Eastfield Farm, Saline, Kingdom of Fife

What a difference a little sunshine makes! I know I have said this before and I shall repeat this joyful expression whenever applicable. I had a full day of touring planned, well suited to clear weather. We set off as soon as we were packed up, heading on up that narrow North Road we are camped on, emerging onto the A977 and heading north west along the base of the Ochil Hills, soon arriving at Kinross on the banks of Loch Leven.

Our preferred tourist guide had stated that the access to the Heritage Scottish attraction on St Serf’s Island opened at 9.30 am; the notice on the door of the office stated it was half an hour later, so we set off for a short walk around the western edge of the lake. We were back before 10 am, the office door already open and the queues out the door. When we finally reached the desk ourselves, we learned that those who had booked on line had reserved all the places on the first ferry but they could fit us on the second at 11 am. In other circumstances this would have been quite acceptable, but we had a full schedule, and although not as rushed as say, a guided bus tour, we did not have spare days or hours up our sleeve to delay. 

Although now academic, our destination had been the Loch Leven castle, 14^th century ruins where Robert the Bruce established his exchequer and where Mary, Queen of Scots was imprisoned for eleven months in the late 1560s. She managed to charm the youthful brother of the castle’s owner, Sir William Douglas, into helping her escape, but the rest of the story should be left for those who actually manage to visit the island, or ourselves if we ever do manage to make the trip.

Disappointed, we pressed on to our second destination, but not before I realised that I had left the box of travel guides and reference books which accompany us on all our outings. For those modern folk who might query the necessity of this in such a digital age, I will explain that I ration my limited data allowance for matters outside the written page and my mobile library, and that I am still old fashioned enough to treasure real books, hence the hefty load we carry in our caravan, apart from the several weeks of canned food and wine stores. Let me confess the realisation of this omission was not met with a delicate “Oh dear! What a shame!”; my exclamation was unprintable.

Anyway, no one died, the sun continued to shine and the car did not breakdown. We continued on north east, now on the A91, turning south east on the A912 to Falkland, where sits a Palace of that name. This falls under the management of the Scottish National Trust, and as such entry is covered by our English National Trust membership. Even at this early stage of our touring in Scotland, I am ever grateful of our membership to the two associations, just as I have been when down in England. I cannot emphasise the benefit of such membership for those travelling in the United Kingdom for a similar period of time as we are.

Again we were early, the Palace not opening until 11 am. We easily found a parking spot immediately outside the entry beside the Post Office, which seemed on our cursory examination to be free of restrictions or fee. We wandered up through this charming little town, which sits at the foot of the twin peaked Lomond Hills, finding it doubly so because we have found little attractive about most Scottish villages and towns thus far. 

We were curious as regards any link between this little town and the islands in South America, the location of the war thirty years ago. Later research turned up the following: the islands were named after the Sound of that name, which in turn had been named after the 5^th Viscount of Falkland, whose title originated from this Scottish town of Falkland. So there is indeed a connection, albeit a rather circular one. 

After consuming a Scottish Pie, a research exercise for Chris, and a scone by yours truly with no ulterior motive but greed, we joined the queue and enjoyed our exploration through the restored Palace and subsequent wandering about the lovely gardens.

The Palace was a hunting retreat for the Scottish kings of old, constructed by James V, father to Mary, Queen of Scots. Charles II stayed here in 1650 when he came up to Scotland for his coronation and much more recently, the Queen Mother used to stay over on her way on up to Balmoral or the Castle of Mey, to break her journey. Young Prince William apparently brought his wife to be, Kate, here for picnics in the gardens, and the current Queen has been known to break her journey here, given that it is within a short driving distance from her favourite fish shop in Anstruther, or so the guides told us.

The bricks and mortar are owned by the Crown, hence the crown heritage administration and the fact the royals are entitled to pop in to stay or visit on a whim, but the lands about and the furniture within is all owned by the Marquis of Bute, the current noble one who abhors the title and chooses not to turn up in the House of Lords, preferring to spend his days acting like a normal person, if one who races cars can be considered normal.

It was his ancestor, the 3^rd Marquis of Bute who undertook the massive renovation of this castle; he had plenty of experience having made the amazing changes to the Carlisle Castle which we visited last year. These were only two of his projects; he had plenty of money to play with, the family having made an absolute killing providing port facilities for the coal industry in Wales. There is always more money in infrastructure and service industry than the actual extraction of minerals from the earth; ask most of those who busted their guts in gold rushes of old!

The guides in the Palace were excellent, and the information cards in a variety of languages were equally so, such a contrast to our experience at the Linlithgow Castle yesterday, but then everything goes better on a sunny day!

As we wandered through the expansive orchard, apples and pears ripening but not so much to encourage petty theft, we regretted not bringing our lunch in with us. While Chris popped out to retrieve our eski, the shop assistant quizzed me on where we had parked. It turned out that there were restrictions after all and the wardens are vigilant in their rounds; I rushed out to warn Chris and suggest we move up to the more official car park as advised by the assistant. Alas there was no room in the car park, so we left town, heading east toward the coast, hoping to find a spot conducive to picnicking. 

Fortunately we spotted a sign for such a spot as we sped along the A912, and after managing to turn around, made our way up into the Fife Regional Park, near the summit of East Lomond Hill which reaches 468 metres ASL, a little lower than its western sister, 522 metres ASL. The sealed road to the parking spot near the top had numerous passing spots but is otherwise very narrow, so I was surprised how many folk were already parked up before us. Walkers could be seen approaching the summit, although not quite as numerous and antlike as those seen on Arthurs Seat in Edinburgh.

We sat in the sunshine, a cool breeze blowing and expansive views spread out before us. What a fine spot to dine! Immediately below us we could see quite a large town and did wonder which this could be. We were surprised to learn from one of the interpretative boards that this was Glenrothes, a New Town designated in 1948. Of course we were familiar with the New Towns in England, to the north of London created to mop up the overflow from the capital immediately after the war.

Today Glenrothes is the third populous town in Fife with a population of about 40,000. At its genesis, it was planned to house miners who were to work at the newly established coal mine, the Rothes Colliery. The mine failed but the town subsequently developed as an important centre in Scotland’s “Silicon Glen”. Today it is the administrative capital of Fife but despite its brave spirit of survival, we skirted around the edge on our way to the small towns closer to the coast.

Buckhaven, and its twin, Methil, were some of those settlements with little appeal to us. These two were once little seaside villages, but together grew into mining towns in the 19^th century, Methil’s 17^th century harbour into one of Scotland’s most important coal ports. There is little attractive to see here. 

We turned south and followed the coast, finding the little village with the ugly name of Coaltown of Wemyss far more attractive, in fact quite charming. We passed through Kirkcaldy, and noted that here, like so many other places we had passed through today, the rolled-down shutters were closed over so many businesses. We wondered if today was a public holiday but subsequent checking proved this not to be so; the mystery remains.

Further south we followed the green shaded route along the coast, as scenic as the notation on our map, and paused high above the coast to look across the Firth to Edinburgh, up river to the bridges so allusive yesterday, and further west to North Berwick notable for its conical volcanic peak. At Dalgety Bay we turned west and headed into Dunfermline, shopping at an Asda store our Tomtom took us to. Our route home took us the same way we had come towing the caravan two days ago, but today with no driving rain, we were able to appreciate the undulations of the lovely rural land.

Back home, we found another caravan set up; we are no longer alone. Our hostess poked her head in to check we were keeping ourselves happily occupied and we filled her in on our last two days touring. She left assured that we thought her home and surrounds quite wonderful.