Today, dear diary, we went to Culross (pronounced Koor-iss) in the Kingdom
of Fife. 'We' being moi, das kinder, and the moody [censored] from hell, aka my
wife.
"What's so unusual 'bout that?", I hear you murmur, "You told us earlier you
were doing a 'tour of Scotland' this summer."
"Pardon? You mean about my wife being a moody [censored]?", I politely reply.
"No, duffus. About going to Culross"
"Oh."
Well, dear diary, I've lived within spitting distance of Culross for a
number of years, I've run many of the coastal paths around that area, and my
paternal grandparents were brought up (and, together with my father, reside
in the family lair) in Torryburn, just two and a half miles downriver, yet
I've *never* been there. Therefore - to correct this obvious imbalance in
the nature of things before the earth begins to tilt about its axis - off we
went to visit this charming village.
I'll spare you the lecture on Scottish history and confine myself to saying
that if you're ever touring Scotland then, after 'doing' Edinburgh Castle,
Culross is an absolute *must*. I was stunned, not only by the architecture
and the quality of resorative work put in by the National Trust for
Scotland, but by the sheer diversity of the area. A Palace, an Abbey,
gardens, town houses, merchant houses, 'ordinary' houses, a local hero, etc,
etc. The place is a living treasure and well worth a full day of anyone's
time. Culross gets a five-running-shoe rating from Roger.
As Torryburn will be the place where I finally hang up my running shoes
(I've a place waiting for me in the family lair and a blank bit on the
headstone where my name and date of birth/death will be engraved) I amuse
myself once or twice a year by running a route around the village and
thumbing my nose at what will be my long term residence as I run past the
cemetry. Some may call this tempting fate. I'm convinced that God has a
sense of humour and appreciates the joke. After all, he wins in the end.
For those who have access to a large scale map of the area, my route begins
at the grassy bit of land in Torryburn known as the 'Ness' (god knows why),
goes along the costal path to Crombie Point, then it's a stiff mile climb
inland to the main road, turn left to the roundabout, at the roundabout take
the first left which puts you on the quiet road back down into into
Torryburn. My future resting place is the cemetry on the hill sloping down
to the stream on your left. If you jump up as you pass the wall you can
pull a face at my dad and grandpa. Wait a few years and you can do it to
me too :-) It's a three mile route that will, on the third climb out of
Crombie Point, have you thinking that you might be meeting your maker rather
sooner that you'd imagined.
More family history. My grandfather lived - and my dad was born - in one
of the tiny cottages overlooking the Ness. As a four-year old, Dad was
standing on the sea wall by the Ness one day, peeing into the Forth (as one
does...) when he toppled over and fell in. He couldn't swim, and his life
was saved by a passing miner's wife who jumped in, fully clothed, and hauled
the young idiot to safety. I don't think he ever urinated from a wall
again. Grandfather and family left the village shortly afterwards to make
the family fortune in Rhodesia, but they're all back there now, as are two
of his three sons. Kinda stange how life goes in circles.
Why will I be buried there? I dunno, really. Just seems the way things
should end. I like the idea of being buried alongside a running route I
loved, plus I like the idea of a family that scattered to the four winds
returning to a place they all knew and, for different reasons, loved.
Symmetry. Yup, that's it. Symmetry.