The return of Portobello's rowing regatta

Three men wearing flat caps climb into a wooden skiff and begin to row away from the shore. As each man rows, the oars rise from the water at different times, making the boat look like an insect that is scuttling over the calm water.

This weekend the community of Portobello in Edinburgh is reviving a tradition that has been dormant for more than 40 years. Rowing was once a popular past time in Portobello, with regattas held every year. The 2010 regatta is part of the Scottish Coastal Rowing Project, which aims to get people interested in the area’s rowing heritage and bring back the yearly events.

The skiffs, which were built by the teams representing various coastal communities, are beautifully painted have the kind of character this just doesn’t exist in the world of modern fiberglass boats. Seeing them casts the viewer back to a time before the sound of engines and the sight of multi-story buildings, to what we think of as a simpler way of life.

The competition was energetic but always friendly. At the sound of the horn the teams had to row like mad out to a bouy about 400 metres away and back to shore, where the incoming tide made the waves crash against the beach, extending the route a little bit further with every race.

Because of the quaint character value, the group in the flat caps was my favourite, however I did love photographing the celebrating Newhaven team who, using a borrowed skiff from the Anstruther Fisheries Museum, were declared the winners of their race against North Berwick.

This kind of event is the perfect thing to visit on a weekend afternoon, and I must thank my Facebook friend Loragene for letting me know about it.

Everywhere on the beach there were dogs going absolutely mad with the excitement of seeing other dogs and smelling chips and watching Frisbees sailing through sky.

Dozens of children dug in the sand, heaving buckets of water to and from the shore while wearing the tense expressions that kids get when they and only they understand how ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE it is to fill the moat of the sand castle before the invading army of stick people has time to strike.

The gulls soared and dove, people waded in the water or dug their toes into the sand, and many more walked along Porobello’s long promenade, stopping now and again at one of the aging amusement attractions for a quick video game or to buy a fish supper.

I caught my favourite photo of the day as I was leaving. I saw these grandparents sitting on the beach with their wee grandson, grandfather and grandmother on either side and him in his own little chair with a matching umbrella just in case the rain that had been threatening all morning decided to fall.

All I could think was that I hoped somehow he would remember this day on the beach with his grandparents and would recognize how intensely wonderful a time it was. Not just another day.

Portobello is one of those places that is still connected to the city but feels like an escape from it all the same. Even when there are no events on, it has a faded charm that makes you feel relaxed. It’s like the place has stopped trying to show off and is comfortable to be known for simple pleasures. Slow walks, greasy chips in paper, tacky games, ice cream, sand and the sea.

I had never seen anything like this rowing regatta before and it was such a pleasant surprise that I dearly hope the tradition will be picked up again for good. The Scottish Coastal Rowing Project is ongoing and more information is available here.

Now you will have to excuse me. I have sand in my shoes.

Ink and images: Robert Smail's legacy

I was not firing on all cylinders the day I visited Robert Smail’s Printing Works in Innerleithen. Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that prior to joining the tour I had skipped breakfast and spent most of the morning walking the hills.

Led by costumed tour guides playing characters from Victorian times, I wandered, slightly dazed, over the wooden floorboards, through the room where the waterwheel once churned power for the machinery, and upstairs to the caseroom, where the air hung thick with the tang of eau du ink and wrought iron. This was my favourite room. I loved the light and airy feel of the place, despite knowing that when it was still in use, it would have been cold, drafty and lit by oil lamps.

Modern living sometimes makes us forget the countless small details that go into creating a finished product. The caseroom is a shrine to detail. What initially can be perceived as clutter is actually the meticulous filing of thousands of metal cases, each carved with a tiny letter or number.

This is moveable type, in which the cases are stacked one by one to form words and sentences, with separate cases for gaps and punctuation. When they are all loaded and crammed into a form so they do not shift or fall out, the ink roller is swept over the top, making a sound like a strip of wet Velcro being peeled away.

An aloof looking eagle sits atop the ornate manual printing press, which glides smoothly on rollers to and from its destiny of transferring ideas onto what were once unassuming blank sheets of paper. Words in print. It is still magic.

Throughout the tour my attention was drawn by the numerous photographs hanging on the walls. Along with running the family's successful printing business,  Robert Smail was a keen photographer and with his trusty bellows camera, gathered hundreds of images of local scenes and people. One of the museum staff members said they still have many of Smail’s original plate glass negatives.

They are remarkable photographs, simple but capturing the intricate character of the people and landscape of Innerleithen. I took photos of two of the photos, but the reflection of the glass made it difficult and these shots do not do justice to the story Smail’s images tell.

The printing works is run by the National Trust for Scotland and is open from April to October. Even if you have no interest in Victorian era printing technology, the property is worth a visit just to see these photographs. I may have been too tired to make the most of other elements of the tour that day, but since my visit I have often thought of these photos. If ever a book of Smail’s photographs is published, I shall be among the first in line to buy a copy.
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Thank you for visiting my blog today. I have a surprise banoffee curd update. Having read of my regret for not having purchased a jar of Baxters banoffee curd when I had the chance, my friend Alison (also known around Edinburgh as “Miss Spotlight”) was at Ocean Terminal recently and very kindly bought me a jar.

It is…delicious. Thicker than I thought it would be but so smooth and rich, a perfect mingling of banana and toffee. Sweet. Very sweet. So sweet that if you eat half the jar in one sitting, it will feel like your teeth are disintegrating (Not that I would know anything about this). I have this great idea to make profiteroles filled with banoffee curd and cream, and doused thoroughly in chocolate. I would call them Banoffee Diabetes Balls.

It’s a good thing my veggie box from East Coast Organics was delivered this week. I can offset today’s overindulgence with a weekend of green goodness.

Reflections of Paisley Abbey

My weather-beaten 2004 copy of A Rough Guide to Scotland describes the exterior of Paisley Abbey as “an unattractive, fat grey façade.” I can’t help but wonder if the guide writers were looking at the same building as I was, as I moved around the nearby square, trying to take in every gothic-loving angle of this beautiful place.

The abbey itself was founded in 1163 and the attached smaller buildings are known as the palace or “The Place of Paisley.” These formed the domestic quarters for the monks and were at one time used as a grand private mansion house before falling back under the care of the abbey.

Paisley may not be on the wider tourist path today, but there was a time when it was a seat of power and struggle. Tucked into the corner of the nave, a long, narrow stained glass window depicts a sombre but brave Samson.

Given to the abbey in 1873, this window is a memorial to William Wallace, who was educated by the abbey monks in the 13th century.

Inside, with flowers lying next to her sleeping form, is the sarcophagus effigy of Robert the Bruce’s eldest daughter, Marjory Bruce, whose marriage to the High Steward of Scotland brought together her family and the Stewart Clan.

Her son became Robert II, the first Stuart monarch, and his son was Robert III, who is also buried at the Abbey. In 1888 Queen Victoria gifted a marble tombstone to the abbey, to commemorate the Stewarts buried there.

Despite visiting on a Saturday, there were only a handful of visitors wandering silently inside what felt like a giant, ornate stone drum. It would be easy to come here every week for a year and still find things to marvel over that you had missed before.

There is vast detail in the huge stained glass windows, and between these there are and other works of art like the 1000-year-old Barochan Cross, and the painting that hangs in the attached St. Mirin Chapel, which depicts “The Death of the First Born.”

Like many historical buildings in Scotland, Paisley Abbey was damaged by time or fire, then rebuilt, was damaged again, etc.

In recent years a huge amount of work has been undertaken to replace the disintegrating 1788 plaster ceiling with a new timber one. In 1988 a modern stained glass window was completed by artist John K Clark.

The eyes are drawn immediately to glowing candles at the centre of the piece, before taking in the overall work as a grand homage to art and music, including a ribbon-like cascade of violins.

Over and over I wandered back to the area around the choir stall to gaze into the mirror that reflected and magnified the incredible detail of the carved ceiling. What a wonderful idea - this small gesture that allows visitors such an intimate look at artwork that is normally too far above to truly appreciate.

Something else that added to the mystery and wonder of the experience: when you enter the main door of the abbey, or if you are going down to the shop and café, you are obliged the open the doors.

But these aren’t just any doors; they are huge, wooden doors with heavy, slightly cumbersome black iron handles that swing on massive iron hinges. They are antique, grand entrances and another unique feature that adds so much to the overall visitor experience.

I neglected to take photos of the entrance doors, and the door below is not one of them, but it gives you a sense of what I mean.

It was more than just pleasure to visit this abbey; it felt like an honour. Once again I am astounded that such a treasure is simply free to visit (although donations for ongoing restoration are gratefully accepted).

There is more to come from Paisley, and I will certainly have to go back because there was so much I missed on my first visit.

Whether you are taken in by the beauty of carved stone, or are fascinated by Scottish history (fellow readers of Scotland, Story of a Nation can turn to page 228), don’t miss a chance to step through the door of this unforgettable building.

Happy Beltane, everyone!

I uncover my inner train geek

I didn’t think I would love it so much, the hoot of the engine cutting through the quiet morning haze, followed by the low chug-chug as the great weight shifts forward and is enveloped in the white cloud of steam. Or the sight of the coal piled high next to the engine, the whiff of it as the train passes by.

I had always thought train museums were for men. They like that sort of thing - monuments to testosterone and hard graft, feats of engineering. As a woman my instincts usually lead me to more refined aspects of history: sweeping, dramatic graveyards or the lolling green slopes leading away from a grand country mansion.

But with time to spare before the more genteel Kinneil House would be open, I pay my pound and enter the Scottish Railway Museum, which is located just outside the town centre in Bo’ness and run by the Scottish Railway Preservation Society.

The cold from the cement underfoot filters through the scent of steel and old oil and reminds me of years spent living with an auto mechanic, the almost sweet smell of his blackened hands after a day at work.

Somewhere in between it all are the lingering hints of coal dust and the microscopic silent plumes that stir around aging wooden planks.

The mute face of a 1961 diesel locomotive stares off toward the horizon it will never again try to chase. The once luxurious first class carriage from 1923 looks so inviting yet somehow untouchable, like there are already people in those seats, waiting to go. It's just that I can’t see them, and they can’t see me.

I can't get enough of the old posters that advertise the best in rail travel holidays.

A dog sits next to a stack of luggage, while a child gazes up at the fantastic machine, daring to dream he will one day travel on the Flying Scotsman.

Another boasts the speed of the London to Aberdeen night train: 525 miles in just 10 hours.

One of the show rooms features the simple flourish of a stack of worn suitcases and crates, all ready to be loaded into the luggage compartment.

All around me the quiet giants lie still, but in the corner there is a brilliant clutter of sound which seems to seep between the metal corpses and tickle them with life.

Playing on a loop on an old television is the 1936 film Night Mail, a PR documentary made for the Royal Mail to highlight the efficiency of the down postal, which ran overnight from London to Glasgow, Edinburgh and Aberdeen.

To add beauty and drama to the film they included a reading of W.H. Auden’s poem, Nightmail, which is performed in a way that matches the clickity-clack rhythm of the journey, underlying the eagerness with which people held on to the promise of a letter. (“For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?”)

There is something sad about the place, because of the perception it gives us of the way things used to be. How simple, how straight-forward.

Yet also how grand, because it shows how a complex puzzle can be overcome when repeatedly approached with the same uncompromising strategy. The people involved play the parts like cogs in a wheel, creating a seamless magic show for those watching.

I love the Railway Museum. It is a place teeming with stories, an endless parade of characters just waiting for some intuitive hand to draw them back into the world so they can carry on with their day. The woman in first class, going to visit her lover. The engineman with soot around his eyes. The porter hauling bags for passengers. They’re there - I swear they are.

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Thanks for visiting my blog today. A bit of a news announcement for the members of the accidentally formed Scotland for the Senses book group. There is a small clan of us who have bravely signed up to read the 700-page Scotland: Story of a Nation by Magnus Magnusson.

I spoke with Susan, the winner of the recent book giveaway, and in order to work around busy life schedules we are going to aim for 4-5 chapters a week. A new discussion tab will be available on my Facebook page for us to get started with our feedback.

If you’re not on Facebook feel free to email me comments you want to share, or post updates on your own blog and let me know so we can read each other’s views that way.

So open those books and let’s get reading about Scotland’s incredible (and long!) history.