We’re back in England. We wanted a stopping place to break our homeward journey and Francine found the Caravan Club site just outside Kendal in the Lake District. [I still can’t call it the Caravan and Motorhome Club, even though we now have a motorhome. 40 years of habit is hard to break.]

We arrived on Saturday afternoon and got Frodo settled in a homely little corner. Our olfactory organs are once again being treated to the aroma of wild garlic. The site is a collection of alcoves in woodland and the place is absolutely carpeted with wild garlic flowers.

One of the attractions here within walking distance is Sizergh Castle. I thought I’d left the silent letters in Scotland but no, Sizergh is pronounced ”Sizer” but a silent “gh” is nothing unusual.

The castle is about a 2-mile walk away, much of which proved to be uphill. With castle gardens in the offing, I toted my camera along in the hope of some insect action.  We stumbled across one curiosity en route: a pedestrian suspension bridge over the river Kent. We couldn’t resist wandering out onto it just for the experience. A sign proclaimed that the maximum load should be 25 persons but it was bouncy enough with just the two of us.

Arriving at the castle grounds, once again our National Trust membership cards were put into action. Well, Francine’s card was put into action; my card was back in Frodo where I had left my wallet after buying fuel. DUH!  The staff looked me up on their computer system and let me in, anyway.

The gardens are very well planted with loads of species name plates beside many of the specimens. What there wasn’t around the specimens was much in the way of insect activity. There are several ponds of varying dimensions, too, but again, no insect action. In the main, I wasn’t even seeing Pondskaters. We did eventually see a handful in the company of a few Whirligig beetles on one of the small ponds but that was it.

The gardens are pleasant enough – Francine certainly enjoyed them – but I was having a frustrating time. This year seems weird.

We took a small diversion on our walk back in order to call in to a Farm Shop, supposedly award-winning. Finding the entrance was a bit of a challenge but the educationally subnormal finally managed it. It did have an appealing cheese counter but I managed to resist, thinking that I should try and wean myself off it once back at home. There were beers, too, but like many of the products they appeared to have award-winning price tags.

Upstairs was a café where we treated ourselves to lunch in the form of Shakshouka; it‘s a bit like a spicy ratatouille. It went down very well as a light lunch.

At least returning to Frodo was nearly all downhill.

We’re homeward bound tomorrow.

Reviews of the community run campsite on which we were staying, introduced us to a reportedly very good mainly seafood restaurant in Kirkcudbright with the intriguing name of “Swally n’ Scran”. The restaurant is right beside a wet fish shop called Skippers which is where its supplies come from. We were keen to investigate so it was one of the first ports of call on our wander down into Kirkcudbright.

I found the wet fishmonger just a tad disappointing ‘cos quite a bit of its fish came from elsewhere; it wasn’t all local. We had treated ourselves to some King Scallops, however, to make a dinner chez Fodo on Thursday evening – Scallops with Red Peppers and Linguine. With such a well-reviewed opportunity on our doorstep, though, we couldn’t resist making a reservation to eat at Swally n’ Scran on Friday evening. Francine made the reservation online.

On the adjacent harbour is the Skippers “Scran Van” offering seafood lunches. This also should have been an opportunity too good to miss. The van is a shiny metal caravan looking for all the world most like an American Airstream but it isn’t; this is a built-in-Britain look alike. We wandered around for a while waiting for midday, when the Scran Van opened. We were sorely disappointed: the chalk board menu mentioned “half a pint of grilled Langoustine tails” but what turned up were boiled/steamed Langoustine tails that tasted less like Langoustine than any I have ever had. Maybe the order should have specifically mentioned “grilled” even though no other option was on the menu. Be warned, be specific.

It must now be time to explain “Swally” and ”Scran”. We had no clue about the meaning until researching. The easiest to work out is scran which is Scottish slang for food – a bite to eat. A little less easy is swally, which is also a Scottish slang term, this one meaning a drink, a bit like bevvy. Fortunately, if you don’t consult the internet, the printed placemat in the Swally n’ Scran restaurant helps you out with an explanation.

Passing a gathering of wedding guests dressed in kilts – the men, at least – we repaired to the recommended Masonic Arms pub to wash down our seriously disappointing lunch. This was a classic Scottish drinking house where a gathering of locals sat chatting and drinking on chars that clearly fitted their backsides perfectly.

On our earlier gin-soaked visit to the Moffat farmers market not only had we invested in a bottle of Moffat gin [actually only a 50cl bottle, darn it] but we had also invested in a bottle [70cl this time] of Dark Arts Distillery’s Sky Garden gin. In our view, the Dark Arts offering trumped the Moffat offering. As it happens, Kirkcudbright is the home of the Dark Arts Distillery. Well, we liked their Sky Garden gin so much that we had finished it and couldn’t resist visiting the distillery itself for a replacement. Rude not to, really.

The chap in the distillery was the very same man who had served us at the Moffat Farmers’ Market. We renewed our acquaintance. There are tours of the distillery available, though in truth there is very little to tour – just one room with the only relevant piece of equipment being the still. Francine and I were the only customers in the shop and our friend ushered us into the still room to introduce us to Peggy, the copper still itself. Peggy is named after the owner’s grandmother. It is said to be traditional to name stills after ladies. Could this be anything to do with mother’s ruin?

The patterns on the copper of the still were fabulous. The still had been shipped over from Germany but, being 2021 and in the time of Covid lockdown, the Germans could not come over to perform the installation, which involved welding. Instead the proprietor had engaged the local trawlermen to do the welding for him. Given the situation, I’m sure the trawlermen were more than happy to have the work,

Dark Arts also make a couple of vodkas, which I had been remiss in not tasting at the Moffat Farmer’s Market. Today I corrected that oversight. Oh dear, the Dark Arts “standard” vodka [Merrick at 38° proof] was excellent. We purchased a replacement Sky Garden gin and a Merrick vodka. It was pleasant but a little expensive to renew our acquaintance with Mr. Dark Arts.

There is a wood behind and above the campsite. the wood boasts a Red Squirrel hide which held a certain appeal for someone who thinks of himself primarily as a wildlife photographer. Finished with the attractions of the town, we went to take a look.

We walked along woodland tracks and roads, eventually following signs to the “RS Hide”. Arriving, I was a little perturbed to see the hide door sporting a padlock with a sign saying that you could phone to gain access. It’s bit bloody late to make that point, I thought. We found some tree stumps and boughs to patiently sit on instead. We’d lost the sun and the sky was now overcast. Clearly the reason that this was called a Red Squirrel Hide was that the Red Squirrels were hiding. As compensation, though, I got closer than I’d ever before been to a Treecreeper. We have them on our trees at home but I’d never been this close with a camera.

Our table was booked at Swally n’ Scran for 19:30. We sauntered down to take our places and peruse the menu. A lot of the seating was very German in style with shared refectory-like tables. We could, however, grab two high stools at the window of the restaurant looking out at the sunset. There was a starter of soft-shelled crabs which I couldn’t resist and which were absolutely excellent. Francine chose the salmon sashimi, pickled in our beloved Sky Garden gin, with wasabi and pickled ginger. This, too, was excellent. My main was grilled lemon sole, good but not stunning, whilst Francine opted for a scallop concoction with nduja. Kirkcudbright is one of the main scallops ports; Francine chose well.

We’re off to our next 2-night stop at Kirkcudbright. I think I’ll refer to this trip as the Silent Letters Tour.

From Moffat, travelling to Fyfe just north of Edinburgh, we visited Culross. The “l” is silent and the “o” is more of an “i”. [Coo-riss]

We’ve just left Culzean where the “z” is siilent and the “ea” is more of an “ai”. [Cuh-lain]

Now we’re heading for Kirkcudbright where most of the letters are silent. [Kir-coo-bree]

En route we called in to a parking area overlooking the bay at Girvan. A friendly chap at the Culzean campsite had told us of Gannets diving into the surf which would make for an interesting sight. We have visited the Gannet colony at Bempton Cliffs but those cliffs are so high that you cannot watch the birds diving. Ailsa Craig  is a short distance out from the bay and I imagine that is where the Gannets have their home. Ailsa Craig is also the home of the special kinds of granite – there arse two types – harvested and used to make the finest curling stones.

We waited a while, watching out to sea and munching a breakfast roll, and the occasional Gannet did fly casually by. Some obliged with their spectacular arrow-like dives into the water but in truth they were really too distant to make a decent picture. Either that or the camera operator was not up to the task. From what must have been well over 100 attempts, I got just one that was half-way usable.

We continued around the coast road, eventually passing the newish ferry terminals at Cairnryan and the old ferry terminal at Stranraer. We were a little curious about why the move was deemed necessary; larger ferries, perhaps?

At the end of our journey we made out way into Kirkcudbright, carefully avoiding the town bridge [ignore the satnav] which has a 1.5t weight limit. Our destination was an independent community run campsite halfway up a hill and overlooking the rooftops of Kirkcudbright itself. Francine had made a booking online so we knew which pitch number to head for. She had been mailed confirmation complete with the barrier entry code. Frodo’s spot was on the town side of the site looking directly at the view.

An initial sortie into town took us down a path from the campsite right past the local Tesco store, which proved mostly adequate but unscintillating. Further on across the main road through town was the local Coop which proved even less scintillating. There were, however, some local shops and cafes that were perfectly fine.

Crossing the roads here was terrific; if a car happened to be coming, just wait a while and saunter across. There was never the constant stream of cars that we are used having to avoid – no need for pedestrian crossings or traffic lights in Kirkcudbright. Very refreshing.

At the side of the car park opposite the unscintillating Coop was a sign that tickled our fancy. It seems that Kirkcudbright is home to the “Official UK Wife Carrying Championships”. Ye Gods! Clearly someone in town has got a well developed sense of humour.

After that revelation, I needed a drink.

[The “z” is silent.]

Yesterday evening’s lashing rain had cleared and our morning dawned with a clear view across the Firth of Clyde to the Isle of Arran and you-know-where. Today was time for me to brave the grounds of the Scottish National Trust Property of Culzean Castle. The grounds feature a walled garden so, with the protection from the still present wind, I was hopeful that its shelter might produce something. There was also a “wildlife garden” which included a pond that looked promising.

Just beyond the campsite we entered the Scottish National Trust grounds, our English National Trust cards being valid. The grounds are extensive and it was still about a 15 minute walk down to the castle itself. Beside the roadway, a footpath meanders through woodland thick with wild garlic. What I didn’t see was any wildlife other than a few diptera.

Arriving at Culzean Castle itself, I was reminded of Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland – neither of these properties look particularly like my idea of a castle but more like very large houses. It is an impressive property and there is, at least, a battery of canons pointing seaward.

I went “ooh, ah” briefly before we set off in the direction of the walled garden passing a field containing a mixed herd of deer and llamas. We hung a quick left to investigate the wildlife garden. Francine consulted the park map and got us to the pond, which looked well vegetated and clean. It looked like decent habitat to us but it clearly didn’t look like good habitat to the critters. We saw absolutely nothing, nothing flying over the water and not even any pond skaters on the water. This was weird.

We returned to the large walled garden and began making our way around it. Once again, nothing. Well, to be honest there were a handful of bumblebees but otherwise the plants looked to have attracted nothing more. Feeling that I needed to surrender, I vented my photographic frustration on a white flag.

Lunch was beckoning so we made our way back from the disappointing walled garden to the café area at Home Farm. The food was good but I mention it really to highlight the espresso coffee which I believe to be the best I have ever tasted. I was so impressed that I had to go and ask what it was. I’d never heard of it – Nàdar – but it was on sale in the gift shop. £10 for a 227g bag but I just had to buy some.

Wandering back to the campsite, right outside the entrance Francine spotted what looked like a farm track heading up on our right. Furthermore, it was lined with a splendid hedgerow, better than anything we’d seen thus far. Finally I had some interesting insects to play with, chief among them being a hoverfly called Rhingia campestris (Common Snout), looking curious with the long snout peculiar to the genus.

Messing about in the hedgerow, I was clearly not obvious. Francine was more out in the open track but was moving little, so much so that a very surprising visitor turned up to start grazing. I’d never been anywhere near a Hare before so this was a special treat. I managed a few shots before it spotted me and hared off.

After a dull start it had turned out to be an interesting day.

[Very Erle Stanley Gardner.]

Today we were leaving our Moffat campsite to make the 75-mile trip to Culzean Castle where the Camping and Caravanning Club have a campsite in the park grounds. From the campsite it is but a short step to the Scottish National Trust property.

Before leaving the Moffat campsite, I needed to visit the motorhome service point to dump our waste water and fill up with fresh water. The campsite layout is a little awkward in that we had to go through the exit barrier to return immediately through the code-controlled entrance barrier.This I did and pulled into the service point.

We had not dumped any waste water since leaving Newark after Frodo’s service. Because our waste drains slowly, I thought I’d set it going before filling with fresh water. I opened the drain tap – nothing, nada, nichts. Other than a brief tiny dribble which soon stopped, no waste water appeared. Surely I had not left the tap in the wrong position, open, and discharged where I shouldn’t? Five days worth of water seemed to have disappeared. I had a problem one way or the other.

With what must be a reasonably full waste tank and not wishing to be carrying too great a weight of water, I filled the fresh tank to only 50%. Scratching my head metaphorically, we exited once again and began our journey.

Some of the Scottish miles can seem a bit long; the journey took about two hours. We were a few minutes ahead of opening time [13:00] so sat and waited behind another early arrival.

Once open, the friendly man at reception asked if we’d like a pitch with a sea view – yes please – so we got Frodo settled overlooking the Firth of Clyde and the isle of Arran. Most unfortunately, behind the Isle of Arran are parts of the Mull of Kintyre which are visible. Francine irritatingly mentioned it. I absolutely loathe Macca’s Mull of Kintyre but now it was cemented into my brain as earworm of the day. Thanks a bunch!

Probably to avoid being strangled, Francine thought she’d go on a scouting trip of the Culzean castle grounds, leaving me to investigate Frodo’s lack of waste water. I tried lying on a picnic blanket but the howling gale blowing in off the firth made holding it down impossible. A padded jacket on the gravel would have to do.

I grabbed a collapsible bowl to place under the waste tank plumbing as I removed my duct tape to gently ease off the tap assembly. My waste water was not lost after all, it was still in the tank and began flowing into my bowl as I loosened the pipe. The bowl filled quickly and I jammed the pipe back on to stem the flow while I emptied the bowl. I did this three times before I could let the dregs into the bowl.

The drain tap is poor, seemingly being designed to block, and blocked it most certainly was. I have a bendy drain pipe-cleaner device with which I managed to extract an unmentionable plug of grease-matted curly hair. Guess whose hair that might’ve been. A kettle of boiling water finished the cleaning job whereupon I reassembled the waste tank plumbing.

Fortunately I already knew my way around the waste tank plumbing; this was not the first time I had taken it apart to clean it. Frodo had always drained painfully slowly and whilst in Spain over winter, I had removed the tap and flushed it through with hot water. Draining speed became respectable. I think our problem this time is that we had used Frodo’s on-board shower nearly all the time in Spain and clearly quite a bit of hair had made its way into the waste tank. Add to that grease from washing up water and you’ve got a drain blockage waiting to happen.

Mr. Fixit had struck once again, so I awarded myself a beer or two. Francine returned from her exploratory mission while I was keeping poor ol’ Frodo company.

After a pleasant afternoon, in the evening Frodo’s view was lost as low clouds and heavy rain moved in.

Sadly my earworm remained. I may have to find some intertidal mud in which to bury Francine – “she’s a witch, m’lud”.

Our original plan had been to spend four nights at the Moffat campsite, largely to spend a weekend with Francine’s niece and husband. Then she-who-must-be-obeyed decided that, if we could, we should stay for an extra day, basically to giver us a day off without an agenda. The process caused some difficulty since the campsite had been using a new booking system for only a few days. Eventually, though, we got our stay extended.

Then we got a shock. Our initial booking for four nights cost a shade under £120. The payment the Camping and Caravan Club took for our extra night was a whopping £47. I assumed that they had forgotten the Age Concession Rate [60+ get a discount] but no – this was differential pricing in action ‘cos we’d booked it close to the date. That’s even worse – the £47 included  the ACR so the full price would have been well over £50.

Frankly that’s outrageous – someone’s having a laugh. We have never paid anywhere close to prices like that in either France or Spain where we’d think of €30 as being on the high side. The UK has completely lost it but, then, we knew that anyway.

So, in trying to enjoy our extra extortionately expensive extra day in Moffat, we took a circuitous route into town for Francine to sate her craving for a Scotch Pie. [Don’t ask.] Our route into town took us through a park with a boating lake that seemed largely to be lacking water, then up a delightful “burn” known as Annan Water. I soon regretted not taking my camera along – I wasn’t expecting to see much but this rock-strewn burn looked as if it might be prime Dipper territory.

At first we saw little but a Robin catching flies over the water. Further up, though, as the numbers of boulders in the water increased, we did, indeed, see Dippers. We’ve seen them only once before, I think; they are delightful little birds that frenetically bob up and down searching in the shallower water for invertebrates to feed on. This encounter was especially good ‘cos these Dippers were feeding fledged chicks who followed them around expectantly. Now I was really ruing my lack of camera. Francine did what she could with her phone camera. [At least it’s an iPhone.] She even took some video.

We finally ended up in town to search for Francine’s Scotch Pie. Getting a hot one proved difficult. The local baker did have a hot cabinet and clearly had had some pies but at first glance it was now woefully ill-supplied. Still short on the Scotch Pie front, we returned a few minutes later to find the cabinet replenished. Sadly it had not been replenished with hot pies but cold pies needing to be heated up. We made the mistake of buying two, even though I could see what was coming; Francine’s pie was, at least, tepid but mine was cold. You do not want to eat a cold Scotch Pie. Actually, I’m not sure that I ever want to eat any kind of Scotch Pie again.

We repaired to a hotel for a drink to wash down the pies. I’ve tried two different Scottish real ales since I’ve been here and I wouldn’t give you thank you for either one of them. Yesterday I switched to Staropramen, today I chose Cruzcampo. Better.

We returned to Frodo and it just had to be done. At first I hadn’t felt like returning but the Dippers were calling. I broke out my camera and wandered back to Annan Water to see if I could catch the Dippers on pixels. They are the most endearing birds that live up to their name, constantly bobbing up and down as they sit on a rock looking for underwater prey items. I managed to catch and adult, a chick, an adult surfacing with prey in its beak, and finally an adult passing food to one of the chicks. The adults appeared to have divided their workload, with the male looking after one chick while the female tended to the other chick. It had been well worth the return trip to the burn.

As well as having a photography pal in the vicinity of Moffat, Francine’s niece lives about a 30-minute drive away. This is the main reason we are here and we planned to spend the weekend in their company.

On Saturday we broke Frodo out of his pitch and drove the 30 minutes to Francine’s niece’s village, which conveniently had a decent car park behind the village hall. I’d been a bit nervous about the access with width and height (over a small bridge) looking a bit restricted but our pals had been very considerate in measuring it for us and Frodo should be fine. Indeed he was.

Driving the road to the village had woken us up but we still sat with a coffee before Mr. and Mrs. Niece took us out on a trip. Our trip was to Culross just across the Firth of Forth in Fife. Culross is a 16th century village that looks more French than it does Scottish. It is known as one of the main filming locations of Outlander. [No, we haven’t seen it.] Being both attractive and notable it is, of course, a tourist attraction but there is ample free parking, though with a 1.5T limit it would be no good for Frodo. We abandoned ship and set off to wander.

‘T was 13:00-ish and the worms were biting. We called in to a pub which declared that food was served all day. The wind was a bit chill but all inside tables were reserved so we had to eat outside under a gazebo. The food was decent though you had to eat pretty quickly if you wanted it warm.

Stomachs sated, we explored the village. I was surprised to see what turned out to be a Chilean flag flying on a second flagpole beside the Scottish saltire. Nearby was a bust of an historic dignitary who was Thomas Cochrane, 10th Earl of Dundonald. He was also the first Vice Admiral of Chile. Figure that one out. Naturally the girls went into a couple of gift shops while I remained outside taking in the air and the views.

There was a piece of linguistic interest that we stumbled upon. One of pictures is of the “mercat cross”. At first we thought “mercat” might stem from the Chilean connection and its Spanish language but, no, mercat is apparently a bona fide Scottish word.

A couple of miles along the estuary was a grave that Mrs. Niece was keen to visit. The grave is in the estuary and visible only when the tide is low enough. It is the grave of a supposed witch, Lilias Adie (c. 1640-1704). She died in prison and was buried in the mud under a large stone slab “to prevent her from escaping”. It is the only known grave of a Scottish witch.

On Sunday our relies came to us in Moffat, where Sunday is Market Day, a popular attraction. This would be more up my street featuring both booze and food. After introducing our friends to Frodo, we walked the few minutes into town to see what the market had to offer.

One attraction for which we had forewarning was the stall of a renowned pie man. [After me: Simple Simon met a pie man going to the fair …] His pies had a perplexing array of fillings including macaroni – a macaroni pie [?]. Others were more conventional featuring various combinations of steak or chicken, together with vegetarian options. Not wishing to fire up Frodo’s oven, we passed but Mr. Niece did buy some pies and some bridies, which are like Scottish pasties.

Moffat is home to the Moffat Distillery (run by an American, no less) which produces hand-crafted whisky and gin, Well, it would be criminal to come all this way without trying Moffat’s gin. There was a second stall from Dark Art Distillery also selling spirits, including a couple of gins, so we thought we needed to do a comparative tasting. My rucksack was becoming heavy. Dark Art’s stall also had a very intriguing “tequila-alike” made from agave. They aren’t allowed to call it tequila ‘cos it isn’t made in Mexico. There were two offerings, including one with a tinge from being matured in red wine barrels. Whilst intrigued, we weren’t quite intrigued enough to lash out £65 a bottle, though.

Being a cheese addict, there were two further stalls which piqued my interest. I added a soft blue cheese, a firm cows milk cheese and an even harder, matured ewes milk cheese to my increasingly heavy rucksack. All this effort spending money left us needing refreshment in a local hostelry, after which we needed to carry more weight in the form of two bottles of tonic to go with the gin.