Musings from Millport

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.

Yeeeehaaaa, howdy partners!! Yes, that time of year has rolled by again. The time when four thousand happy cowboys and cowgirls, and a few Indians( Native Americans, I mean, not to be confused with the forthcoming influx of Indians for the renaming of Wee Cumbrae..yes, it is confusing, I agree..) descend on Millport and make it their own. All the shops and bars put false frontages up so it really does look like the Wild, Wild West. (Well, if it wasn’t raining.)
The general consensus of opinion in our family is that this year was a little quieter than usual -Perfect Daughter, her band of Cowboys and Indians, and Big Man were all in attendance. Maybe it was the fairly dreadful weather, but there wasn’t quite the throng either watching the parade or walking around the streets that there has been in previous years. This rather surprised me, as I had had numerous enquiries for renting the flat- almost one a week since the beginning of the summer. I would be the last one to generalise, but middle aged Glaswegian ladies in groups of five or more, often called Margaret or Pearl, seemed to determined to get down to Millport and give it laldy. Obviously the prospect of some serious line dancin’, some drinkin’ and maybe a wee bit winchin’ was too good to miss. I ended up putting a notice on my website that I had no availability left for the weekend, but it made no difference.
Perfect Daughter and her pal Gemma had gone down on the Thursday to enable Gemma to really experience the many, many activities there are to do , before the invasion of the cowboys. They were made most welcome by the locals , kindly introduced by Margaret Hughes(thank you Margaret, told you you’d get a mention…) and enjoyed a days cycling and visiting the Ritz cafe before the rest of their gang arrived over the next few days.
The rest of the weekend is a bit of a blur, reports Perfect Daughter, but I have some pretty photos for you to admire.

I actually thought this story was a bit of idle gossip when I first heard it, so I didn’t blog about it. Turns out it’s all true, folks, Wee Cumbrae is to be renamed Peace Island, and 400 Indians are to descend on Big Cumbrae during the Illuminations Weekend.
Illuminations weekend is somehow quintessentially Scottish consisting, as it does, of all the shops and a fair few houses putting lights, displays, candles, photos etc in their windows, sometimes with a loose theme- sometimes not. Then there’s a firework display.
Somehow I hope the influx of another culture will work OK and the visitors will be as enchanted by the home made illuminations as everybody else.. I also hope that they use the cafes and shops, but the word on the street is that they are strict veggies and will not be partaking of any rolls and sausage in the Ritz.
The actual renaming of the island seems very bizzare- a case of life imitating art, considering my attempt to get it renamed Cardy.
Perhaps I should shake off my second best Ermine, and row over and introduce myself?!

Only delayed by a week, due to the fairly relentless rain, the scaffolding at the George St flat has been erected. I was on hand with my camera to record this momentous scene. Andy from upstairs ensured that the scaffolders were well fed by preparing a huge mound of rolls and sausage- surely the feed of the gods!- and serving them up in the garden. Even the clients at the centre across the road, which caters for adults with learning difficulties, got involved by directing the traffic past the scaffolding lorry.
It was all very exciting.
Inside the flat all the wallpaper is off, and we have had a …ooh, what is the collective noun for workmen? A traipse? A grimace? A clutch?? Anyway, lots of them have come in, looked at the damp and deathtrap electrical wiring and mentioned sums of money that seem more like ransom amounts than reasonable quotes to do the work.
The bad news is that after months of wallpaper stripping, it would appear that most of the plaster will have to be hacked off, on account of the damp, you see.
The good news is that once that’s done, we will have lovely ,dry, smooth new plastered walls.
The electrician has been, and knows a plumber- hurrah!- so really, it’s all moving along nicely , if still requiring lots of dosh to be spent.
Although my wallpaper stripping seems to have been a bit pointless, it has uncovered the original stencilling in the hall, almost intact on one side. apparently, painters and decorators carried a limited number of stencils, so whole tenements often boasted the same pattern and colour ways on their interior walls.
I’m not sure what Bob the beetle, who lives in the bathroom, will make of all the upheaval. He likes to hang about the shower tray, and despite Big Man evicting him several times, he has returned, often bringing his larger, more excitable, big brother, Bruce, with him.
Photos? well, I have none of Bob and Bruce, but here are some of the flat. What ? you thought this blog was going to be about something quite different? What do you mean?