Bamse and Wojtek

Bamse and Wojtek. They are the names of animals who went to war, but they are not British names. How come I am writing about them? Well, I encountered both creatures, so to speak, in my Scottish travels.

Bamse first. Apparently pronounced BUMP-SA. Wandering around Montrose on 4th September last - the largest coastal town between Dundee and Aberdeen, with a rather elegant town centre, I came across this statue on the waterfront. From a distance it looked like a seal on a rock. Closer, I could see it was a very large dog, wearing a metal hat, with a Norwegian flag and a wreath at his feet. 

Click on these pictures to see the detail clearly. There was also a board which told his story.

He was a huge St Bernard dog who belonged to the captain of a second World War minesweeper based at Montrose, part of the Royal Norwegian Navy of the time, and who, as part of the crew, performed many acts of loyalty, in various ways defending and rescuing crew members at sea and ashore. He became famous, and was adopted as a mascot for the Norwegian Navy and other Norwegian forces. After his death at Montrose - his heart gave out - Bamse was awarded the highest animal decoration both in Norway and Britain for his devoted service. 

'Bamse' is Norwegian for 'teddy bear', suggesting that he was a gentle giant, a comforter as much as a fighter, although he could use his great size and strength to firmly subdue quarrelling sailors, and in that way stop disputes getting out of hand. He is officially honoured every ten years by Norway, but I rather think the wreath shows that the locals at Montrose are fond of his memory too. 

All this said, one does expect an intelligent dog to do intelligent things, and I don't think Bamse - although extraordinary - did anything that you'd never expect a dog to do, or well beyond the ordinary powers of a dog. But he was certainly very special.

Wojtek, a brown bear, was another remarkable animal. I came across him at Duns, a town in the Borders, in 2021.

Yes - that's a big live artillery shell that he's carrying in his paws!

Between them, the plaques tell the story of Wojtek (pronounced something like VOY-TEK) the Soldier Bear. He was adopted as a cub by the Polish Army, maturing to an adult bear with Polish soldiers in the Middle East, and then later in 1944 helping them in the Italian campaign by carrying shells to the guns. Billeted with his fellow-soldiers, he clearly become somewhat humanised, and could perhaps understand simple commands, helped out with gestures, such as 'Wojtek! Pick this up and take it to Gun Battery C.' And 'Thank you, Wojtek! Put it down over there with the others.' Apparently in real life he carried boxes of shells, not individual pieces of ammunition. And he was actually mimicking what the other soldiers were doing. Still, he was totally reliable about toting ammunition safely from A to B without dropping it, and without kicking up a fuss about parting with it. (Though perhaps he was given a treat of some kind in exchange) 

Did he really understand what ammunition was, and what might happen if he handled it too casually? Who can say. So far as I know, bears are not numbskulls, and do have a sense of self-preservation. He was, no doubt, a freakishly clever bear. 

He stayed with the Polish Army until 1947, and then spent his final sixteen years at Edinburgh Zoo, perhaps wondering why he wasn't allowed to carry shells around any more. The statue was erected in 2016.

Two very unusual animals then, both of whom served in the War and are remembered with respect and affection. The thing is, I simply stumbled upon their statues, not knowing they were there. How lucky is that?

If you'd like to read more about these creatures, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bamse_(dog)

http://www.bamsemontrose.co.uk/

https://visitangus.com/bamse/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wojtek_(bear)

https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/wojtek-the-bear-in-the-scottish-borders

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-south-scotland-36129876

Alladale

Have you ever gone somewhere and felt you were there on false pretences? Even though you'd done nothing wrong, and had not trespassed, nor usurped the bounds of someone's hospitality in any way? 

I did, at the start of my recent Scottish holiday. I still feel a little embarrassed about it, although really I have no reason to. I'd better get it off my chest.

Last year, on 18th December 2021, I wrote a post entitled Alluring but unaffordable offers from Leica. It was about the various courses then being offered in this country by the Leica Akademie, that arm of Leica that aims to develop the skills of serious photographers. The company, as every photographer knows, regards itself as not only the maker of the finest cameras, but a leader in photographic excellence, including the artistic side of photography as well as reportage. I have no doubt that to attend one of these courses would be a very special and inspiring experience. 

As you'd expect, none of these courses are cheap. Only those with plenty of spare cash can consider them. And not just anybody. One must already have some credibility as a committed (or at least aspiring) photographer. And although it's not an explicit requirement, I can't imagine attending one of these courses without at least one personally-owned Leica camera, film or digital - plus lenses - to show to the other attendees. So the real attendance fee might run to many thousands of pounds in personally-owned equipment. Turning up with only a mobile phone, or some other make of camera, would cut no ice whatever. I am sure nobody would be condescending about it. But if you wanted to rub shoulders with Leica enthusiasts, then common sense suggests you'd need to have the right goods in your hands, as well as the right kind of knowledge and experience in your head.  

With this in mind, I'd looked wistfully at a week-long residential course in the Scottish Highlands, at a remote former hunting lodge. It was at Alladale Lodge, the HQ of the Alladale Estate, nowadays known as the Alladale Wilderness Reserve. This has been the long-term project of Paul Lister, a man committed to restoring his large estate to the wilderness it used to be, carefully managing plants and wildlife to achieve his aim, with the re-introduction of wolves as an ultimate ambition. Meanwhile self-sufficiency and sustainability are equally important ecological objectives.

Here are some location maps. As with all these, click on them to enlarge.

The website was most alluring. Here are some screenshots from my December 2021 post, which included extracts from the website.

Look at that scenery! I felt strongly drawn to it. And it seemed a stay at Alladale Lodge would be very comfortable, with excellent food. There was a resident chef, Natasha Buttigieg.

The course cost £2,995, but that was only the minimum charge. Adding on a single-occupancy room supplement and travel costs meant that, all told, the total outlay wouldn't be far short of £4,000. For a week. I had to let it pass.

But as you can see, I consoled myself with the idea that I could quietly visit Alladale while on my Scottish caravan holiday in September this year, possibly while the course was in progress. I couldn't barge into the Lodge and say hello, but I might encounter the course attendees out on an estate track and swap at least a few words with them. They'd easily recognise the red dot on my own Leica, and surely be intrigued enough to talk. 

Such fantasies faded as 2022 went by, but when installed at Brora, not very far away from Alladale, the notion of visiting the estate revived. Just to see. So on the 11th September, my last day at Brora before shifting even further north, I parked Fiona at the public car park near the entrance to the Alladale Wilderness Reserve.

Hmm. It looked strictly private. Should I venture further? There was a nearby waterfall called Eas Charron - marked on the map as a tourist attraction - that apparently could be reached only from that track ahead. It must be all right to walk into the estate, even if Fiona clearly had to stay behind in the car park. So I started to put my Alt-Berg boots on. Just then a couple came into sight along that track, returning to the car park. We spoke. They reassured me that the Scottish 'right to roam' law allowed me to go to any part of the estate I wished. What? Even to the Lodge? Yes, although I might struggle on the steep driveway up to the Lodge - I'd touched on my still-dodgy right knee - but if I made it up there I'd find the staff very friendly. 

That seemed like an encouragement to aim for the Lodge after all, even though surely I could hardly wander around its private grounds, nor freely enter the building. I had heard of the Land Reform (Scotland) Act 2003, which was popularly known as the 'right to roam act', but there was no such thing in England, and I wasn't keen to do anything that, in England, would amount to trespassing. I didn't want to court a stern rebuke from some estate employee. But the couple were positive that no such thing would happen. 

So it might be all right. I decided to step forth and see how things went.

First, where was that waterfall? Ah! There was a sign. So casual outsiders were allowed to go at least this far onto estate land. It was worth a detour.

The path started well, but soon got half-buried in heather and gorse. I used my stick to make my way slowly through, with the sound of the water as a directional guide. Near to the falls - in fact I could glimpse water - I came up against a high fence at the edge of the estate. Obviously, if you aim to control the mix of (say) deer inside your estate, you need fences. At the same time, you have to observe that 'right to roam'. So people must be able to get through or over the fence. There was a ladder.

My heart sank. At the best of times, I hate being off the ground, and tackling a high ladder with clumpy boots on didn't seem sensible. There was only a narrow platform at the top. I really couldn't see myself teetering there while I turned around for the descent on the other side. One false move, and I'd fall. A seventy year old doesn't take unnecessary risks. I backed off. It was galling because I could hear the roar from a waterfall clearly worth seeing. Damn.

Back to the track then. But I soon realised that it passed the Alladale River closely at several points, and that there were rocks and white water to see quite easily. I cheered up. 

Now two pointed pillars came into view, clearly marking the boundary between the distant estate and those parts closer to the Lodge. 

In England I would certainly turn back at this point, as I hate to trespass. Even with the 'right to roam' in mind, I felt I must be putting myself in the wrong by proceeding. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound... 

At least I looked like a proper walker, equipped to wander along estate tracks, albeit in fine-weather garb. I had a stick, and was wearing serious walking boots. 

But no backpack - I'd left that behind in the car, along with my water bottle. I hadn't thought I would be walking quite so far into the estate. It was in fact quite warm, and I was starting to feel thirsty. I missed that bottle!

The track wound on, then emerged into a glade. On the left, over a bridge, were newish-looking glasshouses, but the entrance gate was closed with a combination lock, and nobody was around to let me in. 

That was a pity. I was getting very thirsty, and had hoped to find a drinking-water tap. Ahead, a roofed display board that gave information about the estate for the benefit of roamers.

To the right a track coming downhill, presumably for deliveries. In the distance, maybe half a mile ahead and at some height, the roof of the Lodge. I now had the definite notion of walking up to the Lodge and asking for a drink of water. Surely that wasn't an unreasonable request. And that couple had said the staff were friendly...

The kitchen might be in that newer block at the back of the house. I went there, leaving my boots and stick next to the side door, and stepped inside in just my socks.

I made no noise in my socks, and felt like a sneak thief! Did normal people do this? I heard voices, found the kitchen door and knocked. A woman opened it. She'd been talking with Natasha the chef, who was preparing a meal. I explained who I was and what I needed. They were all smiles, and I soon had a big glass of water to gratefully glug down. 

But that wasn't the end of it. Thirst quenched, and in conversational mode, I'd related how I might have been a guest here, attending the Leica course (which was starting that day). LXV around my neck was ample proof that this could be true. 'Wait here,' said the woman. I wondered what she was about, but I hung around in the passageway, peeping into the billiard room (it had been a hunting lodge for gentlemen, remember) and having a quick look at the hall.

It still had a solidly Victorian atmosphere. A haven of quiet and calm. It was hard to believe that outside was a wilderness, harsh in bad weather. The woman reappeared and ushered me into a comfortable lounge. Three men were there. I was introduced.

Two of them were guests on the Leica course. The third was the well-known travel, wildlife and fine art photographer, Max Milligan, who was one of the course leaders. Several of his travel books were on the table. The man centre right was called Tim, and he had flown in from Gibraltar, where he lived. Apparently his flight cost only 39 Euros, but the Leica camera in front of him on the table cost considerably more. Gibraltar is of course a tax haven. Was he incredibly rich? I felt very flimsy, having nothing to declare by way of credentials except LXV, which Max examined. I was glad that my Leica X Vario was genuinely Wetzlar-made, and an uncommon curio. They were intrigued that I had nearly booked a place on the course with them, but I felt on thin ice, not really wanting to say that I'd been unable to afford it. Thank goodness the discussion drifted on to the merits or otherwise of electronic viewfinders! I finished my water and took some general photos. Nobody minded. 

It was a very comfortable lounge, but if I really were a guest here I wasn't sure if I'd enjoy a succession of boozy after-dinner sessions, fuelled by what you can see on the top of that cupboard. Especially if I were the only woman. On that point, I asked who else was attending. A couple of others, and one of them was indeed a woman. She was due soon, by taxi. I wondered if I could possibly stay long enough to see her, but decided against it. I didn't want to overstay my welcome. Nor did I wish her to see me in my semi-dishevelled shoeless state. However, I couldn't leave straight away. Paul Lister himself now came into the room, welcoming me, and then telling us all about how his project was getting on.

He was quite taken with my walking all the way from the public car park, despite my right knee, just to see the estate, and he gave me a card so that at some other time I could arrange a proper stay. Meanwhile, he said I should have a look around and freely use the facilities (I needed to go to the loo). He also suggested that I take the other track from the Lodge, which offered great views. Finally, he gave me the combination to the greenhouse compound, so that I could see what they were doing there.

I made my farewells and retreated to the loo in the hall to collect my thoughts. It had been quite an experience!

I think you'll agree, I looked hot and ruffled and not at my best. I tidied myself up and sought the kitchen again, to say thank you. On the way I peeped into the dining room.

With the dining table bare and unlaid, it looked like a committee room; but I was certain that later on it would look much more inviting. Here one could look cool and elegant and wear something civilised. I pictured myself enjoying a series of delicious courses, well-deserved after strenuous hours out on the estate photographing whatever the subjects were for the day - majestic mountains, roaring waterfalls, granite crags, golden eagles, herds of deer, snarling wildcats, leaping salmon, red squirrels, noble highlanders, or whatever else might have been on offer. Presumably all the best techniques for getting close to these subjects would be discussed, as well as which lenses. I'd get a lot from listening, although I need not be silent: I could discuss photography as well as anyone. Once my finances were fully restored, a stay here - perhaps on a future course - wouldn't be completely out of the question.

But for now the kitchen was much more my kind of place. Natasha looked exactly like she did on the website.  

I was tempted to be very cheeky and ask to taste something, but of course I was too dusty from my walk to go beyond the doorway. This spotless professional kitchen had to be kept free of travel-stained visitors! 

Back outside, I put on my boots and, stick in hand, had a look around the immediate grounds and peered into the outbuildings.  

There were a range of vehicles parked about, probably belonging to the estate, or the staff, as most guests would surely arrive by taxi. 

As I walked further away from the Lodge, more scenery came into sight. The Lodge itself started to look lost in the hills.

A pond had been constructed - for fishing, I supposed. Or just as a serene spot. I had calmed down a bit, after my unexpected slice of lodge life. It was cooler now, with some breeze. Not unwelcome: I still had quite a tramp ahead.

The deliveries track now went steeply downhill, which put a strain on my knee. But it survived, and at the bottom I decided to inspect the greenhouse compound before returning to the car park. This is where nearly all the vegetable foodstuffs (and table flowers) were grown, very scientifically.

I was impressed. 

Relocking the compound, I set forth on the homeward track. The knee was still all right, but I was feeling rather tired now, and didn't dilly-dally. A blue Mercedes passed, heading for the Lodge. It was a posh taxi. Inside it was a woman. I gave her a smile. I wondered if she'd learn of my visit. 

The afternoon was fading, but the views were still good. 

A last look back.

I was very glad when Fiona hoved into view! I'd had enough by then.

In one respect I was disappointed. There had been several of these signs about red squirrels:

It implied that the road might be carpeted with them, the tree branches bent with their weight, the grassy verges crowded with tame and innocent little Tufties. But nary one did I see. Which is such a shame, because I've never in my whole life encountered a red squirrel. My best hope now for that is Brownsea Island in Poole Harbour, owned by the National Trust. But it's something for next spring or summer.

My FitBit showed a decent number of steps:

It wasn't as many as I thought there would be. But good enough.

Six weeks later, I still question my true motivation for invading Alladale and calling at the Lodge. My request for a drink of water was genuine and not a pretext - but why visit the estate at all? I think my curiosity to get a flavour of what the course was like - or at least see its setting, and meet a selection of attendees - was piqued, and had to be satisfied. And I'm sure that everyone at the Lodge realised that. Still, everyone behaved extremely well towards me, I learned much about what these Highland lodges are like, and I enjoyed the walk and the scenery. 

I do wish I had the money right now to spend a few days in a place like this, but I haven't. But then perhaps it's best that I spend my cash on caravanning instead. I definitely get more holiday-time that way!