Musings from Millport

After a shockingly short illness, my friend Jane’s mum has died from cancer. She had lived in Millport for many years, and we had stayed on many an occasion in both her tiny  room and kitchen in Stuart street, and  latterly her bigger two bedroom flat just off Clyde street.

Granny Pam, as my children called her, was unfailingly glamorous. Indeed, as a young woman, she quite terrified me, as she was so unlike my own mum (who was more a tweed skirt and cardigan  kinda woman. ) Pam was always perfectly co- ordinated, often sporting bright red nail polish, sun glasses and gold coloured slip on shoes, her hair delicately coloured and a good bit of bronzer to help her Millport tan.

She seemed to warm to me as the years went by- initially I suspect my lack of education at Hutchieson’s School for Girls in Glasgow raised a few questions in her mind, but by the time we were visiting Millport with our children ,and Jane was coming with her daughter Katie, she seemed to have accepted my undoubted lack of breeding.

Often we would all go over for barbecues, with the inevitable table groaning with alcohol. Indeed, Pam seemed to take a perverse pleasure in getting me absolutely leggless.

“Have some more wine, Jen.. oh c’mon it will only sit in the cupboard and go to vinegar! Just one more glass!”  she would insist, pouring me out a glass of wine so large I could have a swim in it. Then she would watch me stagger across the rocks that divided her house from Crichton St, laughing quietly as I fell over and into the rock pools on the way.

Pam never got noticably drunk- she could drink hard men under the table. Any time of day was the right time for a small sherry, or a gin and tonic in Pam’s view.

Anyway. Cancer reared it’s ugly head for the second time in a frighteningly short time for me, and Pam died two weeks ago. I wanted very much to go to the funeral- partly out of fondness for Pam, but also to support Jane, and her siblings. Much to my irritation, I was unable to get the day of work, due to lack of available supply staff. I apologised to Jane, and decided to go down after work that day, and take the next day off work instead, so that I could at least see Jane after the funeral and help wherever I could.Perfect Daughter would accompany me, as she and Katie are very close.

It was a bit of a rush, but we got the last ferry, and I planned to pop into the newsagents for milk as we got off the bus. I was pretty hungry- lunch had been soup and a sandwich at 12.30, and it was now 8.30. Perfect Daughter and I clambered onto the bus, and debated what hostelries might be open to get a bite to eat in. As we rounded the corner into Millport, it became clear that something was not quite right- the entire town was in darkness. Millport had had a Major Power Cut. The bus disgorged us into inky black darkness -overhead the sky bristled with stars, and Perfect Daughter and I scrabbled about with mobile phones to try and find the flash light option. It really didn’t help, and we walked slowly towards Granny Pam’s flat, and our own flat giggling nervously.

Jane and her sister Carol had found candles, and lots of alcohol, and were entertaining the remaining funeral party with shadow puppetry and gin. (Well, Carol was going strong- Jane looked exhausted.)Katie and her mate Robyn insisted on taking Perfect Daughter to the pub by candle light, but there was no prospect of a cup of tea or any grub. Och well, c’est la vie, I thought, and got stuck into the wine.

Katie and Robyn slept at our flat- the electricity had come back on by eleven. I found a solitary portion of UHT milk in the cupboard, and gratefully sank into my bed with a cuppa tea.

Perfect Daughter had Uni the next day, which made it essential that she should get the half seven ferry, so I was up by half six. No tea.. or toast… I really need to get some emergency supplies in the flat- there was plenty of soup, or beans, but I couldn’t face that for breakfast. I had to wait till the VG shop opened at nine, and by then my stomach thought my throat had been cut.

After a bit of breakfast I trotted across to Pam’s house to see how I could be useful. Jane and Carol went to see some of their mum’s friends who hadn’t managed the funeral either, and I started the grim task of sorting through clothes for the charity shop. Katie assisted me by putting on several amusing hats and posing around the bedroom. At one point she thought she might have found some cool pearl earrings, but on closer inspection they turned out to be Mint Imperials.

it’s always a bit weird going through clothes when somebody dies, isn’t it? All the hand bags, with shopping lists and hankies in them. Not knowing when you use a bag that it’s going to be the last time you use it…I got as much bagged up as I could and started in on the huge pile of make up and toiletries to go in the rubbish. (Later on it transpired that I’d put Jane and Katie’s make up in the rubbish bag too, so I’m not exactly sure I was that helpful, but I’m sure the good intentions were clear!!)

Then I caught the train home. I was tired, a bit hung over, and still quite hungry, but I had time before I left to slap a bit of lipstick on and tidy my hair.

Pam would have approved, I felt.

Behold! Fall down and worship, every one of you, the beauty that is my new Ikea kitchen! for what it lacks in space is made up for in the ingenuity of it’s single tap that can, with only a deft flick of the wrist, deliver cold water and then hot water straight after it! So long as you have remembered to turn on the Big Red Switch at the side!

Sharp eyed readers will notice the dear little two ring hob  on which Landlady and Big Man may heat up their tins of beans. How smooth, clean and neat the hob is, as yet unsullied by Big Man’s Cooked Breakfast.

Other, sharper eyed readers will note the lack of space between hob and sink - barely room, we may feel, for a spot of Hows your Father with Phil Spencer. Or anybody else, for that matter. Do not fear, gentle readers. Big Man has kindly suggested the purchase of a small trolley which can hold the microwave, or, should Phillip come a- calllin’ , a small Landlady.

Sorted. The cupboards are filling up nicely with saucepans, plates, cheese graters, and biscuit barrels. No mugs as yet- a fact which escaped Landlady as she proudly boiled the kettle for her first coffee in the flat since before October. Coffee granules? check. Milk? check. small choccy biccie? Yup. Mug… Hmmnnn. So being an ever resourceful soul, I used the wee little casserole dish instead. It tasted divine.

Next week the joiner/ window man is going in. More photos to follow.

since the beginning of January, George st has been undergoing a bit of a transformation. The kitchen units, ably put together by your very own Handy Landylady, are actually in the kitchen alcove now, and with a bit of wrestling the plumber/ tiler chap has got the sink, two ring hob and extractor fan in place too. I am mad with excitement at the thought of being able to put some things in these kitchen units, and also having running water for the first time for several months. Such simple pleasures as being able to make a cup of tea, and wash the cup up afterwards  are within tasting distance. My boss gave me a huge box of kitchen utensils a few months ago, and I can hardly wait to get them all washed and put into the kitchen! A certain kitty, whose recent blog featured the Sixth Cupboard of Happiness, will no doubt understand the frissons of excitement that run through me at the thought of a brand new kitchen unit to be filled up all neatly.

For I am, by nature, a tidy and methodical person, who likes nothing better than to open a cupboard and find neatly labelled or stacked items. I find it infinitely soothing to see my towels in neat fluffy piles, or my pilowcases snugly fitted together in pairs, according to colour, pattern, size and matchability to a duvet.

Alas, Big Man is more your free spirit type of chap. He randomly hurls single duvets in the pile for doubles, important documents into the folder for receipts.. you get my drift, I am sure.

so it is with secret pleasure that I look forward to a few days spent in Millport in a fortnight,by myself. Well meaning friends express regret that Big Man cannot get time off work to join me, and I absently agree, but my mind is feverishly working on relining   kitchen drawers, shampooing the carpets in Crawford St, and tidying the jigsaws. By myself!

The joiner will follow me into George St at the end of a fortnight, and box in all the pipes, fit new windows, and rehang the doors.

We are so nearly there, I can almost taste it. I will wow you with photos once it’s really there.

Big Man and I set off for Millport on Boxing Day with an air of thinly veiled mutual resentment. I was unimpressed by Big Man’s Xmas gift of a pair of pyjama bottoms that were a size too large and a nightshirt that was a size too small. He was similarly scathing about my present of some waterproof trousers , pointing out that they hinted at some prostrate related incontinence rather than the ” carefree walking in the rain ” vision I was striving for. Well, if the cap fits, dear…

I adopted my default position of Icily Polite, while Big Man tried Denying  Noticing There Is Anything Wrong. By day two I had tried to out maneuver him and gone for Plain Mean, while he trumped me by The Headphones Technique, whereby he simply puts them on and ignores me.

It was loads of fun, I can tell you.

In Millport itself, several things had happened in the run up to Christmas, and none of them was the flat becoming habitable. Firstly, the tiler’s daughter was badly bitten by a dog- how badly depends on which newspaper you read, of course. She had to be taken to Yorkhill Children’s hospital, and we wish her a full and speedy recovery.

Then a tenement flat caught fire, which has completely gutted the whole building. All the flats were holiday flats , and the flames were only spotted by a driver of the gritter lorry, who quickly raised the alarm. It’s unclear how the fire started, but one owner had been down the previous week, and it would seem to be in this flat that the blaze started.  Millport residents are wondering if she left something on which may have started the fire.( I bet she’ ll be off a few folk’s Xmas card list…)

The chemist shop ,Millers, was badly damaged by the water and falling masonry, and had to sell all his stock half price from the back room of a local pub. Big Man rushed me past this pub, clearly fearing I would become over excited by the sight of so much Coty   L’Aimant perfume and Lynxx gift sets.

The flat remains unfinished. However, once New Year is past, all tradesmen have promised me to resume work immediately, and I reckon a push of a couple of days work from them will get us to the point of being able to fit the kitchen. With this in mind, Big Man and I set off for Glasgow Ikea in a state of high excitement. (We had suspended hostilities by this point- I don’t recall how this happened- possibly I  absent mindedly accepted the offer of a cup of tea too warmly, signalling the end of the argument.)

I of course was keen to see the black granite work tops, ideally suited for a spot of How’s Your Father with Phil Spencer, in the fantasy world that I inhabit. Big Man however vetoed this choice, stating that it was foolish to spend so much money on  a small bit of work top then cut two dirty great holes in it for hob and sink. Tsk. Spoilsport….

In the end we opted for the cheapest of everything, and very lovely it is too. No running away with the budget for us Boyles! After treating himself to a hot dog, and me to a coffee and organic muffin- is there no end to the man’s generosity?- Big Man suggested that since we were half way to Millport we might as well take the kitchen units straight down there. We loaded the car up with a pile of unidentifiable boxes labelled “Frammtid”" and “Laggen”, or something like that, and sped off down the snowy motorway back towards Largs and the ferry. It was surprisingly quick to unload the stuff into the flat, and I believe breaks the existing record for Shortest Millport Visit. We arrived on the quarter to five ferry, and got the half five ferry home.

There is only one more thing to note.  Youngest son has always been known throughout my blog here as “Wee Man”. As readers will no doubt see for themselves in the photographs that follow, this is just not accurate. Indeed, he rivals Lanky Boy in ..er.. lankiness, and in view of this and his slightly effete bearing, I hereby rename him “the thin White Duke”.

It only remains for me to wish you a Happy New Year, fellow Bloggers. After a hideous day at work where I managed to fuse all the wall sockets three times in an attempt to plug in enough fan heaters to warm the room up ,  I opted for a bath, wine, and bed rather than the usual obligatory visit to the neighbours. I leave you with a selection of my festive photos. (Phestive Photos?)

I think I might have borrowed that title from the Tourist Board and their official Millport Information Leaflet- if so I apologise. It’s hard not be be alliterative when you live (part time ) on a Scottish Island, don’t you think?

Anyway- I thought I might share some of the photos I have taken this year. Big Man was overcome with envy when he clocked my Big Bro’s camera in the summer, and promptly strode out and bought me an identical one for my birthday.  Which was lovely, but not as altruistic as he would have me believe, as he’s enjoyed it just as much as I have.

I find Millport so photogenic, so beautiful, that I have just kept snapping away in the hope of capturing that unique loveliness that surprises me every time I walk out of my front door. I hope you enjoy them too.

For more years than I care to recall, I have been an avid watcher of programmes about houses- what Big Man calls Housey Housey programmes. There was the one with Carol Smillie and Lawrence Llewyn Bowen, where neighbours would swop keys and decorate each others front rooms. Lawrence would often insist that a Mexican theme, or French Boudoir theme should be applied, and the luckless competitor would have to smile and say how smashing it was, all the while clearly pining for her nice brick fireplace and flat screen telly, instead of badly painted purple rag rolled walls.
Then came” House Doctor,” who would tell you why you couldn’t sell your house. It was often because you had yappy dogs that savaged the ankles of your house hunters, or you had tartan carpets. Or purple rag rolled walls.
“How Clean Is Your House?” is another favourite, as the answer is always a smug “A Lot Cleaner Than That One- I Can At Least See My Carpet” .(Well, in most rooms.)
“Build a New Life in the Country” seems to involve couples driving around looking at big houses in the countryside, complete with Agas, but since you rarely find out which one they bought, if any, it doesn’t satisfy me somehow.
“Location Location, Location ” is one of my favourites. This is at least in part due to the fact that I have developed an unhealthy and slightly stalker- like obsession with Phil Spencer. I would be very happy for Phil to show me around a house and then take me roughly over the granite worktops with the Belfast sink inset. “Landlady! Really! Behave yourself!” I hear you cry. ( I also think I hear a few of you cry “Landlady! Really! Tell me more?!” but these are the voices best left unheeded, that only besmirch the good name of Island Blogging. )
I am also amazed at the budgets that the couples on Location Location have. Kirstie, bless her Prada heels, will often give a bit of a run down on the couple at the start of the programme, and it goes something like this;
“Cressida and Pablo have a budget of £400,000 to spend on their country residence, and about £300,000 for their pad in London- essential as Pablo works as something incredibly obscure in marketing.. He will return at weekend to be with Cressida at the Kent /Hampshire house. They are looking for five bedrooms,a large garden to exercise the pony, and a paddock as Cressida wants to keep pigs. ”
Five bedrooms? There’s only two of them! Is one for the blooming pony??
I notice that the couple are never called Maggie and Wee Stevie. They are never looking for a room and kitchen in Maryhill ,Glasgow,with a wee bit of back court in which to let the dug out, a black Rottweiler called Rambo.
Phil and Kirstie show Cressida and Pablo achingly beautiful properties. They have large gardens with breathtaking views, aged housekeeping staff, and granite kitchen worktops.(Oh Phil..) Cressida and Pablo find fault with the level of birdsong in the gardens, the colour of the front door knob, or even more inexplicably, tell Kirstie that it lacks “that certain wow factor” . Pffttt. Words fail me.
But my absolute favourite Housey Housey programme of the moment, is “Homes Under The Hammer”. I rush home from the gym , (or even use that as excuse not to go to the gym,) and sit with Liquorice the cat on my knee and a cup of milky coffee by my side and wait in blissful anticipation of this starting. It is deeply satisfying on so many levels.
This programme is all about people who buy houses at auction. The presenters interview them in their newly purchased house, ask them what they intend to do with it, and then revisit them to see how their plans turned out.
They always use a bit of music which has a loose connection to the house or purchaser. For example, if it’s been a GP that has bought the house, they might play “Doctor, Doctor” by The Thompson Twins every time they show this particular house on the show. This is presumably in case the viewer is distracted by, ooh, a fly landing on the coffee table . It cleans it’s front legs… oh, now it’s doing the back ones.. Argghh! I’ve completely lost the plot of this show! Who are these people? Which house did they buy??
The presenter will ask the purchaser how long it will take him to do any renovations. It needs central heating, a new kitchen, bathroom suite, and they’re going to put a conservatory on the back. Well, he says, gazing round thoughtfully, I reckon I can do it in three weeks. And the cost? oh, lets see- about two thousand pounds.
At this point I always tell Liqourice that they are talking complete and utter p**h. Two grand??? Three weeks???? Are they mad?
But, no, when they return to the house, (with a blast of “Doctor, Doctor” to help those folk who have nodded off for a bit,) the entire house is beige carpet and cream walls. The bathroom is all beige wall tiles and power showers, and the garden is neat and tidy with some nice decking. The purchaser appears to have barely broken sweat. He has come in under budget, and it only took him two weeks, with the assistance of his brother. A builder. Aha I say to Liquorice, that’s where we have gone wrong! Big Man has no siblings, and my brother is a Music Development Officer! He’s no help, is he?
( Sorry, Olly, I love you dearly though..)
Then the local estate agents come in and tell the chap that the house is worth twenty five grand more now he’s done the work. The chap looks suitably smug, and the credits roll.
The result of all this is that I feel woefully inadequate now. We have had the flat in George St since May, and have only succeeded in making it into a building site so far. The ceiling needs taken down now, which is holding up the floor tiling, which is holding up the kitchen installation. I long for beige walls, power showers, and even door knobs. I want to put up my pixie door knocker, bought from E Bay and polished up till he sparkles.
In short , I want a house. I want a kitchen. And when I get it, I want granite worktops.

Over at Mr Croft’s place- I’m spending so much time there, I’m practically a Croft Groupie- I noticed he has a blog on The Scottish Style Awards, and well, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, eh? So this is the Landlady’s Prize Giving List , awarded to her paying guests at the flat over the summer .

Best Neighbour Award- No contest here. This prize of a giant pack of teabags and a pint of full fat milk is gratefully and sincerely jointly awarded to Sandra, my own neighbour in Crawford St, and her mum Wilma. From keeping an eye on the place, and checking for open windows etc, to popping in with a jug of milk for a fly cuppa for me as I hurriedly strip beds, Wilma and Sandra have been neighbours beyond the call of duty. They have never complained at the steady stream of visitors, the noise , or even taking my washing in on one occasion. Thanks ,ladies, I owe you one!
Most unreasonable comment Most comments left in the visitors book were positive, or made perfectly reasonable suggestions about things I could provide to make their stay more comfortable. So this award- of a J- cloth and bottle of cream cleanser must go to the lady who complained that my cupboards were “grotty” ,pointing out that some crockery and cutlery was “not properly washed up”.
Aye right- in the two hours between one lot of guests leaving and the others arriving, I’ve really got time to check that people have washed up their cereal bowl nicely.
Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that Big Man was up till midnight the next week washing already clean crockery and wiping the inside of the cupboards..
Best Time Had In the Flat
This was a tricky one. Us creche ladies had a hilarious time this summer on our annual Bank holiday weekend, but in the end we were just pipped to the post by the ladies from Johnstone, who came down to do a sponsored cycle for charity. The howls of laughter we could hear when we popped round at nine to get the washing in, were matched only by the shrieks of mirth the next day as they all tried to get changed out of their cycling gear outside the flat. (The bemused new occupant seemed to be having a good time too, watching them !) Please come up to the podium to collect your jumbo pack of Tenas Ladies…
Tidiest Occupants- Most people left the flat nice and tidy, but the couple who cleaned the bath, tiles and taps so thoroughly that I stood in dumb admiration ,get this award of a DVD copy of “How Clean is your House”. It’s never looked as gleaming since..
Mucky Pups Award Despite trying very hard to leave the place clean and tidy, this award goes to Perfect Daughter and her chums, who left smears of orange bronzing powder in unexpected places. I’m still coming across them, a month later.. To you, girlies- a tub of Fake Bake is on it’s way.
Best Spam Enquiry- Well, I’ve had a few. Mostly they are from “newly ordained priests from Greece” who would apparently like to stay if I’ll send them my credit card details so that they can pay a deposit. Some start “Hello Dearly Beloved” and ask for money to help them through a crisis. But my all time favourite appeared in my in box just last week. Supposedly from Endemol, it asked for accommodation for “twenty finalists in the series “Deal or no Deal” ( because we are so handy for Shepherd’s Bush, aren’t we?) and suggested that they would be requiring “two double rooms with bunk beds”. I never knew the contestants lived in such squashed conditions, did you? I’d complain if it was me…
The “Marie Celeste” Book token- these renters must have been in an awful hurry to get a ferry, perhaps. They left loads of food and drink which was gratefully received by Big Man and myself.
The Frying Pan Award This is jointly awarded to the four August renters. Within this time period, I had to replace the frying pan twice. What did you do with it??!
Finally, some special awards which need no real explanation. There’s the “curly Black Hair Cup” -gee thanks, that was a nice thing to leave all over the bath… and the “lonesome sock prize”- if the owners of one large black sock, one sports sock and one lacy topped hold up would like to come forward? No? Well, they’re in my lost property box till New Year…
All prizes can be claimed by sending me your credit card details..

Recently, I had a wee read of a post that The Croft had written about a beautiful house on Lewis that was for sale. He described the house, and then ended his post by hoping that it was occupied by an permanent home owner and not utilised as a “part time ” holiday home. Perhaps naively, I asked Croft what he had against us holiday home owners. He pointed out the problems this caused, another commenter mentioned the difficulties for locals if houses are snapped up by in comers at inflated prices,and we exchanged a few other comments, but it left me thinking.
Personally, I suspect it’s too simplistic an answer to blame holiday home owners for the decline of a young population in rural areas. I was brought up in the wilds of Galloway in a tiny village. As a very small child ,the village boasted two small shops and a wee post office, plus a host of travelling shop vans selling bread, fruit, fish- there was even one from the chemists shop! By the time I left, the shops and post office had gone and few vans remained.
I and my friends from The Brig o’ Dee and the neighbouring villages, Rhonehouse and Gelston, could not wait to get away to Edinburgh or Glasgow.We wanted to meet boys who didn’t think it was acceptable to wear boiler suits and wellies to the pub. We wanted to live somewhere you could use public transport after seven pm. We wanted to do bad things without our parents finding out from a sharp eyed neighbour. But mostly, we left to pursue further education- there was no college or University within commuting distance.
After my spell at college was finished, I stayed on in Glasgow- it actually never crossed my mind to return , because I was having far too much fun. But if I’d wanted to , it would have been the lack of employment that put me off, not the lack of affordable housing. A quick straw poll of my old school friends at a reunion a few years ago told an identical story.
Occasionally, a house would go up for sale in Bridge of Dee. Even more occasionally some big shot from down South ,looking to retire in a lovely rural area would pay way over the asking price and outbid a local family. But it was a rare occurance. Not many young families wanted to live in the village because it had no school, shop, and it was populated by a lot of old fuddy duddys who liked to walk their dogs round the Loop and not much else. It doesn’t even have a pub.
I see an almost identical pattern of events playing out on Cumbrae. There is very little all year round employment. If you work in Largs, you probably prefer to live in Largs ,as the daily ferry fare would add quite a bit to your living expenses.
The daughter of the electrician has gone to Uni in Glasgow. Luigi and Angela’s (the Ritz Cafe owners)children have also flown the nest, and show no apparent desire to come back and run the Ritz. The youngsters that Perfect Daughter met over the summer were predominantly home for the summer from Uni or college. Will they return to Cumbrae when they have finished their education? My guess is -probably not.
So is it really fair to blame people for buying property , in a rural community, to use as a holiday house? I freely admit that I was pleased that my old mum’s house in Bridge of Dee went to a young family when we sold it. It’s a big family house and I had a lovely childhood in it. But I hope I would have accepted it if somebody had wanted to use it as an occasional residence.
Do locals perhaps feel that summer renters don’t contribute to the fabric of the community? That they dip in and out when it suits them? That’s a fair comment, though personally Big Man and I have tried to take part where we can.
Of course, I’m only talking about Cumbrae- I simply don’t know enough about the demographic spread of other Scottish Islands to see if the problems Cumbrae faces in retaining it’s young population are the same for other Islands. I’m sure somebody will tell me though. I’d welcome comments from Millportians too!
If I look deep inside my stony old heart is what is the origin of my discomfort at the (thankfully) rare bitter jibes at my status of “second home owner”? Does it stem from a slight feeling that I’m being “got at?” Or do I secretly feel that I’m being a wee bit greedy??

The much publicized “Open Day” on Little Cumbrae took place on Sunday 27th Sept. There was much speculation about the actual arrangements for transporting several thousand visitors over to the uninhabited island, and indeed the original plan to transport them from Largs Marina in staggered convoys was not particularly well received by locals. Many felt that to bypass Cumbrae altogether meant that any “knock on ” tourist benefits would be meagre. Only a few days before actual event, a comment was posted on the S1 community site that in fact boats would be dropping off the devotees of Swami Ramdev at the old pier, and a link to the events website showed this to be so. Any locals wishing to join in the celebrations by coming to Little Cumbrae could simply wait at the pier, pay their £5 return ticket, and travel in one of the rib boats travelling to the island.
A chilly and slightly damp Sunday morning dawned, and by lunch time it became clear that something had gone horribly wrong with the organisation of the day. Some hundred or so cold, forlorn and bewildered visitors, many dressed in traditional Indian dress ,many more quite elderly people, huddled together on the pier, waiting to get across. A lady I spoke to had travelled all night to get on the trip, and many had been waiting since the first drop off at 6am. A harried policeman tried to direct buses of disappointed and frustrated followers of Swami Ramdev back towards Largs. In the hour and a half we hung around the pier, not one single boat appeared, either picking up or dropping off visitors.
In the chip shop later that night I struck up conversation with an Indian lady who had managed to get across. If the scene on the Millport side was chaotic, the Wee Cumbrae side was apparently even worse, with exhausted and chilly visitors waiting to get home. She herself had come from Derby, and was scathing about the lack of organisation.
Comments on the S1 website tell of visitors too scared to board the rib, and also having to be assisted by the Fire Brigade to get back onto the Millport Pier well after dark had fallen and a brisk wind had sprung up.
This does not bode well for the proposed Yoga Camps which Mrs Poddar hopes to run on the island. Clearly more thought has to be put into the transport, facilities, and out dated plumbing on Little Cumbrae. The environmental impact of hundreds of people arriving on the island is also a real worry, and begs the question whether anybody- North Ayrshire Council, National Trust, etc has any say over what happens on a privately owned island?

This is how you do it. First, you pick your brambles.
If possible, pick a lovely, balmy early autumn day, and remember to take a big tupperware box with you. The brambles will stain your hands, clothing, and the box. Just thought I’d warn you..
The best brambles( as everybody knows) are always right at the top of the bush, or right at the bottom, and are surrounded by stinging nettles. Do not let this dissuade you.
If you get a little bored with being prickled, stung or stained wth bramble juice, take a minute or two to look at the scenery…
Or the local wildlife….
Then bring the brambles home and admire them…
Then get out the jelly pan. This has to be a proper jelly/jam making pan. A big saucepan, no matter how big it looks ,is not big enough. Believe me.
Boil up your brambles with a few cooking apples, then strain the mash through a jelly bag. Apparently if you let it drip and do not give the bag a wee sly squeeze every time you pass, you will get a clearer jelly, but who could resist? Not the Landlady.
Then measure the ruby red, fragrant viscous liquid, and allow a kilo of sugar to each 1 and a bit litres of liquid.heat gently, then allow to get to a rolling boil, (which is also what the Big Man is when he’s had too much beer.) Skim, and see if it’s set by putting a wee bit on a saucer. If the surface wrinkles when you draw your finger over it- bingo. Setting point is reached. Pour the hot jelly into sweet little pots purchased from Lakeland. If you have some left over, an empty peanut butter jar is also quite acceptable..well washed, of course…

Now the kitchen , the jelly pan, your hands and possibly the floor will look as if you have had a massacre in there. Clean up, or get your Big Man to clean up by promising acts of kindness and depravity later on.
Enjoy.