Watching my collection of DVDs

The TV I inherited from Mum and Dad in 2009 - an early panel affair on its own stand, which needed a base unit on which to perch, with VHS and DVD players underneath - is now in my garage awaiting a trip to the tip. As are the base and those players. The entire kit - long outmoded - made way for a far more useful pine table and six chairs last year.

But suddenly I had nothing to play my collection of DVDs on, a mixture of box sets and single discs, many of them classic films or TV series that will go on standing the test of time, and remain watchable, for years ahead. Stuff that, at intervals, I will play on a free night when I don't need (or want) to edit photos, write a blog post or read a book. 

My DVD collection isn't all that big, but I missed watching them on the TV screen almost at once. Whereas - with only one or two winter-season exceptions - I haven't missed the programmes on the various TV channels at all. 

As an alternative, I couldn't simply slide out a DVD tray on my laptop, and insert a disc. Such things went out years ago, so that laptops could be thinner. My Microsoft Surface Book - bought as long ago as 2016 - had no DVD disc tray. And naturally my Asus ProArt P16 laptop - bought late last year - has no tray either. But I knew there was a solution: buy an external disc drive. 

When I looked into it, I was surprised how inexpensive external DVD drives were. I had noticed only Blu-Ray drives in the past, which play both Blu-Ray and DVD discs, and cost around £100, depending on brand and the features. But now I realised that a reasonable DVD-only drive cost much less. So that's what I went for early last month, ordering one from Argos, to pick up at the not-far-away Sainsbury's Local the following afternoon. The price was only £37. It was an Asus ZenDrive U9M. So it ought to be especially compatible with my current laptop.

It came with USB-A and -C cables - I chose the USB-C cable - and all I had to do was plug it into the laptop, after installing a third-party DVD player. Gemini recommended VLC Media Player, which was free, so that's what I downloaded and installed. It wasn't a stylish-looking player, but it did its job well, and I soon had one of my DVD films ready to go, as a test. 

It ran faultlessly with no glitches whatever. The picture was crisp and beautiful on the 3K sixteen-inch laptop screen, and the sound quality was good. Definitely a better experience than I used to have on the 2008-vintage TV panel! I thoroughly enjoyed seeing Bruce Lee doing his stuff: Enter the Dragon must be one of the very best martial arts films ever made. I'm now working through my box set of Jason Bourne films. 

After Bourne, maybe the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Then something lighter. Classic fare, all of it. The Asus DVD player is light, and almost the size and shape of the average DVD disc box, and can be 'filed away' neatly on the same shelving. I can see it will be easy to live with, and of course it's portable. I can use it in any room of my house, and take it on my caravan holidays too (and have done so, already, although I had no time to play anything).

One extra viewing refinement at home would be a dedicated flat surface at the right height, to place the laptop and DVD player on when watching. Some kind of folding table, I'd say. At the moment I'm improvising. But I'll look for the right thing in a shop. Maybe I have it already: the small folding table in the caravan.  

I wondered whether I was chasing an old-fashioned and almost-dead way of watching films I liked. So I asked Gemini about the future of DVDs. It confirmed that they are certainly obsolete, but not at all dead. Apparently there is niche (and growing) army of enthusiasts for 'analogue' ways of viewing films, and a thriving second-hand market. And new DVDs are still available, at least for now. So anything I can't find new on Amazon or in HMV should be obtainable in good used condition - and inexpensively. Well, then: I'll expand my collection!

The advantage of owning a physical disc, as against streaming, is that once paid for there is no further expense. No subscription to keep going. No issues with the film becoming unavailable to stream. No advertisements. And there is always the option of copying the film into one's own mobile storage, as you would do if ever DVD drives were no longer sold. 

I'm not a retro fan for the sake of it, only if there is some advantage in cost or convenience, or something special in the usage experience. It seems to me that for the time being DVDs still make sense.

Where 007 is really buried

It's 2nd April this year, and I'm on the north Cornwall coast at Boscastle. I'm in the churchyard. And a gravestone catches my eye: James Bond. 

So this is where the famous secret agent, aka 007, the man licenced to kill, has ended up! 

Not really, of course. It's another chap named James Bond, a local man I'm guessing, and the gravestone says he was a devoted husband and father, not a spy. Born in 1915, died in 1981. 

The James Bond of the books by author Ian Fleming was, in World War II, a very young commander in the Royal Navy (which is why he is sometimes referred to as 'Commander Bond' in both the books and the early films starring Sean Connery). I have a book published in 1964 by O F Snelling called 007 James Bond - a Report, a very good read if you can find a copy, in which the writer analyses the appeal of the man by looking at his predecessors, his image, his women, his adversaries, and his future (Mr Snelling couldn't of course possibly have guessed what was in store, and would - like Ian Fleming - be utterly astonished how 'James Bond' has become a worldwide myth, the universal symbol of the sophisticated man of action, even today). 

Mr Snelling made a very close study of what Ian Fleming wrote, and deduced that in 1945, when the War ended, the James Bond of the books must have been in his mid twenties, which put him in his early thirties for the first book, Casino Royale, published in 1953. (Which makes the James Bond of Boscastle too old to fit the fictional Bond's shoes, as he would have been forty-two in 1953)

Snelling himself was an interesting man. You can look him up in Wikipedia, and discover that he actually had connections with the spying world. He also knew Ian Fleming. 

My Dad was an avid reader of the Bond books from 1962, when Dr No, the first Bond film appeared and the whole country suddenly took an interest. I too quickly became enthralled by them, as they offered a glimpse of a glamorous world hitherto unknown to me, including exotic ladies like Pussy Galore in Goldfinger. It's no great exaggeration to say that I went from Beatrix Potter to Ian Fleming in almost one leap. In between were insipid school stories that bored me. I remember receiving a school prize around 1960, a book for young girls called The Mad Martins, unbelievably juvenile and dull. It was so bad I thought they must have handed me the wrong prize by mistake. But Bond was not juvenile, nor dull. Bond was grown up, a state I yearned for with all my heart in 1962, when unfortunately I was only ten. I had a long wait ahead. I speak from my personal experience and nothing more, but childhood for me was a long and mostly boring wait until I could escape into the adult world. It was something to endure, like time in prison, with not a lot to cherish.

Do I regret having an unsuccessful childhood? Yes, of course. It was a pity I couldn't get more out of it. But I didn't know how. I can say with conviction that I've never regretted stepping into the wider world and discovering so many things that were hidden from children of my generation. 

I do wish the Internet was around when I was young. It's core value as a giant ocean of knowledge that one can dive into is still there, with rapid, focused access now greatly improved by AI. But there is still the question of whether unrestricted access to the Internet is detrimental to a child's mind. Would I have been misled or corrupted or brainwashed?

Well, I can only say that I would have avoided so many worries and misunderstandings if I could have found proper answers online. So many subjects were taboo when I was young. I remained in ignorance. But given the Internet I would have discreetly looked up all the many things that puzzled me, and the knowledge and know-how gained would have quelled unnecessary fears and anxieties and boosted my self-confidence. I would surely have aimed much higher than I did. I would have been stronger, more assertive, and not so compliant with the expectations of my parents, nor so easily persuaded into decisions that weren't right for me. 

Could I have become a social media victim? I don't think so. I have always been stubborn in the face of peer pressure, and have never been a slave to trends or fashions. I follow my instincts: as soon as I feel I am being got at or coerced, my defences are up. And being a naturally solitary person, neither needy nor too trusting, and inclined to be suspicious, I surely wouldn't have become a social media addict. As now, I'd be careful to stay under the radar of influencers and scammers. I'd only want facts, not opinions or dubious statistics. Nor enticements to believe in some attractive but empty philosophy. 

Anything that seems odd, ridiculous or involves an unusual personal act at another's request, and I'm out. I'm sure that even when young this is how I would have been. 

Of course, there was no Internet in 1960, nor for the best part of forty years to come. I had to rely on what I was told. That didn't turn out happily. 

So I believe you can't have enough knowledge. Ignorance is not bliss. It's a trap.

The Altnabreac adventure

It's mid-May last year, and I'm in the far north of Scotland, contemplating what might be an epic drive to surely the UK's loneliest railway station: Altnabreac.

Altnabreac is on the Far North Line, which starts at Inverness station and winds its way further north to Thurso and Wick. The journey to the Wick terminus takes a long time. The line detours inland more than once, partly to avoid heavy engineering works when first built, but partly because the local landowner at the time (the Duke of Sutherland) wanted to make it easy for his sporting friends to reach the isolated shooting and fishing lodges inland. Pulled out into a straight line, the line that the trains trundle along is perhaps half as far again as the straight-line distance between Inverness and Wick. No wonder it takes a long time to travel its full length, although I am certain that many thousands of adventurous tourists do make the trip each year, just for the hell of it. The line takes them through some wonderful scenery, and I dare say many a new friendship is made on the way. It's one of the country's best train journeys. In 2022 I myself rode a short section of it, from Georgemas Junction to Thurso and back again. The tale is told in my post of 17th November 2022, Riding the furthest north train from Georgemas Junction. 

I have however, over the years, personally visited every Far North Line station but one. I've driven to these generally rather remote spots, again for the hell of it you could say - certainly for the photographs! Surprisingly enough, I've encountered a northbound or southbound train fairly often, which is odd (or lucky) considering that Far North Line stations get only four trains a day. 

The northbound train visits an evocative succession of stations:

INVERNESS

Beauly

Muir of Ord

Conon Bridge

Dingwall (where the long branch line to Kyle of Lochalsh heads off westwards) 

Alness

Invergordon

Fearn

Tain

Ardgay

Culrain

Invershin

Lairg

Rogart

Golspie

Dunrobin Castle

Brora

Helmsdale

Kildonan

Kinbrace

Forsinard

Altnabreac (the main subject of this post)

Scotscalder

Halkirk (long closed)

Georgemas Junction (where the short branch to Thurso heads off northwards)

Watten (long closed)

WICK

There were once more stations, such as The Mound Junction (for the long-gone Dornoch branch line), and wayside halts at Borrobol and elsewhere, and I've checked some of those out too. 

The Far North Line has a romantic appeal, and visiting any part of it is to experience a kind of adventure. Away from the towns, the gleaming rails get lost in the vast majesty of the mountains and peaty moorland.  It remains a strategic railway line that Scotrail strives to keep open in all weathers, and in winter that is quite a challenge. It's a vital travel link for people in the far north of Scotland, and the need to maintain that connection guarantees its survival. Actual passenger numbers are modest. These are the latest figures (for the year 2024/25, per Wikipedia) for the 'principal' stations on the route:

Dingwall 62,120

Invergordon 23, 476

Tain 23,284

Lairg 3,978

Golspie 5,352

Helmsdale 4,242

Thurso 36,980

Wick 16,046

I should think there is some commuting business into Inverness from Tain, Invergordon and (especially) Dingwall. Further north, it's mostly student movements and tourists. Some stations regularly appear on the 'least used in the UK' list - Scotscalder, Kildonan and Invershin for instance. These three do at least have a proper road going past them, or leading to them, so that you can drive there and collect people off the train. 

Altnabreac - with nil usage in 2024/25 - is rather a special case, as there is only a gravel track for access, and from November 2023 to April 2025 access to the platform was denied by a local resident in dispute with Scotrail, so not even intrepid cyclists on mountain bikes could reach it. But it reopened in time for my attempt to get there in May last year. 

I badly wanted to reach Altnabreac station, if it were at all possible. Like bagging a Monro, you could say. But how to get there? Could I really drive? I didn't want to wreck my car doing so. Well, in the area were a scattering of isolated lodges and farmsteads: the residents must use those gravel tracks. Did it require a tough truck or a Range Rover or a Land Cruiser, and extra-stout tyres? Would Sophie, my trusty Volvo XC60, with her Michelin Cross-Climate tyres be suitable? Well, surely those tracks had to be good enough for ordinary Post Office vans or DPD trucks delivering parcels. If so, they should be fine for Sophie.

Note that I wasn't even considering hiring a bike, and doing it that way. I wouldn't dare. I didn't own one when young. I learned to ride a bike only when thirty. So I did not have that fluid skill that kids have. For me it was a very deliberate business, and I never really acquired the knack. My balance was poor, I wobbled, and I could tip over when waiting at traffic lights. Occasionally I fell off, which wasn't too serious on Wimbledon Common, but potentially suicidal in ordinary London traffic. It was always scary, never fun. After a few months I gave up without regret, and haven't perched on a bike saddle since. It's a normal thing for mountain bikers to ride into the Flow Country to reach Altnabreac, explore the forest tracks in the vicinity, then ride out again. But that's not something I would ever do, especially not on my own. It would surely end badly. I'd definitely risk serious injury, far from assistance.

I could of course go to Altnabreac station by train. Four trains daily in each direction. It wouldn't be at all difficult to catch one from, say, Georgemas Junction and step off at Altnabreac. Scotrail had in fact lately installed new electronic equipment at its remotest Far North Line stations, so that any passengers turning up at a station could let the driver of the next train due know, and ensure that the train stopped for them. And once on the train, a word with the guard would ensure that one was dropped off at the desired station. So a Georgemas Junction to Altnabreac journey, and a later return, was actually simple to arrange.

Some years previously, in 2019, I'd watched a series of TV programmes (Paul Murton's Grand Tours of Scottish Lochs) in which the man visited some of the mysterious and hidden-away lochs of Scotland. In one programme he had wanted to see Loch Dubh just south of Altnabreac, and so took the train there, intending to walk past the loch and then head south-east on a long tramp over the peat bog. I took these screen shots from the BBC iPlayer of him arriving at Altnabreac station:

That's him discussing the history of the station. Nobody knows exactly why it was built. It was built before the forestry got going, and before there was any real community there. The water tower gives a clue, and the fact that originally there was a passing loop here, so that northbound and southbound trains could each stop alongside each other - two platforms in use then - before proceeding into the next single-line section. In steam days, thirsty engines might use the stop to take on some water. So Altnabreac station might well have been built simply as a crossing point, or as a place where trains from the south could replenish their water tanks, with no expectation of custom from local passengers wanting to travel.

The 'Way Out' sign in that 2019 shot points to a gate that became very contentious when the owners of the adjacent farmhouse became embroiled with Scotrail in a heated argument over access to the platform. For a while it was impossible to use the station, and it deteriorated. Access has been restored, and new electronic equipment installed for the use of passengers (mountain bikers mainly), but local discontent rumbles on. I wondered what would happen if I did reach the station in Sophie. Would I be facing a man with a shotgun, or a pack of bloodthirsty hounds?

Paul Murton had walked out of the station and then southwards to Loch Dubh, which seemed a dismal place (the name means 'black loch' in Gaelic). It was overlooked by a country house with turrets called Lochdhu Lodge. 

The Lodge was closed up and secretive when he passed by, but apparently it used to come alive, with reports of ladies in cocktail dresses being seen within. It was a fishing and shooting hotel for many years up to 1975, and perhaps attracted a sophisticated clientele. My own experience of fishing hotels around the country - for lunches only! - is that they tend to be classy places, where a touch of evening formality might be expected. More recently the Lodge has been owned by a chap called Kevin Booth, who attracted the attention of the Scottish legal authorities for creating a dungeon in the Lodge in which he reportedly subjected young women (mainly from abroad) to sadistic torture sessions. The authorities did not charge him with any criminal offence, but have placed an order on him, intended to stop any further abusive behaviour. The whole story was big news in Scotland early in 2025.

It's easy to see how a man could do what he liked with pretty girls procured from the Far East in such a remote place. There would be no easy way to escape, once taken to the Lodge. And I'd be driving past. If I got that far. That track looked reasonable though. 

Or should I just take a quick look on foot, after alighting at the station? No: two snags with train travel made me prefer an attempt to drive there. 

First, doing it by train was much too easy. It wouldn't be nearly so much of an adventure as driving there would be. I wanted to feel that I had taken on a challenge, had driven to a destination well off the beaten track, a demanding drive; and had come back to tell the tale. A leisurely train ride there and back wouldn't be half as exciting as using the car. It would seem tame; a cop-out.

Second, with a large gap between trains, I'd probably be kicking my heels at or near Altnabreac station for ages. And I already knew, more or less, what I'd see at the station. Apart from those Paul Murton shots, there were these pictures on Google Maps, showing the station in 2017, 2018 and 2019:

And one from 2024, when the station had reopened but was still in a run-down state:

Really there was only the station, the forest track, the pine trees, and some isolated houses to see, plus Lochdhu Lodge if I wanted to trek there (risking incarceration and torture if I did). 

Besides, was it wise for a woman in her early seventies to walk those lonely tracks alone, even in daytime? Might I be stalked by mad axemen, accosted by sex-crazed mountain bikers, or pursued relentlessly by slavering, baying hunting dogs who hadn't had a square meal for days? 

I'd be quite safe inside a car. So that's how I set about this challenge.

Here are some maps. Click on them to see the detail.

The best approach seemed to be this. I'd turn off the B870 at Westerdale, and follow the good tarred road past Strathmore Lodge to Loch More, then take the gravel road south-westwards to Dalnawillan Lodge, then north to the forested areas and eventually Altnabreac. If it was a serviceable farm or forestry track beyond Loch More, and therefore not too unkind to Sophie's tyres, a steady drive should get me there. The weather was fine. Coming back - after a good look at Altnabreac, and plenty of souvenir pictures taken - was a simple reversal of the route taken to get me there. 

I've used the word 'challenge' but I was prepared to abandon the full trip if the track looked too rough. There was no point risking damaged tyres or a broken suspension component. But it was worth an effort, if the thing was at all doable. 

Westerdale is well off the ordinary tourist track, but is one of the most attractive spots in Caithness. The River Thurso tumbles over rocks with farm buildings on a bluff in the background. You take in a scene like this from the road bridge:

Then you branch off along that tarred road, the empty vastness of the Flow Country ahead and all around. 

I can imagine some people deciding not to go further: peat bog everywhere, desolate even in the sunshine. And yet the Visitor Centre at Forsinard (the next station south of Altnabreac) has pictures of the Flow Country that reveal it as a place of beauty.

I thought that winter photograph was extraordinary. 

On I went, following the River Thurso. Strathmore Lodge came into view. It was a farmstead with a ancient-looking tower (though doubtless Victorian). I wondered why the place was there at all. It may once  have been a base for the shooting and fishing crowd, but what did its residents do for a living now, in 2025?

On and on. Nearing Loch More, I stopped to look at this lichen-encrusted signpost.

It wasn't obvious what the wooden fingers on this post might have been pointing to. There was nothing around but the road I was on. Perhaps things were different when the signpost was first erected.

Loch More came into view, with a car already parked there. It was an attractive place, with a long sandy shore to wander on. There was a dam, what I took to be a salmon ladder, and a cottage. 

The cottage was closed up, but in good repair, and peering in through a window I saw a room that suggested this was a base for field studies. Where then were the students? Had they all ventured into the bog and been sucked into it, their screams unheard? Or was this the Flow Country equivalent of the Marie Celeste?

The substantial stone bridge in the background of these shots above didn't carry the 'main' road onwards. It simply led off into the wilderness, with a gate to get through first. Possibly to a lonely farm.

To reach the track I needed, I had to go back a bit, pass a car park (and there were several cars there, surprisingly), then strike out on the forest road towards Dalnawillan Lodge. And this is where I aborted my mission. The track itself looked all right. I was perturbed by the warning signs.

Hmm. 'Private Road - Authorised Vehicles Only'. Well, what about the Scottish right to roam? Or did that apply only to cyclists and walkers? I was willing to test that. And a Scottish Woodlands sign: 'No Unauthorised Vehicles'. What weight did that have? Who would have the authority to challenge me? Who would be around to stop me? At worst, I'd just have to reverse and come back. But I took that sign a bit more seriously. 

The sign that really worried me however was the yellow 'Timber Haulage Ahead' sign. Now I do know something about timber haulage in Caithness. You can hardly take any inland road without encountering a big lorry with twenty tons of timber on it. These vehicles thunder along the single-track roads (even the A roads are usually single track) and you have to find a passing place and give way to them, for they absolutely will not stop and do not expect to.

Here's one roaring along with a full load in 2022, on the A897 south of Kinbrace, taken from my car. I'd seen it coming from half a mile away, and had ample time to pull into a passing place, and indeed get ready for that shot. It was steaming along. It must have been doing fifty miles per hour. You wonder how it could have stopped in an emergency. 

Fortunately you can usually see them from some way off, and passing places are frequent. But if you are caught between two passing places, you'll have to get out of the way in a hurry, and hope that there is firm ground for you to turn off onto. The track I was on was had drainage ditches on each side, because there was peat bog all around. So turning off meant getting badly stuck, despite having all-wheel drive. The ditches stopped me turning round too. I had to drive on, hoping that no huge forestry lorry lumbered into view until I found a place to turn. I was so relieved when I arrived at one:

As it happened, on the way back to Strathmore Lodge I found myself halted for a while by a big lorry hauling a digger. It took up all the road width, with overhang. Fortunately the passing place was large enough for two cars! It just about squeezed by.

A little further down the road you could see what had been dug: a lot of sliced-up peat.

I poked my finger into it. The wet peat was pretty soft. I tried not to think of my car sinking slowly into that, had a log haulage lorry suddenly forced me off the road.  

So that was that. Mission not accomplished. However, I had certainly penetrated the Flow Country, which was something. 

Altnabreac station will have to remain unvisited, unless I take the train. Which I might, if I build in an extra day on next year's Scottish holiday.

Deer, close up and personal

I'm not a great one for wildlife. Yes, creatures of all sorts can be fascinating and wonderful to see, and some are beautiful, but they are not my life's obsession. I simply respect them, and would do nothing to directly harm them. Even so, this detachment rather falls by the wayside when a chance arises to meet an animal close up. Then you apprehend something more. 

But I rarely place myself in a position to experience such an encounter, even for a series of photos. Truth to tell, I'm wary of animals and their potential to injure me. Even the cutest-looking can bite. Mind you, I don't blame any animal for being alarmed or fearful if a human comes near. We are a threat. From their point of view, we are intruders, disturbers, controllers and oppressors, likely to inflict pain, loss and death. No wonder they might gear up to defend themselves if flight is impossible. 

Even the most familiar of them - farm animals like sheep, pigs and cows - are very un-human and alien. They have heads, bodies and legs, but not like ours. They peer at us with eyes that are not the same. And who knows what they are thinking, if they think. They are other life-forms. I don't consider them lesser life-forms, just different: easily tricked and herded and slaughtered, but possibly dangerous if maddened by pain or terror. No grown beast with teeth, horns or hooves, or great weight, is a creature one should take for granted. They might eagerly accept the food we offer, but it is the acceptance of the prisoner who is penned in and and has no other option.

And yet there is magic in a personal encounter. I had such a moment in April, when in Cornwall. It was at Prideaux Place, the manor house on the hill above Padstow. 

I'd explored the town yet again after a good lunch. I do this most years. This time I walked further than usual, and approached Prideaux Place, which had a deer park opposite. 

I began chatting with a local woman who was there to see the deer being fed by the present landowner. It generally happened around two o'clock in the afternoon. That time was very soon, so I decided to hang around with her, to see what happened. 

There were a lot of deer out in the park, and (as if they had glanced at their watches) several of the young males began to move towards the section of fence from which they were fed.  

On the dot, the landowner emerged from a gateway on a small tractor, hauling a trailer, and drew that to the fence. On the trailer were root vegetables, some sliced up in readiness. 

Quite a feast (if you were a deer)! A nice change from grass.

Curiously, it was still only the males that had come to get their treat. The rest of the herd were hanging back: presumably there was a strict order of precedence.

The lady I had been talking with knew the landowner and stayed close by as he began to feed the deer. I soon joined them.

The deer were clearly comfortable in the landowner's company. But (he explained) they were not pets. They were still wild animals, and it had taken a long while to build their trust up. He began to give them slices of whatever it was - turnip? - and demonstrated how to offer the morsel. 

The woman had a go. Then I did, rather gingerly, but the deer took the slice from my fingers with the utmost gentleness. That's my hand in the picture. Interestingly, I saw that the deer had eyes like a goat's. I wondered why.

Now the landowner put a slice between his own teeth and got one of the deer to take from him. It was a rather intimate scene, curiously touching. The deer didn't seem to mind getting so close, and wanted more.

I felt lucky to have been there at the right time. It was so intriguing. And I wondered whether deer are colour-blind, because while they trusted the landowner in his green country attire, I was a vision of scarlet, quite different, and possibly signalling danger. Maybe deer like red even more than green?

Feeding the deer had been one of the highlights of my day though!