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.