Not remotely Byronic

I just wrote and deleted a whole soul-searching entry because, let's face it, this isn't the X Factor. You don't need to hear my woes, especially since any impact they may have would be lost without the backing of Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars." Let's cut instead to the good parts, the "best of" clips, as they justify the harder times I've faced in this city. (Soundtrack - Black Sabbath 'Crazy Train') 

Lydia and I decided back in December that we needed to actually start seeing some of Australia and so booked cheapo flights to Byron Bay, hallowed site of many Gap Year Tragedies. The dates of the trip helpfully landed near enough to Valentine’s Day for us to be able to label our adventure a Valentine’s Boycott (ahh bitterness, hello again old friend).

We took Friday off and jetted up at the crack of dawn to land in the paradise that marks the most Easterly point in Australia, and yet is only an inch or so up the map from Sydney (God this country is big). It was everything that Google images had churned out; white sand, turquoise sea, not a suit in sight... but so much more. The atmosphere was the closest I’ve found, barring the Gili islands off Bali, to that utopian 70s idyll. Everyone was in their happy place, as evidenced by Byron's local hero Tommy Franklin. This is him on a dull day - Byron Bay's Dancing Man

Lyds and I settled ourselves in for three glorious days of beaching and exploring the long stretches of coastland. Oh and not forgetting a little bit of nightlife exploration in which dancing on tables and judging topless men contests are just some of the team building exercises implemented at these reputable venues. Unfortunately in a post-club dash to the sea I suddenly found my progress hampered by an unexpected hole in the ground. The hole cruelly decided to take some layers of skin as ransom, leaving my legs in a none too attractive state. I was more than able to laugh it off at the time but it was a different story when I turned up for our "How to be super-slick in PR" (cue finger banging and glittering smiles) training on Monday morning at work looking like I'd been using my legs to sand wood. 

Thinking 'youthful japes' would be a good cover-up I stammered my way through an obscure story involving a bike accident, hoping this would deter further questioning. When one of my colleagues (yeah, I say that word now) pressed me further though, someone helpfully shouted across the office "Leave her alone, she was in Byron, she was drunk" and that was that…  

Like hunks of floating ship in the freezing waters of the Atlantic, friends from home become a bit like life rafts in Sydney. If we were to continue with this Titanic analogy (for some reason I seem to like bringing it into this blog) then I would cast myself not as dainty Rose or brave Jack, but that desperate man who nearly drowns Rose to save himself. 

Will Innes has become one such victim of my over-excited floundering while he continues his own personal quest on his move out to Oz of "Man vs Scottish Skintone." As a result, we've been trundling around beaches together most weekends. We even found ourselves at the Australian Open Surf Championships in Manly at one point, attempting to fit in with the tormented teeny boppers watching a 15 year old girl band perform (truly the purest form of rock) because we couldn't get in to the stadium sized skate bowl further down the beach. As Innes' radioactive sunburn became only light left in the day  the music got a bit more credible, creating a fantastic backing track to the iconic image of some incredible surfers riding the crests of the evening waves. 

The next night the centre of Sydney once more played host to a fantastic night of art, culture, community and most importantly FREE entertainment with Tropfest. Tropfest is an expose of short films from around Australia broadcast from on three screens mounted around a great stand in the same spot as the Sydney Festival opening night performances. Arriving late, I was astounded by the sight of some 40,000 people, propped up on picnic rugs, their laughing faces lit purely by the images on the screen. Not to sound like a complete raving hippy… but it was quite beautiful! Of course the dream had to be shattered with the subsequent thunderstorm that rained down on the happy crowd, a running theme (har har) for what is Sydney's worst summer in 50 years. 50 years. If this were a Neighbours episode at least 3 of the main characters would've been killed off for just being unexpectedly damp.

The woes to which I made brief mention to earlier are that I've been offered sponsorship to stay on here essentially as long as I like. I know, lucky sod eh? But I'm slightly given over to pining for old Blighty. I'm now faced with the hardest decision I've ever had to make between following my heart home to freunden, or following my head and staying here for the job… Think it'll have to be a coin toss..

Living for the weekend

Under strict orders from my blogging superstar friend Soph,* I must tell you about the gloriousness that was a trip to her friend’s beach house a few hours North of Sydney (I told you I’ve become shameless in all social situations) a couple of weekends ago. I was certain that beach houses were the reserve of characters in Rom Coms and The OC, but no, here was I pulling up to a pretty old mining house on a Friday night. The wooden clapboarded house emanated the smells of wonderful cooking and the familiar sounds of an argument over the rules of Ring of Fire, truly the stuff of “summer frolicking” film montages.

....With one big exception, in the films when the girls steal all the boys’ clothes while they skinny dip in the sea, the boys don’t mistake the girls for local terrors and chase after them, naked and drunk, throwing glass beer bottles at their heads. A slight backfire there, but I was glad I was able to add a whole new episode to the “Examples of the Australian man’s charm” folder.  An impressive portfolio.

We spent such a happy few days just lying around (nursing miraculously undented skulls), going for the occasional surf, swim, or booze run. I left with the distinct feeling that Australians have it damn good.

The Sydney immigration camp has been expanding at a fast pace too, with Gael dropping in for a month to work in the Sydney Festival’s Spiegeltent. I overheard an incredulous Aussie saying “can you believe it stays open ‘til two?!”... The perpetrator would be hung, drawn and quartered if a bar in Edinburgh had the audacity to close before 5 during the Festival! To be fair, they do do an insane job of opening the festival here. The first night is a city-wide free festival. The main stage, situated in the botanic gardens, pumps out family-friendly music to thousands while Hyde Park, smack bang in the middle of the city, is transformed into the closest thing to Creamfields I have (and most likely ever will) experienced.

* P.S For an immersion into living the dream in Sydney, I couldn't recommend Soph's blog more

http://www.stovetoprevolution.blogspot.com.au/

Smugsville

10 days. 10 whole beautiful days I was given for my Christmas holiday and was I determined to live them as fully as one who abides by the law, doesn't know how to dance to dub step, and quite likes a good 10 hours sleep a night. Uh-oh, danger train, first stop- my lovely Aunt and Uncle's house, already full to the bursting with visiting Europeans, happily winding up my poor Aunt with "oh but MY family always does it THIS way." 

After lounging by the pool all Christmas Eve (as opposed to fighting over who has to haul in the next bucket of snow to melt for water at home....you think I jest), we packed a summery hamper of Christmas ham and all sorts of fantastic accompaniments and relocated our Legion of Foreigners to Cremorne Point. The site was a perfect spot to see the last rays of the days sun light the harbour bridge, champagne glass firmly wedged in-hand.  

Christmas Day dawned blazingly bright and cheery.

‘Tis the season to be jolly? 

Apparently not in Australia. Over here it’s tis the season to maintain the relentless jogging routine, low fat foods, tanning and other things not associated with fat bearded men. The injustice. This was particularly evidenced when it seemed that everyone was in agreement that a between Christmas lunch and pudding swim was in order. EH? Was I alone in having just attempted to defy science and nature in the portion of food I had consumed? Apparently so. My cousins’ Christmas photos therefore consist of me strategically holding large objects to my midriff a la Calendar Girls (except that I don’t have the excuse of being middle-aged..or naked).

On Boxing Day I set off on a spontaneous camping trip 4 hours north of Sydney with an assortment of Europeans and a token Aussie. You’d think after the rigours of Gordonstoun I would instinctively know the inherent dangers of the words ‘camping trip;’ burnt off eyebrows, forgotten bags of food, meths induced blindness (perhaps an exaggeration, but apparently the girl did need glasses a few years after accidentally drinking some) and general sodden misery, apparently not. And true to form it was as harrowing as camping gets. With no equipment and terrible weather it was all rather reminiscent of the beginning of a horror film. My subconscious must have agreed with this conclusion sooner than I had as at one point in the night I woke up screaming- convinced I was suffocating under my holy sheet of tarpaulin.  

Still, the countryside was stunning. I hadn’t realised how green Australia could be. All the landowners of the area were of Scottish descent and with names like Cameron, Laurie and Fraser, I believed them. Aside from the bouts of FortWilliam-esque weather, the steep green hills and hidden glens were like the Highlands on a huge scale.

Upon my return to Sydney, I resolutely returned to the comfort of a conventional summer in the city; going to the numerous vintage/flea markets and attempting to learn how to look hip, lazing around coffee shops or by the sea, pretending to watch boat races,  and discovering unusual little bars and fun live bands by night.

Whilst the sun was up on New Years Eve I joined my cousin Iona's friends  in a smart little cove on the harbour's North shore to bob around in our flotilla of booze-laden dinghies. As the sun reluctantly went down I headed on to meet our ever-growing gang of Brits-on-Tour to pretend to know the host at the loudest party we could find in Paddington. Music videos and the all-important fireworks display were projected onto the side of the neighbouring house throughout the night, taking all the effort out of tourism. 

We recovered our health and dignity by lying around on a friend’s boat in the harbour the next day- a pretty idyllic way to see in 2012.

EmJ lands

The last two months have taken a dramatically fun turn since the arrival of Sydney’s new social cannonball, Emily Johnston. Being the sponging sod that I am, I have been happily riding on the back of her web of contacts which seems to encompass Sydney’s glitterati. Thanks to her, I’ve had the privilege of frequently going for after work G & Ts on the roof terrace of her friend’s penthouse overlooking the harbour, found myself going to a friends and family only night for one of Sydney’s more popular DJs and crashing the Louis Vuitton opening night after party that Grazia dubbed ‘the party of the year.’

Don’t worry, I’ve in no way adjusted to this glamour and still maintain my foot-in-mouth attitude to social occasions. At the Louis Vuitton party I thought I was doing fairly well with a big bloke with a strapped up shoulder. After making some quips about how he got his injury he explained it was from a rugby match. “Big one was it?” I asked, picturing some lads knock-about.
 “Yes” he replied, “it was the World Cup.”
At that, I slowly backed away from him as though having just discovered a land mine, humbly re-asserting myself as common citizen in the company of a demi-god.

As a small aside, my very kind company has agreed to renew my contract until my visa restriction kicks in. It looks like Sydney will continue to be my home until at least March!

Home...the junkies are too many

You learn a great deal about yourself when you isolate yourself to the otherside of the world. Self-sufficiency is the name of the game and something I’ve been really revelling in since I moved into my new house in Surry Hills. I’m living with two Aussie students who are just fantastic and far too cool to deserve a random Scot cramping their style.  

However, I’ve also discovered a peculiar side to myself in this self-sufficiency drive. I spent the day out last Sunday going to the odd barbeque and making stock lead balloon jokes about shrimps before coming home in the evening to find my laptop was missing. We’d been robbed! Given my entire room fits in a suitcase, it’s needless to say they didn’t find much else worth nicking, but my housemate’s room had been ransacked.

 They’d busted in through our backdoor which has an iffy lock, so I made sure everything was properly secure before returning to waiting for my housemates to get back and being miserable. A while later though, the ruddy robbers came back! They were rattling at the back door despite being able to see I was in.

Most people’s normal reaction would be to shout “I’ve called the police,” actually call the police or just do a runner. For some ridiculous reason though, I went in to stealth mode. Slick as a Bond villain (in a floral dress) I grabbed the biggest kitchen knife I could see and crept around the corner of the kitchen to await my thieves. Luckily they were fairly half-hearted about the whole thing and skulked off as I have no idea how I’d have played out the whole ‘clutching a carving knife’ scenario had push come to shove. Perhaps I’d have launched into a Braveheart battle cry- could this ridiculous instinct be an effect of too many hero films?

My housemates got back not long after and did actually call the police who were pretty much just Aussie lads in uniform. They attempted to placate us by saying “aw, it’ll just be some dirty Abos or stupid junkies. They’ll always find ways to get in”... very comforting.

I am now both stripped of my faith in humanity (the last crime in Ardgour probably dates to the 1800s and involved some strong words over a creaky gate) and my ability to waste time on the net. My evenings have becoming unintentionally wholesome with reading, walking and conversation. Give me youtube clips of cats any day.  

I'm on a boat

With a sensible job, life has settled down and I’m in fear that there isn’t anything terribly original to write anymore. That may be tempting fate slightly though as I’m sure I’ll be cheerfully booted out of the office the moment they discover what a phoney I am. Instead of the business pages of The Australian, my most visited website is ‘Investopedia’ (how Chessie would cringe) and when we have office meetings to discuss the global markets I’m picturing unicorns prancing around castles.

With a 5 day week though, I’ve discovered the joy of weekends. A fairly indistinct phenomenon when you’re a student. I’ve been sampling the more boozy side of things with such events as a Sydney Uni Ski-club Halloween booze cruise around the harbour which was about as epic as the name suggests. My shape making repertoire on the dance-floor was blown wide open with the rocking motion to contend with. The climax of the night came when Lonely Island’s “I’m on a boat” began blaring and the fancy dress T-Pain emerged from the crowd in all his un-PC glory. I also had a night out with Ian and Bea the unlikely (sorry Bea, but we were all thinking it) and intrepid explorers.

What’s more I was privileged to see the whole of Sydney grind to a halt for the Melbourne Cup. Women went to work in cocktail dresses and fascinators and champagne corks were popped at a relentless rate from midday onwards. As the day wore on it was classic to see an entire city suffering from peaking too soon. By 7pm co-workers were either in the throes of a public tryst, waltzing or slumped in bus stops. I was fondly reminded of the royal wedding.

My brother had warned me before I got out here that I might find everyone a bit ‘uncouth.’ I dismissed this instantly thinking ‘Ewen is clearly underestimating how battle worn I am.’ And largely I was right; the girls out here are great. The guys though...urgh, it seems you can’t even instigate a conversation with one out here without first proving your worth by chugging a beer or doing a good impression of Austin Powers’ Fat Bastard...apparently the archetypal Scot. I was hoping he’d been forgotten about, damn you Mike Myers. Give me the politeness (and probably disinterestedness) of a Brit any day. It looks like I won’t be returning with any Bruces on my arm (audible sigh of relief from my father).

I’ll soon be moving into a perfect little house in the artsy/cool suburb of Sydney, Surry Hills. Luckily there is no screening process to see if I meet this criteria. It’s got a pretty little garden and is seconds walk from some of the city’s best cafes. Translated: I will soon be a fat lobster. I feel like my Sydney dream will really begin then.

Tentative Employee?

For someone with a new city at their feet I feel I have done very little with my time! I had one very funny trip to Canberra. It is a city berated by every other city in Australia as being “the arse end of nowhere” but so staunchly defended by its residents that I very nearly left there with the names of its sporting heroes branded on my forehead. I can say nothing on those views…because I value my life.

I had a brief stint as a Gallery Intern for a slightly mad couple whose idea of an interview consisted of them shouting at me, telling me I’m couldn’t leave. I then left. I should also mention that I have seen the lesser spotted CP and his ‘bach pad,’ so far furnished with one mattress and a bottle of Ribena.
 Apart from that my world is rather insular, revolving around elongated breakfasts, dog walking and aimless wandering.

Such is the life of a half-unemployed droog.

I was often reminded of a statement from the ever philosophical and insightful Will Graham who, on reflection of his choice to stick to fingers up to the corporate machine and spend the summer drinking beers, said “I’ll tell you a thing about jobs (expectant pause where I prepare myself for a lesson on existentialism and necessity to avoid 9 to 5s)…get one.”

So this week I did!

I am now a Researcher for a Financial PR company, which is far more of a human job than it sounds! I feel Sydney’s starting to bear fruit for me now! I power-dress, read the Financial Times, and make gags at the water cooler (I really did). It’s all a little unexpected and suspiciously like real-life… 

Mad about Manly

This week I have been mostly partaking in active employment at a newspaper, not just loitering in cafes with a notepad. Hold the phone sister, it’s just work experience. I am trying to shake off the all too easy to make parallels with Bridget Jones "waltzing in with a tight skirt and fannying around with press releases."

I have discovered that writing an article is a bit like an extended game of consequences. No story is complete without the 'he said,' 'she said,' 'the world said' etc though sadly the article rarely involves as many innuendos or such circumstances as John Prescott meeting that really smelly guy from your tutorial in Garibaldis.   

I've also found another brilliant aspect of local paper writing is how geared towards the district the stories have to be. Rather than the opening sentence being 'thousands attend protest held the Parliament in Canberra about world poverty,' it is 'Manly group travels down to Canberra.' My uncle trumped this story slightly when recounting how an Aberdeen paper covered the story of the wreck of the Titanic tragedy with the headline 'Aberdeen man drowns in the Atlantic.'

The paper's based in Manly, an extremely cool part of Sydney's North Shore. It feels like a laid back surfing town on its own stretch of coast but has the advantage of being only a half hour ferry ride from the centre of Sydney. Workers here live the kind of dream I was idealistically told everyone did out here, going for swims in their lunchbreak, clocking off early afternoon and beginning every business phone call with "alright mate."


This week I'm off to stay with my brother's friend in Canberra. He sold the weekend to me by casually slipping in that we could go hit up the 'Floriade' festival. I was already packing my Ray Bans and denim cut-offs when someone helpfully explained that meant the flower show. I'll be sure to post some edgy photos of us taken at kooky angles (kangles).

Sing when you're winning

When in a new city, no country, no wait I’m in a whole new continent, you find yourself being very unlike yourself. That’s probably one of the main attractions of travelling when you’re as much of a lazy arse as I am.

You have to be energetic, historically informed, chatty with strangers and unashamed to take photo after photo of the buildings that you or your companion are standing awkwardly next to.

This whole behaviour process has been maximised with my current job (Yes! A job I tell you!) in which I’m writing reviews of businesses for an online guide to Sydney.  

With the job, this blog, facebook and twitter I feel I am raping and pillaging the internet for all my self-promotional needs. Apparently something you’ve got to be very willing to do to get anywhere in the media. I hope there’s no inquest when this whole thing’s over, I don’t want to go into hiding in Brazil from the internet reparations squad.  

So that’s how I while away these sunny days, wandering from coffee shop to coffee shop scribbling the odd note and watching the world go by. Amazingly I didn’t initially like Sydney. I found that once you penetrated the immediate beauty of the harbour and bridge the city felt quite like Gotham, all browning skyscrapers and monorails, and I tried to suppress the tentative voice in my head saying “oh god what have I done?” But sunshine cures all, as soon as the city began to move from spring into summer the spotlight was shone on the corners of it that make people wax lyrical about this city.

All I need are some mates now and then I’ll be singing! 

The next step...

It was a real wrench to leave Islay. Going straight from the island paradise to the centre of Glasgow the thought did cross my mind- why would anyone ever want to live in a city?

But at the ripe old age of 23 I really shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts, especially in light of the next adventure I had planned that was to kick off in less than a week; a year in Sydney. That week I dedicated to re-learning how to cross roads, not wave at everyone, and to at least attempt to talk to other people before reverting to conversation with the nearest animal.  

 I first had the idea of going to Sydney in my 3^rd year at Edinburgh when a solid chunk of my friends went gallivanting around the world for their years abroad. They learnt languages and had completely different experiences, granted mainly involving cheap wine and sleazy foreigners, but it just made me feel so claustrophobic and closeted. What did I know about living outside Britain?

Furthermore, what chance did I have of being employed in the metropolis of London when so many horrifically talented people didn’t seem to be?

With a naïve optimism many people mistook for bravery, I decided that even if I was jobless in Sydney, at least the sun would shine.

So for almost two years the city has evolved and reformed itself countless times in my imagination. Although everyone has waxed lyrical about how glorious they had found it I have become impatient to form my own opinion of it. Good or bad, I’m going to ruddy do it. Cat or not cat, I’m off to seek my fortune!  

The end is nigh

With my leaving date drawing closer, the month of August has seemed to flash by all too quickly. A huge portion of my boss’s family, who should probably be renamed Swiss Family Robinson, have been flowing in and out the house taking full advantage of the sailing, fishing, stalking and riding opportunities of their farm. It has turned into a living off the land lifestyle, Bill Oddie eat your heart out. No, not literally Bill.

With time running short I’ve been making sure I fill my days off with riding expeditions which scale the heights of Kilchoman area. From there you’ve got a fairly privileged view of both Ireland across the sea and the surrounding area of Islay, all vivid green farmland and hills which descend into wave battered rocks. I have also been delving into my arty gimp side and attempting to bash out a few drawings here and there.

Opera Rocks from above the farm

One of the big job perks as you’re coming to the end of your season on Rockside is racing! The instructors have been allowed to take our pick from the speediest steeds at the farm and blast them along the beach after work in the evening.

Meg

Who the speediest horse is, is a point of contention. Yes there may be thoroughbreds at Rockside, a breed built for speed, yet I have invariably gone for Meg. She’s been my summer romance. Unstoppable in the face of an adventure, she’ll have her rider armless from attempts to restrain her before she loses a race. Although a tiny wee thing of 27, in her mind she’s a youthful Seabiscuit, or Red Rum… after that my racehorse trivia runs rather dry.

Although we lost almost every time to said thoroughbreds, we certainly won the stamina trial as she refused to see the finish line as anything but the stable yard, a good mile away from the actual finish line. Dashing along the deserted beach in a line as the sun went down will be one of my most lasting and most happy memories of Islay.

Only a week or so left now…  

The Show and Dance

The month of August heralds great things throughout Britain. Up and down the country the yoof happily wile it away in a hedonistic haze at one of Britain’s numerous music festivals. Islay, I'll have you know, is no different, for it has the Islay show.

I have to admit that I’ve spent my life sniggering at Highland shows, namely my local one at home. Bearing frighteningly close similarities with Craggy Island’s ‘Funland’ complete with the Crane of Death, the Strontian show is a slightly mad mix of boozy farmers shearing anything in sight and such nail-biting competitions as ‘dog with the waggiest tail’ all held, of course, in the pouring rain. But this year there was no place for such scepticism because the Islay show offered two rare things- one, a day off and two, the experience of a social environment. I couldn’t wait. 

In actuality it sadly wasn’t that far off the Strontian show. The crucial difference being I seemed to know more people at this one. This is an embarrassing reflection on how hermity my home-life is. Other than judging Islay’s rival trekking centre’s ponies, we therefore spent most of the day running away from 10 year old girls wielding silly string and blue hairspray. I’ll never be cool.

Not all friend-making opportunities were eliminated though, as that evening all the show goers were to de-camp to the Show Dance. In fact they probably just rolled there from the Show field. Rachel and I could not wait for it and so, having turned up about 3 hours too early in Portnahaven in our full glad-rags, we ended up having a few drinks at Rachel’s Granny’s house. I’ve never had such guilt-inducing lash as pre-lashing at an OAP’s.

Nevertheless we trooped on to the village hall where the sounds of the ‘Pneumatic Drills’ filled the still night air. Summer of 69, Strip the Willow and 500 Miles were always going to be winning tunes and we blazed the night through singing and being thrown around whilst trying to avoid collision with such colourful characters as the human cannonball and the local psychotic (always important to have one).

Perhaps it was because dances are relatively rare on Islay or because I’d become so accustomed to hanging out with horses all day, but I came away thinking that Islay folk know full well how to have a good party. Sign me up for next year.

Baloo

When it comes to animal intelligence I feel that horses are far too often bypassed. Granted, they allow far weaker beings to clamber on them and boss them around, but perhaps it’s all a conspiracy. One horse at Rockside, Baloo, has proved time and again his superior intelligence.

Firstly, he will refuse to behave for any instructor unless he hears them exhort his virtues to anyone who’ll listen.

Secondly, an innate fear of being left in the stables whilst all the other horses are put back in their fields means we have to perform a pantomime of pretending we’re taking out a ride if we are. Saddles loosely put on and loud announcements about how much we’re looking forward to our ride are the only means to stop him breaking down his stable door in fury.  

 Furthermore, when Rohaise had the bookings book open on the table the other day, he put his head on her shoulder.

“Oh hello Baloo” she said, “which day would you like to work on?”

At this he closed the entire book shut with his nose.

This is a warning for the impending takeover of the horse race.

Pony Club Camp

On my first night at Rockside farm, I was given my full job description. Trekking, tacking, cleaning… these I already knew, but there was one last task which had so far gone unmentioned. Mark and Rohaise (Mr and Mrs.Rockside) looked at one another, hesitating, until it was Mark that cracked and uttered the word “Camp.”  So here was the catch in my contract.

 20 girls between 8 and 14 descending on the farm from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon was a terrifying prospect, and this weekend it became a terrifying actuality. Luckily Rohaise had the whole thing down to army precision with quick rounds of lessons and treks punctuated with industrial sized portions of cake all of Saturday. It terrified me slightly when one girl asked at our 4.30 break whether they could go to bed yet, “no” I snarled at her through a mouthful of cake, for she had my ‘Mystery hour’ to look forward to.

From 6-7 pm I’d been given the job brief “tire them out.” Instead of the cheery ball-games which I think were insinuated by that brief, I immediately sprung upon the idea of a treasure hunt, recalling a happy day at school spent hiding my friend’s entire shoe collection around the grounds with a riddle in each to find the next one.

It’s fair to say I got a bit carried away with elegiac wording and long distances. A wee hour run around the farm turned into an epic Odyssey, taking them high and low through field and meadow, to the prize at the end attached to Haggis, the Shetland pony, who we hid in the kitchen cupboard. I couldn’t wait to see the joy on their faces at the end. It turned out to be quite hard to make out the joy on their faces through the puce red of their cheeks and cries for water. One girl even retired early from dehydration and exhaustion.
Well, I can’t be blamed for not fulfilling my job brief.

 The rest of the evening was spent unintentionally creating the most awkward pre-teen school-style disco known to man. Everyone stood firmly around the outside of the room with their eyes to the ground while music continued to blare unconcernedly. We quickly re-invented it as games night with such classics as Musical statues and Musical chairs (say hello to Rockside’s champion 2011), before they all trooped off to their tents for midnight feasts and frantic whispering.

The next day followed with more treks and lessons before the biggest event of the Pony Club summer- the fancy dress competition. I cannot stress the tension that hung in the yard as the girls transformed their horses into brides, unicorns and hula girls (yes, really). Those who couldn’t hack the pace broke down into tears, leaving the remaining red Indians, fairies, and I think what was a Hasidic Jew, with a cold look of determination in their eyes. That rosette was theirs and theirs alone.

It was the bride and groom combo that won at the end of that Sunday, though not without the usual accusations of bribery, bias and copying. Victory is a dangerous thing. As the girls headed for home towards the evening we all trooped back to Mark and Rohaise’s for a big jug of Pimm’s and much back-patting. Another year done. 

Saturday club

For most people after a 6 day working week Saturday arrives with a great sigh of relief. On Rockside however, Saturday is a carnival of action as the local kids swarm in for ‘Saturday club.’ This consists of quick-fire one hour rides, piles of cakes and spats over which instructor is more fun. Cue competitive Helen

At the end of this week Eileen, the yard manager, and I were joined by one more member to the instructor team, Rachel. An old school Rocksider (gosh that sounds a bit rock n’roll), she has been riding at Rockside since she could sit on a Shetland pony and hold obscure conversations, and has worked here for the last two summers. A girl unquestionably more fun than me, she sadly posed quite a challenge in the instructor popularity contest.

As we took out the first batch of local kids round the sun-drenched farm tracks I was wowed by the range of riding based games. All I could do was laugh along goofily with the rest of the kids as we rounded corners arms akimbo attempting to impersonate various proffessions that bore little relation to riding.
Dismissing games in my head as quickly as I thought them up (horse-back sardines? Really Helen?) I suddenly hit upon a game to up the ante, a village hall classic, the Hockey Cockey.

It’s fair to say that although no great riding skill can be attained from shaking one’s legs all about, there was an air of triumph in my return to the yard that ride. One girl even asked me how I did my hair (the wildly outdated bouffant) so that she could re-create it. I’ve finally found my audience…

Port Char-lash

Two weeks into the job and I feel like the transition from Edinburgh to Islay is almost complete. All too easily the horses have filled the void which used to be taken up with seeing friends and doing city-ish things. This became worryingly apparent when, on seeing a friend of mine from Edinburgh across the yard today, I actually trotted towards him in excitement. Were I trying to flirt with him I’d have moved on to screeching, stomping my foot and throwing my head around to try and impress him, I’m just certain it would have worked.

Thankfully he overlooked the trot and offered to take me out for a drink this evening. Having no car I have sadly not adventured beyond the farm since I’ve arrived, not a helpful fact when I’m trying to offer a sort of tourist guide service of Islay for the trekkers, so I was thrilled to accept.

We went to the Port Charlotte, one of the larger villages on the southern end of Islay. It’s a beautifully white-washed village set right against the shore-line giving it a sort of exuberant freshness. My grandfather had been a minister both there and Kilchoman in the late 40s so I loved being able to imagine the scene of island bliss from the early days of his and my grandmother’s marriage when they lived in the manse in Port Charlotte.

The Port Charlotte Hotel’s whisky collection was another thing worth the visit. I think Islay has at least 7 major distilleries but this display of bottles far exceeded that in variation. I felt wildly inappropriate ordering wine, sadly I am JUST not man enough for whisky, but it buoyed me up for the journey home and as I looked over the rolling fields as the sun set over them I tipsily thought, I rather like Islay.  

Kilchoman skulduggery

The clan Maclean has always played a large part in my life as my parents are devout clan gatherers. Be it the opening of a Maclean themed public loo or the celebration of an argument over laundry tablets that was lost by a Maclean in a field 500 years ago, my parents will be there, swathed in tartan.

You can imagine the tremors of excitement that shook the Maclean household the night I announced that I would be working on Islay, the home of many a Maclean spat, for the summer. I felt it my duty to find out more about the ins and outs of this history when I arrived on Islay and was amazed to find the most famous events took place within the route of the treks.

Kilchoman Church, sadly now dilapidated, sits proudly at the top of a gentle hill overlooking Machir Bay, Loch Gorm and the distant outline of the rocky outcrop generally known as the ‘Opera Rocks’ because of its close resemblance to the Sydney Opera House. On the ride we reach it via a sharp ascent from the dunes so that it bursts into view.

A stunning church, it is also the burial site of Lachlan Mor Maclean, the 14^th Chief of Duart. In 1598 Lachlan had understandably set his sights on Islay, the land of the MacDonalds, pitting his army against the MacDonalds’ near to Loch Gorm. His death by an arrow through the eye was supposedly brought about by his disregard for a hunchbacked-dwarf-fairy who had offered him pre-battle advice. I would certainly never turn down a pep-talk from such a man. Furthermore, he’d ignored the advice of an old wise-woman who was against the whole expedition in the first place. Lachlan should have probably seen the clue in her name.

Nearby the rudimentary pile of stones, named Duncan’s Cairn, marks the burial place of Lachlan’s foster brother. Duncan was not killed in battle, but was actually part of the funeral party who took Lachlan’s body up towards Kilchoman. During the procession he burst into laughter at the sight of his foster brother’s head bobbing around in the funerary cart. With all the ruthlessness of Supernanny, Duncan’s mother decided enough was enough, she by-passed the naughty step and beheaded Duncan.

As I ride past these landmarks to the follies of my ancestors I have tried to garner some form of life lesson from them…Take advice when it’s bestowed by odd looking people, and don’t let mother near swords (though I suppose we already knew that).   

The King of Zenotron

In describing the adventurous treks around the farm and down to the beach I have left out one crucial element of the forms of trekking available.

The pony ride. This is a 20 minute option, usually for the under 7s, during which an instructor walks alongside or leads the beginner down a field and back.

Dull you say?

Quite the contrary. These 20 minute slots which pepper our busy days are usually an adventure into the psychological land of the unknown thanks to the wild imagination of these 4-7 year olds. Who needs to ask mundane questions about a customer’s holiday when you can be privy to one young boy’s plot to take over and become King of the night-land Zenotron (I think he has it in him), or sing made up songs about what the Shetland ponies are thinking?

The only problem is not letting this over-simplification of life into conversations with those older than 7. I found myself telling one adult trekker the reason one horse kept veering towards another on a ride was because “He loved her and one day hoped to marry her.”   

Perhaps island living really is getting to me.

A close shave

With my first week drawing to a close I was beginning to relax into my job a little. The hours are fairly long, but with a morning commute of about 100 metres from my boss’ house to the stables I don’t quite have time to feel jaded. The blistering sun had held out for each ride, infusing everyone and everything with that holiday feeling. A feeling only bettered when I’d come back from work to find a fat glass of white wine awaiting me.

The last trek of the day on Friday, a two hour ride which takes in the nearby stretch of beach, was to test this smug feeling though. My boss had decided I might be able to handle ‘doing the line,’ which means riding alongside the line of trekkers, offering advice and keeping order (hello Veronica), whilst attempting to entertain them with jolly small-talk (I believe hairdressers undergo similar training). She planned to sit at the back of the line as backup while a local ‘yoof’ who’d been drafted in to help would ride at the front of the line making sure the pace was kept slow.

Something I think she, the yoof, wasn’t quite aware was her primary prerogative. As we arrived at the vast stretch of beach, the plucky welsh cob she was on began dancing with excitement, the stretch of beach transformed into a racing track in her eyes. With little restraint from the yoof she took off down the beach in full gallop, a long line of 7-9 year old beginners being dragged in her wake as their horses strained to join the race.

Picturing a beach strewn with fallen children I shared an ill-disguised look of panic with my boss who urged me to get out in front of the trekkers and stop the line, the welsh cob now a black blur in the distance. Having managed that and placated the terrorised children somewhat (the knack is to pretend we intended for that to happen) we soothingly plodded towards the end of the beach expecting to find the yoof as shaken as all of us. Instead she joyfully announced that she hadn’t realised that the welsh cob had such a tremendous gallop. Thanks a lot.

It’s fair to say that the thought of my next beach ride leaves me in cold sweats. Think I’ll stick to sweeping next time.

Meet Veronica

It has indeed transpired that more is expected of me in this job than merely smiling at customers. This week, although probably the best anyone could ever expect from their first week of work, has shown me that I rather lack ability in the instruction department.

I can ride a horse, yes, but telling others how to ride a horse has never really occurred to me. Worse still, I have a nasty habit of going red whenever I do tell someone to do something.

A solution I’ve suggested, which has been rather too heavily backed by my yard manager, is to have a trekking alter-ego, Veronica. Veronica will whip these trekkers into shape as we traverse the sandy dunes and golden barley fields.

I imagine she won’t spare a thought for the weaker armed riders, she’ll brand them ‘pansies’ and will ruthlessly tell them to put some welly into it. Better still, she’ll silence restless teenagers desperate for a gallop with one cold look.

Helen can sidle back into poll position for such tasks as mucking out and sweeping, these she can do. Though Helen hopes she won’t be too muscle-bound as a result, regardless of how much Veronica would approve.

Horses abound!

Riding is one of those things that seems to particularly capture the imagination of young girls. Whether it’s that age old association of beautiful princesses on horseback or simply the pleasure of being so connected with the graceful animals, almost all girls fall prey to the obsession.

Some of us never quite outgrow it. I sadly, am one such over-romantic overgrown princess wannabe.

Help has come though, as Rockside Farm stables appears to be one hell of a place to channel this fixation. After catching, grooming, tacking, riding and holding long in-depth, though may I say it fairly one-sided, conversations with Rockside’s 27 lovely horses for the last few days I feel I am not far from becoming one.

Great for my purist idyll, less great for an employer hoping for a trek leader who can do more than vacantly smile at customers and announce everything is ‘just lovely’ in a sing-songy (perhaps verging on neighing) voice regardless of what was asked. 

The Island

Islay. Described by Wikipedia as the ‘Queen of the Hebrides’ (who wants to be King after all?) and the happy recipient of ‘clement’ weather from the Gulf Stream, will be my home for the next two months.

That probably isn’t the most complete introduction to the island I landed on this evening. Although my parents have been trying to drill this truth into me from a young age with endless boat-trips I’d insist on being sea-sick on and trips to their friend’s houses where I’d be invariably grumpy at having to do hearty things outdoors, it took until quite recently for me to realise that the Western Isles of Scotland are magical.

There’s a kind of modest austerity to the landscape in the summer, perhaps as a result of the winter months which leave the Highlands and Islands shrouded in, dare I say it, doom and gloom. The white sand and turquoise sea framed with monumental rock formations crested in lush green lands is all so fleeting, making it all the more special.

  

From the moment I stepped off the ferry onto Islay I was in full poetic mode. With this landscape I was sure that I’d get at least some kind of spiritual epiphany this summer, failing that, a fairly good tan.