish I could do it all over again, but I offer you at least some of what I witnessed today. Humbling -- it was really humbling in its beauty.

Allow me to post two more puffin photos from a beautiful day out on the Farne Islands! I am sure I will never again see so many birds, not scared, within close proximity to me, in such a dramatic and splendid setting. (Not to be forgotten is the smell of bird and sea, all rolled into one!)












We leave after an hour on the island. If I thought I'd have a quick voyage home, I was wrong. The boat then takes us around some of the islands where you cannot land. There is a bit of history offered about the lighthouses, about a brave rescue of a sinking vessel, but curious as we may have been about all that, our attention was on the birds.


Well, not only. There is a colony of Atlantic Grey Seals and they, too, are in their nesting mode. Half of the new cubs will not survive the winter. It's a poignant tale of hardship. But for now, there is only hope and beauty in witnessing their life cycle.










As the winds pick up and the sea throws sprays of ocean water into the boat, I ask the two-man crew if they ever get sick.
Always, at the beginning of the season, they admit. But we get used to it after a couple of days. Billy Shiel's, the man who runs their boating operation apparently routinely gets sick every time he goes out. I have to think he rarely does the trip anymore.
But you're lucky! -- they tell me. Today is very calm!
Fine, if you say so...


One last look...





And now I am where I was at the beginning of the post, eating a lousy scone and drinking great, as always, tea. It steadies the insides.

There is only one return bus to Berwick and I would have quite a bit of a wait and there is only so much of this little fishing hamlet that you want to see (though they do have a National Trust gift shop and I always enjoy those, feeling that any purchase there benefits preservation). So I follow the advice of a Tourist Office agent and take an earlier bus that goes halfway, getting off at Belford.

I should have connected there, but I miss that Berwick bus by one minute. And so here I am, in a rural, sleepy village. Belford.





Where not much is happening. The one cafe is closed. The pub is not yet open. And over an hour to kill until the next bus.

I walk to the building that claims to be a hotel. Downstairs, men are gathered at the bar. Some twenty of them in various groupings and configurations. Okay: a place to sit down. And take out my computer which I had stuck into my backpack. And this is so remarkable because in every sleepy town and village I have had nothing but excellent WiFi reception. How times have progressed!






Once back in Berwick-upon-Tweed, I stop at a place my hosts recommended for dinner: Foxton's Wine Bar. And again, I am so pleasantly surprised: a solid salad and a quite excellent risotto with seafoods.





Yes, food awareness is spreading through England like rapid fire, even as I see that the chip habit is holding its own.


Back at the Bed and Breakfast, I talk to my hosts about my day. It could be that in my solo travel mode, I am less shy about detail. Perhaps I look in need of company. In any case, they sweetly invite me for a walk along the ramparts -- to their vegetable plot and back again. I happily accept.

It's a lovely evening to be out.

Pam and Dave show me their garden. Mostly potatoes -- always in demand and easy to care for, Pam tells me.





To me, everything looks vibrant and well tended. The soil is magnificent! None of this hard clay stuff we're forced to deal with at the farmette.

As we continue to walk along the walls, we come across a soccer (sorry, football) game. Animated! In the honey tones of evening light, against the backdrop of the North Sea. We pause for not a short time.






And now the final stretch, over the bridge that spans the main street.






And then, down to the river. They propose a half pint at their favorite pub -- the Leaping Salmon.

I think about the kindness of these people who, until recently, were strangers to me. They live in a world of puffins and swans and they still never tire of the beauty of the landscape. As we stand on the ramparts looking toward the old railway bridge, Dave tells me -- we have to wait for a train to pass.
Pam sighs, used to this.
It wont be long! He says emphatically.

It's cool by now and the thought of waiting for a train seems...chilling. But sure enough, in two minutes, a train appears around the bend.
It should be crossing the bridge within a minute! -- Dave tells us with not a small amount of excitement. Now! Take the photo now!





I do (see above). And it's an okay photo. Not great, not awful. But when I'll flip to it in the future, what I am absolutely certain to remember is Dave's excitement at sharing this bit of loveliness: a new train, passing over an old bridge that once linked England with Scotland, even as now it's just linking one bank of Berwick-upon-Tweed with the other.

from Pooley Bridge to Berwick-upon-Tweed

 Pooley Bridge

My last breakfast at the Ullswater House is again delightfully bright, with a hint of sunshine.





Looking at my plate of eggs and salmon, my yogurt with fruit, my toast, neatly positioned on one of those British toast racks which make no sense at all and do not work back home (I bought one thirty years ago and quickly put it away for good) -- I thought about how pleasantly predictable breakfast here has been. David cooks eggs to your liking, Angela brings out the food and chats with the guests.

Not surprisingly, most of the guests are my age. Sometimes, like this past weekend when Pooley Bridge hosted a triatholon, the demographic shifts, but it's back to grandmas and grandpas now.

This morning the other three couples are all Australian. Remarkable how far Australians travel for their vacation! It's a 23 hour trip and still these people come to Europe every year. They talk about otherwise feeling themselves to be too isolated. Somehow this fear isn't shared by my country men and women, many of whom tell me that an ocean is a great impediment to venturing out into the world. Is there such a thing as a cultural predisposition? No, more likely it's that our American vacations are so short and precious and there is family to visit and much to do in your own back yard. Giving up two vacation days just to fly would seem a waste if you only get ten such days per year.

The grandparents of Australia talk about involvement with their grandkids. They all help out to some extent, though their daughters -- mothers of these children -- all had 12 month maternity leaves after birth and guaranteed professional reinstatement. They were shocked, shocked that America does not offer the same. Sigh...

After breakfast I take a last walk down to the lake. It's windy today and there is a haze in the sky that was missing the entire time I was here.





Yes, it is time to move on. You can fault me for planning my stays and travels so far in advance, but you should know that unlike many who research places they will visit, I do none of it in advance. I pick a spot and then decide once there what degree of adventuring I am up for, or how slow my pace should be that day. It really doesn't matter what I do once I arrive. I take in whatever is offered.

I feel like I took in Pooley Bridge in a modest but satisfying way. I'm ready for the next place.

David (my host) drives me to Penrith and I ask him then about his and Angela's vacation. They're taking off for five or six weeks in October, driving their small caravan to Spain (the caravan is large enough to have all the conveniences, but small enough to fit in a parking space, so they don't need a campground). Now that is total flexibility! It takes them many weeks to reach Spain (they pass quite near to my beloved Sorede!) and many weeks to get back. They take bikes to move around, but, too, he tells me that they love to park their caravan and use public transportation whenever possible. You feel the place far better that way -- he tells me. How well I know this!


The Trains


And now come my train connections: from Penrith to Carlisle, from Carlisle to Newcastle, from Newcastle to Berwick-upon-Tweed. It seems far more complicated than it is. The connecting times are easy, though my last train is terribly late (worrisome for future time-sensitive travels) and so I switch to a different one, borrowing someone's mobile to notify my new hosts, also a David but this time with a Pam, of my new arrival. Still, the views are enjoyable, my stack of reading material even more so and I cannot come up with a single complaint about my travels thus far.



Berwick-upon-Tweed

Perhaps I'll use this moment (I write this while on the train) to introduce you to Berwick-upon-Tweed. It's the northernmost English town (just two miles from the border with Scotland) and though you may not think of it as an important player on the global scoreboard of important players (population: 13,265), it was once a royal burgh of Scotland -- fought over violently between the two countries and changing identities from Scottish to English to Scottish, etc. thirteen times before things settled down a bit. It's no wonder that the people here can't quite grasp the concept of being English. I understand about confused national identities,  so I expect to fit right in.

My bed and breakfast (the Granary) is on the exceptionally nice end of the continuum of places I tend to stay in. The reason I can afford it is because way back when I made the reservation the owners must have been of a particularly mellow disposition because they offered me an absolutely superb room at a superb rate (specially priced for someone from cold Wisconsin! -- Pam wrote me), so much so that my Berwick-upon-Tweed stay grew from "just passing through" to four nights. And by the way, like in Keswick, you do not pronounce the "w," so it's Beh-rick, with the upon-Tweed added because it's sounds way more interesting that way but, too, this prevents confusion with that other Berwick in Sussex, England.



(I may never leave this window seat in my room...)


I'm greeted with tea and biscuits...


 


... and we talk about the various ways one can spend 3.5 days in this pretty town with the three bridges over a river where hundreds of swans hang out.

For additional information as to times and buses and such, I go to the Tourist Office in the center of town...






...and after, I stop at Boots Pharmacy to have a chat with the pharmacist on call. It's fascinating how this is done. You ring a bell and you're buzzed into a tiny room with an open window through which the pharmacist speaks to you. Much like a confessional. I tell her that my knee is bugging me and this is no good for a person who intends to hike to high heaven in the next ten days. She tells me about the various inflammatory triggers and suggests a topical cream which is perfect, as I think the issue isn't severe enough to warrant more draconian interventions. And I trust her completely. Why? Because I notice her name tag. It says : "Agnieszka."

Yes, she's Polish. Completed her pharmacy studies in Poland. In England for five years now. Terrified at first of practicing her skills abroad, but by now ,she's done the leap and she's coasting. And still, she asks about my own (forty years ago!) transition to life in the States. I leave her with only the best message: at some point, your new place does wedge itself into your heart and it becomes home.


I don't do much else today. There is a terrific walk along the ramparts of the city (all those wars called for strong fortifications), but I walk just a small bit of it. Enough to see some of the uniquely Berwick-upon-Tweed offerings:

Those mute swans (they come here by the hundreds; in the photo, their necks are submerged):






The three bridges. (The first, the Old Bridge from 1611; the second, the newest one from 1928; the third, the Royal Border Bridge opened by Queen Victoria in 1850, creating a rail link between London and Edinburgh.)






And a treat: an exhibition of Lowry's work depicting Berwick-upon-Tweed. Perhaps not a household name, still, Lowry was one interesting dude and his works these days can bring millions at auction. (He died in 1976 and I can't say the same appraisal would have been given to his work then). Just so you understand the genius of this man's art form, in 2013 (finally!), the Tate in London devoted a retrospective to Lowry. You know how these famous galleries take a while to let the worth of others sink in.






In the evening, I go to Audela's next door to my Bed and Breakfast. This small, informal place creates a masterful endive salad with stilton and walnuts and the salmon (did I mention that the Tweed is a salmon river?) is wonderful. I'll return to daily pub food next week, but for now, Berwick-upon-Tweed, small town that it is,  offers a delightful reprieve.





I'll sign off with this thought: it's odd how just a few train ridess over a distance of just a few miles gives you an entirely different perspective on the every day. Odd, but wonderful.