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Nicole and I celebrated our second wedding anniversary this past weekend (it’s a great fortitude that our anniversaries are on the same day, really).  We’ve set a pattern of taking it in turns to organise a surprise for each other, and last year I took us to Austria.  This year was Nicole’s turn and she chose one of the prettiest parts of Scotland, the dramatic Applecross peninsula.

Before getting there, though, we spent a night in a hotel north of Inverness.  It was lovely, but I’ll keep them anonymous as I’d like to have a dig at one aspect.  In their luxurious lounge were some bookshelves filled with a curious and entirely unrelated collection of books, seemingly acquired in an entirely random way over time.

The oddest were the Usborne Guide to Hamsters (“with internet links”) and a book that looked out of the 1970s and featured Terry Wogan on the cover.  I only wish I’d gone back to my room for my camera.

There was also a 19th century book titled “Why I Am A Christian” written with all the colour, verve and cheer you could imagine emanating from a dour, hardback Victorian-era epistle.  Besides all that, there was, for some inexplicable reason, a large number of novels translated into German, including a Dan Brown I’d never heard of and a science fiction novel or two.  It was quite the oddest collection of books I’ve seen for a long time and perhaps leaves some clues as to the sorts of people who have stayed at the hotel over the years.

When we got to Applecross, we stayed in a beautiful and snug wee cottage for a few nights, enjoying the occasional breaks in the rain to go for walks, drives and expeditions to the (justifiably) famous Applecross Inn.  But the cottage rivalled the hotel for its curious reading material, principally in the form of entries in its guestbook.  Among the numerous glowing comments were some that led me to really fear for this country’s city dwellers.

One guest complained about the steep gradient to the cottage, saying it was “not good for people with disabilities (heart condition)”.  Another objected to the fact that the cottage’s view was of a “farmyard” (when it was actually of a modern house on a croft – a bit of education about the differences between farms and crofts needed there I think); though someone from the same town as that writer thoughtfully though unnecessarily followed up a few comments later with an apology for his brethren.  Someone else complained that their two year old had been caught trying to escape through a skylight.  Another person even thought it fair to criticise a bed in a particularly cosy and snug bedroom for being too small: despite the fact that if the bed had been any bigger the room would have been less of a bedroom and more of a dojo.

Quite how these stupid people survive outside the limits of the city they come from (and why they bother venturing furth) is a mystery to me.  Much as, I imagine, the “countryside” (as everyone except those living there seems to call it) is a mystery to them.  One of the strengths of Inverness as a place to live is that you’re always able to appreciate and understand both rural and urban Scotland.  This beautiful part of the world was barely a couple of hours’ drive from home, and a gorgeous drive at that.

Enough of the rantings. Beyond all that, it was a lovely weekend.  I’d been to Applecross before, but really enjoyed taking the time to relax, explore with the camera, and see a lot more of the peninsula than I had before.  Here are the photos.

The (self-imposed) deadline looms.

As is all too depressingly obvious, it’s not long until Christmas and that is my deadline for finishing off my second book.  This will, as I may have mentioned before, run on from UTCWAM, chart my adventures in England, Canada, New Zealand and the western USA, and effectively bring the mission up to the present day in terms of trips.  The working title for the book is “Mullet 2″, but that too easily lends itself to various secondary titles, like “Mullet 2: Mullet Harder” and suchlike, the realm of which I am more than inclined to avoid.

Such titular considerations have been at the back of my mind, however, given the pressing need to get the actual content finished.  It had been looking a bit touch and go of late, and indeed I actually planned to finish it this time last year, and then this summer, but I am confident that aiming for this Christmas will be the last delay.  Obstacles have basically revolved around lots going on in real life and the day job, so finding time to sit down and write – even with my free Mondays – has been hard.  But increasingly as I’ve found the time, I’ve been more effective at using it, and I’m now more confident than ever that I will hit the target.

The easiest bit – for the most part – has been writing about the trips themselves, which were of course great fun.  A little trickier have been the intervening bits, trying to remember what was happening in life, what mullets I discovered when and how, what things are entertaining or relevant enough to write, and how all fits in the right order.

I’ve got the bulk of the book finished, and I am now in the process of finishing up the “in between trips” sections, and then follows the numerous rounds of redrafting and editing.  I’m definitely in the final straights now, which is a relief after a frustratingly long time in getting this second book near to completion.

If it is to be published, we should be looking at some time later on in 2012.  I will of course keep you posted.

If you’ve been in Aberdeen recently, you won’t have escaped the furore over the plans to turn Union Terrace Gardens (right) into a big square.

The idea came from Sir Iain Wood, one of the city’s richest oil industrialists, who has wanted to give £50million of his own money back to the city that helped generate his wealth.

On the face of it, it’s a striking and thoroughly altruistic gesture.  However it’s proved to be a hugely divisive one because the plan involves building over Union Terrace Gardens and raising the ground to the level of the buildings around it.

There are six options, and a consultation has recently been running to gauge public views about them.  I noticed it when I was in Aberdeen on Wednesday, and given that I had a spare hour I decided to pop in to have a look.  I discovered the next day that it closed just a couple of hours after I’d visited, so my being in the area with a little free time was a lucky coincidence.

Let me explain the basic idea of the plans.

The night-time photo above is, I’m afraid, the best one I have on Flickr of the area in question.  To set the scene, Aberdeen was, a little like the Old Town in Edinburgh, a medieval city built on a number of hills.  Later developments such as bridges and new streets effectively raised the city, leaving parts like the Denburn Valley, pictured, a little below the new street level.

If you explore the side streets around Aberdeen city centre you get a real sense of that historic heart  lurking beside (and often below) the city centre’s main artery, Union Street, and such explorations will show you how the city was raised to a higher level (1|2|3).

And this is all, by the way, entirely separate from the beautiful atmosphere of Old Aberdeen proper, lying about twenty minutes’ walk north, the main features of which include Aberdeen University (Scotland’s only medieval campus university, founded in 1495) and the gorgeous St Machar’s Cathedral (left).

Belmont Street, at the heart of Aberdeen’s nightlife and cultural scene, is just out of the big photograph above, running along the other side of the buildings which back onto the left of the picture.  Union Street, the main shopping thoroughfare, is at the far end above the arched bridge.  The three gorgeous Victorian icons of “education, salvation and damnation” are behind where this photo was taken from.  The road and railway run through the centre of the picture, and Union Terrace Gardens are to the right.

You can see from the bridge in the background, plus where the gardens meet the street on the right, the level to which it is proposed the ground is raised.  The road and railway would be covered, but so would Union Terrace Gardens.

There has been substantial opposition to the plans in the city, with protesters claiming that the beauty of the gardens and an important green space at the heart of the city would be lost forever.

I am not convinced I ever had much sympathy for the opponents of the plan.  I never thought that Union Terrace Gardens were particularly well-used or promoted enough, and while they were certainly pretty they seemed to be more of a spot for sleeping rough than enjoying the serenity of a public park.  Having lived in Aberdeen for over five years and still being a regular visitor, I can say that I’ve probably been in the gardens no more than a handful of times, barely for more than a few minutes, and never to spend any prolonged time in.  The lack of footfall through the park is surely in the main due to the lack of sunlight that come from it being at a sunken level.  Yes they are nice gardens but they are just not sunny enough compared to the city’s other lovely public spaces such as Seaton Park or Duthie Park.

Moreover, building over the dual carriageway and railway line will be of great benefit to the aesthetics of the scene, and the idea of connecting Union Terrace (the road to the right of the gardens in the picture), Belmont Street, Union Street and Rosemount Viaduct (behind the photographer’s vantage point) seems quit sensible on paper.

Not that I am unequivocally in favour of the proposed new city gardens, however.

It was with a mixture of lazy ambivalence and only mild curiosity that I ventured into the exhibition to see the six options, and having considered them briefly I am somewhat underwhelmed by them all and unpersuaded that any  would truly add something to the city that couldn’t be done in other ways.  They all represent sledgehammers lining up to crack a nut that nobody can agree requires cracking in the first place.  So that’s my main reason for being concerned about the plans.

Secondly, I passionately believe there are better ways of thanking or cheering up Aberdeen than by giving it a square it’s not sure it wants.  If I had fifty million spare, I’d give it to Aberdeen Football Club.  Nothing would enthuse the city’s overoptimistic football fans, not to mention wider population, more than its perennially underachieving and underfunded football team returning to former glory.

And sadly it is down the highway of massive investment that you achieve things in football these days.  So what better way of using your wealth to restore morale, profile and exposure to the city of Aberdeen than through rebuilding a European-class football team?  Plus, you’d never have to put your hands in your pocket in a city pub for the rest of your life.

But my third reason for being sceptical of the city square plans is that I think they’re picking the wrong spot.

I reckon that the true heart of the city is further east, at the Castlegate – the historic connection between King Street (the road north), Union Street (heading west) and the roads down to the harbour and beach.

Castlegate – so called because it was the site of the city’s castle, destroyed in the Wars of Independence in the 1300s and never rebuilt – is perhaps a tired spot, and no doubt it lost some of its purpose when the city’s trams were removed along with the Castlegate’s role as its interchange.

And incidentally, I think Aberdeen would really suit and benefit from having trams back and it’s a tragedy that Edinburgh has given the mode of transport a bad name.

But anyway.  Surrounded by a mixture of the imposing and the ornate, the medieval and Victorian, and across from the Town House and the magnificent pub designed by and named after Archibald Simpson, Castlegate is an impressive spot and could easily be more so.  The neglect it has experienced over the years could easily be repaired, and if the beautiful Citadel and other buildings fronting the square could be used for a more inclusive civic or cultural purpose then you could have a magnificent setting in the making.

Restoring life to the Castlegate would be much cheaper than trying to create it from scratch over Union Terrace Gardens, more effective, and – as it would draw more obviously upon the city’s historic layout and architectural heritage – significantly more in keeping with the character and soul of the city.

But maybe, just as I found with the exhibition and consultation I browsed round in its final few hours, my not being an Aberdeen resident perhaps negates the validity of my views.

For what they’re worth, though, you’ve just read them.

I’ve always been interested in languages. It’s probably the single thing that most powerfully demonstrates human diversity and represents the gateway to understanding the world better.  If there is one free skill I’d love to have for no effort in return, it would be fluency in one or more other languages.  I am not fluent in anything other than English, sadly, though at school I studied Gaelic until second year (which was compulsory), German to Standard Grade and French to Higher, and narrowly chose not to do languages at university alongside Politics.

That said, I’ve always practised my French and German wherever possible, be it when travelling, hosting couchsurfers, or meeting or visiting French- or German-speaking friends. I’ve been complemented a number of times on my enthusiastic but faltering grasp of both, and I have been told that I’d be just a few months’ immersion away from fluency in either.

Yet something always niggled at the back of my mind regarding French and, especially, German: a dissatisfaction with unnecessary complexities. Such as rules that were broken so often as to be meaningless, complex rules of grammar that seemed to erect more barriers to effective communication than bridges, and the realisation that French and German suffered from geographical “weak spots” meaning their value as international languages was questionable.

And don’t get me started on gender and cases. I never understood quite why a noun needed to be masculine or feminine, or why adjectives or the word for “the” should change according to their place in the sentence. That’s one great thing about English, where we’ve more or less done away with these grammatical quirks that have their root – so to speak – in Latin.

Of course, English is not free of criticism on this front.  It’s a widely-spoken and beautifully expressive language, yet one full of inconsistencies and absurd rules. Everything from the multiple ways of pronouncing “ough” to our odd plural rules (mice and men, but not hice and cen, for instance) presents a language that must seem immensely complicated to new learners.

And it’s not even as if English is the truly international language many claim it to be. Languages are a key tool for international travel and exploring other cultures, yet if you spoke only English I reckon you’d struggle somewhat across vast swathes of Russia, China, Latin America and the Arab-speaking world, four parts of the globe that will only become more important to us as they develop economically.

Of course, if you are a polyglot then you’re sorted. For instance, fluency in the six official languages of the United Nations – English, French, Spanish, Russian, Chinese and Arabic – will probably see you cover most of the planet with ease. But I daresay such an achievement would require a true gift for languages that few of us possess. And that’s the point that bugged me with French and German – why should you have to be “good at languages” to be good at languages?

This is where Esperanto comes in.

Created by a Polish doctor as an international auxiliary language in the late nineteenth century, Esperanto was designed to be a simple, easy and effective means of communication between different peoples, and I have been aware of its exstence for years. I possess a “Teach Yourself Esperanto” book I bought many years ago, but cannot remember where or when, and to be honest it has been virtually untouched as long as I have had it, largely due to a lack of motivation.

But the basic principle of the language – simplicity – has always appealed. I have been thinking a lot recently about languages, contemplating improving my French or German or else starting to learn a new one. Last month we went to France on holiday and on a whim I dusted down “Teach Yourself Esperanto” and took it with me.

Thanks to the freedom of a relatively lazy holiday, I made swift and satisfying progress. I then reinforced my knowledge upon my return with the multilingual Esperanto learning website lernu.net. I also made contact with other speakers, and this past Saturday I went to Glasgow for a study day organised by the Scottish Esperanto Association.

Meeting other speakers was always going to be a key litmus test for me. It would move the language from the page or computer screen into real live face to face interaction, and transform it from an abstract and solitary interest into a potentially living, dynamic means of communication. Would using Esperanto with other speakers for the very first time turn me from a fleeting enquirer to committed enthusiast?

The answer was an emphatic yes. Why? Why was I interested to start with, why did I enjoy getting stuck into it, and why am I going to stick at it?

The main answer to all those questions is that basic principle, simplicity. On a two week holiday I’d probably spent an average of an hour a day on the language, yet I’d managed in that time to learn the basic rules and concepts plus a modest, functional amount of vocabulary. In fact, doing some rough sums in my head I reckon I gained as much Esperanto in those dozen or so hours as the amount of French I knew after a year of secondary school. This echoes with some figures I’d read previously, that it takes a native English speaker ten times longer to learn another European language than Esperanto, and many more times longer to learn an unrelated language like Chinese.

This simplicity is based on the logical way in which the language was designed. There are no irregular verbs or exceptions to any grammatical rule, phonetics and spelling are simple, word order doesn’t matter that much, and patterns and consistency abound in every feature of the language. That makes for an incredibly satisfying learning experience, because when you learn a rule you know you’ll never be tripped up later by exceptions or quirks, and can apply the rules without limits, rapidly expanding your vocabulary and capability.

It helps, furthermore, that Esperanto’s vocabulary draws very heavily on that of Romance and Germanic languages, not least Latin, meaning that on first glance the language already feels somewhat familiar. You don’t need much language talent to be able to guess what “la hundo estas en la aŭto” means.

One obvious flaw of Esperanto is that there are not many speakers – the estimated two or three million speakers are scattered thinly and evenly throughout the world. But that’s not a barrier in an age of global travel and internet communication, and in any case it makes existing speakers all the more welcoming and supportive to new speakers, as I found to my delight at the study day on Saturday.  Thanks to them, I already feel a part of a community.

In a relatively short space of time, Esperanto is, unlike any other language I’ve encountered, already proving a fun adventure. I might just blog about it – and perhaps even in it – as I go.

If you ever want to know what it feels like to travel to the other side of the world, but don’t have the time or money to do so, then allow me to suggest that you take the overnight bus from London to Inverness.  The feeling of exhaustion, plus the desperate need to sleep during the daytime upon returning, has given me the sort of jetlag that I’ve only ever experienced after flights to or from Australia and New Zealand.

A little over twenty four hours after returning from France I’ve more or less shaken the tiredness off, which is just as well as I have a very busy week’s travels for work coming up.  In that time, a major highlight has been sorting through my Paris photos and uploading a selection of them – we were only there overnight on our journey home but managed to pack a lot in.  The whole set from the trip, incidentally, is here.

I’ll be putting finger to keyboard with a few bits and pieces of what we got up to in France, but as a sneak preview it involved sunshine, castles and industrial quantities of delicious French cheese.

That won’t be all written up for a few weeks, though, as I have mullet-related writing to do.  Yes, despite my promise to myself that I’d finish my draft of my second book finished before going to France, I failed.  I’m nearly there though – perhaps 80-90% finished – so am not feeling too bad about missing what was after all an entirely self-imposed date.  I think I might be done in a month or two, but given my past record I reckon it would tempting fate to announce another deadline.

On with the writing then.  If the post-holiday blues and general work busyness don’t get in the way.

Faith, hope and charity are quite a trilogy.  They are a trio of saints, three WW2-era RAF planes, a key verse in the Bible and even a play. But here in Inverness, they are most famous as the Three Graces which used to reside above a magnificent columned building on the corner of High Street and Castle Street, where the architectural (not to mention gastronomic) monstrosity McDonald’s now sits.

When their home was abolished they spent time in exile in Orkney before being recently bought by the council and returned to Inverness.  They now sit on the riverside, just in front of Ness Bank church.  They are quite attractive statues and tastefully fit their new home.  Here they are on the right, standing in a row with their names beneath them.  Click on the picture to see it in detail.

However, sometimes it takes an outsider to see something about a place (something I love about travel).  Recently we had some visitors staying with us, and when we walked along the river one of them pointed out that the names are in the wrong order.

Faith, suggested our friend, is the one in the middle clutching a Bible (who stands above the word “hope”).  Hope is the one with that great metaphor of hope, an anchor, perched atop the legend “charity”.  Charity is the one giving something to drink to a child, oblivious to being called “faith” by the plinth.  Despite being free-standing statues with a custom-made plinth, they have been clearly placed in the wrong order.  Either that or they’ve been playing musical chairs when nobody’s watching.  I can imagine the council stating the names are not meant to indicate the statue directly above, but that runs counter to the way that anyone would logically interpret the scene.

Is this an intentional placing, or has Highland Council made a gaffe that has, until now, been unnoticed?

The EU will be jealous of me, because unlike them I am shortly to remove that annoying grey bit from the middle of my “where I’ve been” map.

Just as Lesotho makes South Africa look like it’s forgotten something, the European Union purists must have been annoyed for some years now by that irritating and persistently neutral bit that can’t be coloured in despite the union’s recent spread eastwards: yes, the land of yodelling, clocks and versatile pocket knives that is Switzerland.

By the time you read this we will be en route to France on holiday, and are staying in the east of the country within day trip distance of the Swiss city of Geneva.

It’s a country that’s easy to scorn for its resistance to EU membership, and anyone who has returned home to the UK from a trip abroad will know what I mean.

When you approach customs, there are generally channels for two groups of passport holders – those from the European Union, and then those from other countries.  Those benefitting from the freedom of movement the EU allows can, broadly speaking, treat the union’s four and a bit million square kilometres of territory as their home, a cursory check of the passport being enough to welcome you to a country which, if it is not your own, is still somewhere you’re welcome to live and work in, on the whole without restriction.  Meanwhile those outside the European Union are directed to another channel, presumably so their passports and visas can be checked and stamped to ensure they are entitled to visit the country.

But of course, if you look again at the directional signs above the channels, it’s not as simple as “EU” and “other”.  The EU channel also extends the “fast track” to the European Economic Area (which include all EU member states plus Iceland, Liechtenstein and Norway) and to Switzerland.

I can understand the inclusion of the EEA – an agreement exists between it and the EU that allows those three named EEA members to access the EU’s internal market in exchange for adhering to relevant legislation.  But Switzerland opts out of the EEA, for reasons I honestly cannot be bothered to research.  Why, then, they have free passage through the same passport stream as EU and EEA citizens, I have no idea.

Of course, there are strong arguments both for and against membership of the European Union, and the Swiss are perfectly entitled to choose not to be members.  But by joining EU channels at immigration points, it’s clear that they are getting all of the benefits of EU membership without the burden or responsibility of membership.

Why should I be expected to share a passport queue with a bunch of folk who pay nothing to EU coffers, for whom Herman van Rompuy does not speak, and who face none of the joys of the Common Agricultural Policy and none of the ire of UKIP?  This is a major injustice I am sure you’ll agree, and when I return to the UK I shall be sure to tell the uniformed customs person to whom I show my passport that I resent sharing space with the freeloading Swiss.

Revenge is planned, though.  Apart from entry to a few interesting-sounding museums in Geneva, I plan on spending as little money there as possible.  Mind you, that frugality is not just to spite the Swiss for opting out of the EU while claiming its benefits: it’s also because their prices – already among the highest in Europe – are apparently rocketing as their currency strengthens against the euro.

So, the challenge is on to get as much out of Geneva as possible while spending as little as possible.  It’ll be my first time in Switzerland but third time in France.  I’ll report back on both countries – and the rusty state of my French – in due course.

Au revoir!

In Glasgow this past week, I had occasion to take the subway and was intrigued by a billboard advert for “Oban – seafood capital of Scotland”.  With bright colours, the backdrop to the advert was a picture of the harbour around Oban, the sky suspiciously blue and creating the impression that this was some Mediterranean paradise rather than the usually wet ferry port that it is.

Not that I dislike Oban.  It’s a very pretty place, with a dramatic hillside setting around the bay, an impressive folly at the top of the hill (left), a characterful town centre and lovely views out to the islands of the inner Hebrides.  It boasts two shinty clubs, two cathedrals, a distillery, direct rail access to Glasgow, and some quaint yet grand buildings on the harbour front.  It is significantly nicer than its drab neighbour and rival to the north, Fort William, and an excellent base for exploring Scotland’s west coast.  Not bad for a town of just a few thousand.

“Seafood capital of Scotland”, though?  That’s a new one on me, and – having sussed it out on the internet – it seems it’s an entirely self-appointed label given by companies in the town involved in the seafood industry.  Now I’m not an expert on the seafood industry, and indeed strongly dislike seafood (I never eat any food that goes “crunch-squelch”).  But the idea of having a “seafood capital of Scotland” is disingenuous in many ways.

First, it’s a title Oban invented and gave itself. Dreamt up by prestige-hungry local councillors and business leaders, and no doubt advised by fad-obsessed branding consultants, it is tourist marketing at its most vacuous.  Where was the competition, or the neutral organisers?  Those are details Oban didn’t care about – it just invented a the brand and declared itself the winner.

Second, it of course implies that Oban is the best place to get seafood.  That’s an entirely subjective statement, given the plethora of excellent seafood restaurants around Scotland, many of whom would take umbridge at Oban awarding itself this accolade.

Third, why can’t Oban just be good at something and be known for it without a title?  Why artificially claim a title that suggests the product can’t stand on its own reputation?  If Oban truly is an amazing place for seafood, then word will get out.  People will talk about it.  The title might even be created naturally by the chatter of tourist guides and restaurant critics.  If the world united to declare Oban the seafood capital of Scotland, fair enough – but remember this was Oban’s arrogant and ultimately counter-productive self-anointment.

Fourth, what about the other stuff it’s good at?  When you think about the key features of Oban – see my second paragraph – you think of plenty other things besides seafood.  So why focus on one strength and one potential market at the exclusion of all others?  I wonder how the rest of the local economy in Oban feels now that they’ve been sidelined in the town’s branding at the expense of one particular industry.

And then there’s the wider point: it’s not just Oban.

Sometimes, it feels like every town and city wants to be a capital.

Aberdeen: Oil Capital of Europe.  Inverness: Capital of the Highlands.  Fort William: Outdoor Capital of the UK.

And by far and away my favourite, Stoke-on-Trent: The World Capital of Ceramics.  Not England or the UK’s Ceramics Capital.  The World’s.  Quake at the mention of Stoke-on-Trent, puny humans, and thank your lucky stars that wars aren’t fought with pottery weapons.  Because if they were, then I for one would welcome our new clay-wielding Stoke-on-Trent overlords.

What’s wrong with being a known important centre of something?  Why can’t a town simply be famous for certain things, and attractive in the broadest sense to visit?  Why does it have to misuse the word “capital” and claim a title that never existed before and was awarded by no proper authority?  Frankly, unless you have a legislative, judicial or executive base, then you can’t claim to be a capital.  Any other claim to be a capital is spurious and most of these examples just take the biscuit.  And yes, there’s probably a Biscuit Capital of the UK.

In fact, if you’ll excuse the diversion, I’ve just typed “biscuit capital of” into Google, and I’ve discovered that there are a couple of claims to be Biscuit Capital of the World (including Natchez, Mississippi), one claim to be Biscuit Capital of India, and, most amusingly, a claim to be Biscuit Capital of the Australian state of Victoria (that’s the town of Donald, fact fans).  Is there really so little going on in these places culturally and economically that they need to scramble desperately for such pathetic titles?

And if this trend continues, will there be anywhere in the world that isn’t a capital?  Just imagine this dystopian, capital-obsessed future.  There could be marketing campaigns for Dores as “Capital of South Loch Ness”.  Or maybe Grangemouth: “Oil Refinery Capital of Scotland“. And how about Eoligarry: “Capital of North Barra“? There’ll be a mad scramble as every town, village or settlement rushes to declare itself capital of something, even if it has to be capital of itself.

I think we should do a deal with these places.  If a city or town wants to arbitrarily claim a “capital” title, then we, the unwashed masses, should be able to democratically vote for them to receive a less than desirable title that must receive equal prominence in the branding.  For Oban, accompanying their seafood claim could be the title of “Rain Capital of Scotland”.  Then we could have “Fort William: Scotland’s Capital of Utter Misery”.  And Stoke could be “Capital of Complete Non-Entities That Rely On Claims To World Pottery Titles For Anyone To Actually Notice Them”.

Now those sorts of titles would really make headlines.  And they do say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

This past weekend, we hit the west coast with a group of friends to go hillwalking.

We climbed a mountain at Torridon on Saturday (Mullach an Rathain, for those are interested).  It would have been two peaks but the weather was against us.

Then on Sunday Nicole and I drove around the spectacular Applecross peninsula taking in the famous Bealach na Bà.

It’s a beautiful part of the world, and rather marvellously it’s barely a couple of hours’ drive from home.  I took a few photos.

I’m not long back from my Inverness Book Festival appearance, which was really good fun, and wonderfully supported by the brilliant staff at Eden Court.

I was lucky enough to have a great audience who asked lots of interesting questions, and I hope my slideshow presentation tour of the mullet adventures (both those featured in Up The Creek Without a Mullet and those from later trips that I am nearly finished writing up) went down well.

However, many of the comments from Kit Fraser, who chaired the event and introduced me, and the questions from the audience, focussed on the fact that the adventures have often taken me to places where not a lot happens – quiet villages, remote and uninhabited backwaters and so on. This surprised me, but pleasantly so.

In amongst the admittedly oddball and madcap adventures of UTCWAM and the impending sequel, there lies, I hope, a quiet focus on the solitude, emptiness and downright unattractiveness of some of the non-entities that I visit. It got me thinking a lot about how some travel writing dwells on, even relishes, the idea of empty, uninteresting and rarely-visited destinations. This is something especially valuable in a world where all the most exciting and interesting places are so easy to get to and so regularly covered by travel writing and new or interesting angles on them are increasingly hard to find.

I made reference in one of my answers from the audience to Daniel Kalder, a Scottish travel writer who, I feel, magnificently captures how such empty and little-known places can be compelling precisely because of their emptiness and nothingness. His two books, Lost Cosmonaut and Strange Telescopes, are well worth a read if that side of travel appeals to you. I increasingly find that it does to me.