Trees, Frankie's Fish & Chips and a walk to the northernmost tip

That's Shetland. Just to prove there are trees up there. It's not just Lerwick on a dull, wet day:

The trees straddle the B9075 in Weisdale, a valley in the middle of the Shetland Mainland. You can't see the sea (highly unusual that) and there is more than one small wood there (very rare in that open landscape). Here's some more of Weisdale.

Now that's worth finding on Google Street View. I know where to go if I yearn to see trees on my Shetland Holiday.

And when will that be? Ah...it was going to be 2017, but the need to repay a £5,000 bank loan has got in the way. If I'm sensible, it'll not be before 2019.

But of course, I make no great claims to be sensible! I don't think I can wait that long. And that's not being silly. I will be sixty-seven in 2019, and although no doubt fit enough and energetic enough to undertake towing the caravan to the northernmost part of the Brtitish Isles, all the way from Sunny Sussex in the far south, it will be a bit easier on my old bones if I do the journey there and back sooner. Things like having a whole new decor throughout the house, and a new kitchen especially, can wait. So can upgrading my phone and my computer equipment. I think it may be 2017 after all, or late spring in 2018 at the latest.

How long should one wait for a long-standing wish to come true? I have before me an Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 map with a green cover, from their long-superseded Pathfinder series. It's number 17, covering the Lerwick area. I bought it when living in London, from Stanford's in Long Acre near Covent Garden. As long ago as 24 March 1987. And I know that my dream of visiting Shetland wasn't new even then. So I've waited about at least thirty years already, to go up there and see it for myself.

For a long while I waited without hope. The people in my life expressed zero interest. They had a good argument. For similar money, one could go to the warm and sunny south of France, or to Italy. Or fly far away on a package holiday. Why go to windy and often-wet Shetland? But I clung to what I really wanted to do, biding my time. With the growing feeling that there is no satisfaction in compromises, whether it's about holidays or something much more important. Compromise may oil two rough surfaces, so that they can slide against each other well enough, but denying important wishes leads only to frustration and possibly resentment.

To speak up for myself, I never pouted for being denied Shetland - and not just Shetland, but other places too - but I couldn't help feeling somewhat thwarted.

Well, there's nobody to stand in my way now. My financial circumstances are the only real hindrance. Even so, all I need to do is consider my spending options carefully, and choose between them, knowing that one choice must postpone another. That's not so hard. Visiting Shetland has much more appeal than painting my house.

I have certainly tried to be patient. And I thought I'd put those northern isles nicely on the back-burner, when the BBC socked it to me with another series of Shetland on BBC1. It has revived the urgent need to go there, like a half-healed wound split open. I'd watched the 2013 pilot, then the 2014 series, and now I'm watching the 2016 series - six episodes, clearly one big story pursued in depth, two episodes down and four to go. I like the characters - here are the main ones, viewing a body in a quayside warehouse -

- and I like the background music (all that fiddling). But most of all I like the location shots. And that gives a strong clue about what I shall go there for. Its for the sky, the landscape, the seascape, and the untidy towns and communities. To get a handle on the Shetland way of life. And to come away with an awful lot of inspired photographs. I'm not especially interested in the birds and the ponies, engaging though they may be. I will certainly want to buy some jewellery. And, setting the photography aside, I would like to make some friends there. I want heartwarming, human reasons to return.

I'd kept a centre-page spread from Radio Times in March 2014:

On the right-hand edge of this, were listed 'five island delights'. The first was 'visit Scalloway', the second-largest town in Shetland, and its one-time capital, although really it's not much larger than a big village. It seems very pleasant. There's a reference to Frankie's, with the comment that it's 'one of the best fish and chip shops in Scotland'. It may be that, but I'd 'been' to Scalloway via Google Maps and Google Street View, and I couldn't recall seeing Frankie's there. I fancied it was at Brae, much further north on the Shetland Mainland. And I was right. Here it is at Brae on Google Street View:

This is no ordinary eatery. Look at their website: http://www.frankiesfishandchips.com/. Look at the TripAdvisor page: http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Restaurant_Review-g7255248-d2662905-Reviews-Frankie_s_Fish_and_Chip_Cafe_and_Takeaway-Brae_Mainland_Shetland_Islands_Scotlan.html. I can see myself going there more than once in my forays to the northern half of Shetland! Brae grew from a small settlement to the quite large community it is now because of the nearby presence of the Sullum Voe oil storage facility, at one time the largest in Europe (maybe it still is), serving fields in both the North Sea and the North Atlantic. There is also a gas turbine power station at Sullum Voe. All this means plenty of hungry men! But the development of facilities at Brae is also a boon to the ordinary Shetlander. Mind you, the place is nothing special to look at:

That's the much-mentioned leisure centre and swimming pool, paid for with oil money, which all the guide books like to mention. There's also a little marina tucked away, exactly like all the many others:

I noticed that some caravans were lined up at this marina. Construction workers or tourists? It was hard to tell from Google Street View. Well, I dare say that, if necessary, I could take my chances with having some tough, hard-drinking caravanning neighbours if I especially wanted to pitch here for a night. Because Brae is much closer to the ferries for Yell and Unst than the leisure centre at Lerwick is (otherwise my preferred place to pitch). And that would make my Muckle Flugga Adventure all the easier.

My goodness, that will be some day trip! The first leg is from wherever I'm pitched to the ferry terminal at Toft. Then the crossing to Yell, arriving at Ulsta. Then, a dash for the ferry terminal at Gutcher. There are two ways, the main one, the fast one, using the A road. The other, prettier, way is on a B road and it shows you the better side of Yell. For instance at Otterwick:

But, either way, one arrives at Gutcher and joins the other cars. Here's the place, in between ferries:

Hmm. Not somewhere I'd want to linger at, if the weather has turned cold and wet, and I've just missed a ferry and have to wait another hour! Let's hope the ferries keep to time, and are not too full. On Unst, the northernmost big island, one disembarks at Belmont and then heads north to whichever destination appeals. I won't be short on diesel, but if Fiona needs a drink I rather fancy that this fuel pump by the store at Baltasound will do the trick. For all I know it's the main 'filling station' on Unst!

By now I'll be up for some lunch. The obvious place to consider is the Saxa Vord Resort at Valgarth - see http://www.saxavord.com/ and http://www.saxavord.com/food-and-drink.php - which used to be the RAF camp for personnel working at the former Saxa Vord Radar station (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RAF_Saxa_Vord).

Apparently it can get VERY windy around here, the old radar station recording a wind speed of 197 mph before the measuring device was blown away. Hmmm! The RAF station was however built to withstand such breezes, and now functions as a holiday centre with comfortable facilities for visitors, a restaurant, a brewery and a chocolate factory among them.

Many tourists next head for Skaw, which is the furthest north you can go by car, although there isn't a proper car park there. You approach along a narrow road, to a farm that overlooks an attractive bay:

I dare say I'll cock an eye at it. But my personal main destination is Burra Firth, off to the west, where there is a proper car park above the old lighthouse shore station (now a Visitor Centre). That's where I'll park Fiona.

Here's the view south from the car park entrance...

...and now I'm panning into the car park...

At the top end of the car park is a gate, and past that a good track leading off towards Herma Ness:

With Alt-Berg walking boots on, and my rucksack on my back - full of spare clothing and various sustaining things to nibble and drink - I shall trek the two miles or so to the top of the hill that looks down on Herma Ness - and the offshore islands, chief of which is Muckle Flugga:

On top of Muckle Flugga is a lighthouse, the most northerly (and one of the most isolated) in the British Isles. It was built by the Stevenson brothers from 1854, becoming operational in 1858, and was automated in 1995 (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muckle_Flugga_Lighthouse). Anyway, I want to take some clear shots from Hermaness Hill before returning to Fiona and making my way 'home'. That'll constitute my 'Muckle Flugga Adventure'. It might all sound rather a lonely endeavour, but I anticipate that each day from April to September parties of people do the same trek for the same reason, and I'm unlikely to be on my own.

This is just one of a number of day trips I've got in mind - not to mention evening explorations in Lerwick, subject to the usual murders and mayhem that BBC1's Shetland series suggests is normal. Well, who cares if bodies litter the alleyways. Bring it all on, asap.

Shark repellent

I had to drive into Brighton today, and after a search to find a space, found one in William Street, by the Law Courts. But where were the meters? Uh-oh. They'd been taken away. It was exclusively 'parking by phone' now in this particular street. 

But that's OK, I thought. I'd already configured the PayByPhone app on my phone. This had needed the registration number of my car, and my credit card details. The app was set up, and ready to be used. I simply had to fire it up and follow the on-screen instructions! It would be the first time I'd paid for parking by phone.

And do you know, it worked. All I had to do was enter the five-digit location number for the row of parking spaces I was using, check that the location and registration number of my car (both automatically shown on screen) were both correct, enter the parking time needed (two hours, the maximum allowed), and then enter the security code for my credit card. An email showing what I'd bought followed almost instantly. It amounted to an on-screen electronic receipt that I could show to anyone interested. I also saw that for this 'convenient service' I'd been charged 10p by PayByPhone, so that my '£2.00' parking space actually cost me £2.10. But hey, what's 10p?

I was now free to walk away to the shops. But I wasn't quite easy. Because of course there was no paper ticket to display. Any Parking Officer that came along after I'd gone ought to be be thinking 'PaybyPhone only here - I'll check my handset to see whether the owner of this car is legally parked'. Well, some of these officers are joyous, pleasant people just doing an unpopular job as well as they possibly can. They'd be conscientious, and check thoroughly before assuming any parking offence. Exemplary citizens.

But others are vicious, predatory sharks with razor-sharp, blood-stained teeth, who see life through a red mist. Poor Fiona might attract the latter. Would they check? Or, triggered by the lack of any visible evidence of payment, just issue a Penalty Notice? Could they restrain their savage instincts? I felt they could not.

So I got out a pen, found a scrap of paper, and wrote 'I have paid by phone' on it, then left it on Fiona's dashboard. It didn't look very convincing, but it was something. A reasonable shark (who could read) might hesitate, might close his gaping maw, and do the right thing. I decided to chance it.

One hour and forty minutes later I returned, and with profound relief saw that no Penalty Notice had been affixed to either of my windscreen wipers. Phew. A literate and forbearing shark had come and gone without inflicting pain. Perhaps he'd made enough kills already that day, and was sated.

Back home, I considered this lack of a paper ticket further. It really did seem a good idea to create an eye-catching card that I could display prominently in Fiona's windscreen. So tonight I have made this:

It's in red, because that's the colour of gore, and a shark will naturally give it attention. It's for them. Ordinary, benign, sensible, calypso-loving Parking Officers will smile and regard it as superfluous.

Even this may not prevent an incorrectly-issued, knee-jerk, red-mist Penalty Notice that I will have to appeal against at some personal trouble. But what more can I do?

I hope the god that protects out-of-town parking persons is fully on the job.

A winter sunset

Yesterday morning was bright and sunny, then it turned a bit dull, Even so, I decided to go out in Fiona, partly to give her a good run, partly with the intention of walking around a bit at whatever destination I fetched up at.

I made for Birling Gap, on the coast between Seaford and Eastbourne, but my route took me on a country road that passes near Alfriston, one of the South Downs valley villages of East Sussex. I immediately noticed all the flooding in the river valley - water covering huge expanses, and lit up beautifully by the setting sun. Alfriston has a prominent church, that sits on a mound on the river side of the village, and is popularly dubbed 'The Cathedral of the Downs', although it really is no such thing. It looked ethereal in the amber light:

Hmm. Completely waterlogged down there! I was wearing the black boots I'd bought at Fat Face last November, which hadn't seen a lot of wear hitherto, but were now coming into their own as proper winter weather at last descended on Sussex. Here they are, when new six weeks ago:

They still looked pretty much like that. Almost pristine, with no signs of wear. I was up on a high lane that looked down on the fields. I itched to get down into those fields to try different shots into the sun, and not just across the valley, but attempting to do that clearly wouldn't do these boots any good at all. They were much too nice to get mucky.

I did have my regular Alt-Berg walking boots with me, though they back where I'd left Fiona. And really these super-saturated fields needed proper wellies, like the Gumleaf ones I'd bought last August, which I had been successfully used for caravanning on wet grass but for nothing else so far:

Of course, I didn't have them with me!

Mind you, for all I knew the water was deeper than it looked, and therefore even with these knee-length wellies I'd be minded to hesitate. What would I do if I sunk in too much, had to struggle, slipped or overbalanced, and took a header into the morass? As well I might. Drive home naked, or at least clad only in my underwear? (I wasn't going to besmirch Fiona's seats with evil-smelling ooze from the field)

So I contented myself with the shots I could get from the lane. There wasn't much scope. I took pictures that might look 'interesting' when worked on back home. Alfriston as never seen before...

But these two, with recognisable trees in them, came out all right:

I drove on to Birling Gap on the coast. A half-decent sunset was rapidly developing. It was the obvious place to go next. Birling Gap is a little community badly threatened by sea erosion. It always has been, but in recent years the cliff face has been retreating inland at a rate of knots. Well, perhaps by a metre or two every year, anyway. Every time I visit, a few more inches seem to have disappeared. Yesterday it was like this:

That row of former coastguard cottages in the shot just above seems to shrink in length on a regular basis! As recently as 2013 the end of the row extended beyond the chimneys:

Now a bit more had had to be taken down for safety's sake, a room upstairs and a room downstairs both sacrificed as the foundations became dodgy:

There was once space at the seaward end of the row for stowing all kinds of fishing gear, as in this shot from 2008:

And the tenant had even been happy to store his boat against the face of the cliff, as in these shots from 2001 and 2002:

No longer! I understand that the 'end cottage' commands a low rent on a wasting lease. A few years ago the lady in occupation - she was an artist, I seem to recall - explained that it was worth living there even if she'd clearly have to abandon her home at some point, because the rent was so reasonable, and she had that wonderful sea view from her front bow window and her back garden. Well, yes, if you are able to sleep soundly through every winter storm! I don't think I'd be able to. The chalk cliffs here are very fractured and easily undermined by the waves. You can see the process at work on the high cliffs nearby:

They warn you to keep away from the cliff edge, because you may very well be standing on an unstable overhang that might go at any moment. The verticality and whiteness of these cliffs testifies to how many falls occur:

There are not just old cottages at Birling Gap. There's a National Trust Shop and Café (previously a hotel) which was once comfortably back from the cliff edge, as in this 2002 shot:

Oh dear, not in 2016...

The beach remains, and a staircase to reach it, that they have to dismantle and rebuild every few years. It's a great platform for viewing the many fine sunsets you get along the Sussex coast. More now of what I saw yesterday.

On the beach student girls frolicked and chatted while waiting to see the sun dip, and lovers snuggled up closely and hugged each other. I attempted contre-jour selfies.

I could see it wasn't worth waiting for the sun to sizzle and quench in the cold sea. A low bank of cloud was going to hide it. I left, retracing my route. I put my camera away. Then, on reaching Exceat, I saw this in the afterglow as I passed. Reflections in an oxbow of the Cuckmere River. Hurriedly parking, I ran back, drivers on the A259 kindly stopping, realising my haste, to let me cross the road and get my shot. They got my very best smile in return.

Now that's uncontrived natural beauty, no gimmicks, no false colour, caught inside a narrow and lucky window of opportunity. What I believe most photography is basically all about.