Strathclyde Country Park Caravan Club Site, Bothwell, Glasgow

Political tragicks that we are, we welcomed the return of the Andrew Marr Show this morning willing to sacrifice some of our morning’s touring to catch up on the week’s political comments and opinions; oh, how we have missed this over the summer holiday months! However we were organised enough to still be away at 10 am, heading north on the motorway into the centre of the city of Glasgow, finding our way to the Cambridge Street car park, advertising a flat Sunday parking fee of £3, a far cry from that charged the other six days of the week. It was a bit of a hike into the centre of town, but we counteracted that by filling our faces at McDonalds with an unnecessary morning coffee and mini-feast, despite the fact we had the day’s picnic lunch packed in the rucksack. This and other stories of greed are the reason why my jeans are fitting a little tighter than before.

Without a map we wandered from one signpost to another, finally making our way toward the Information Centre. I am not sure how long ago the Centre relocated to GOMA (Gallery of Modern Art) but I suspect it was some time ago given the well-established eateries along the street where it is supposed to be according to the signs. Obviously the tourist budget is a little stretched and signage down the list of priorities.

The confusion took us into George Square which today was hosting an event, One Big Picnic, more than ten different charities and community initiatives having set up stalls and handing out food and refreshments to anyone passing or in need of nourishment. My husband was offered an egg sandwich which he accepted with good grace, I turned down a ham sandwich; I have to be very hungry to succumb to ham. There were also a group of Sikhs who were demonstrating the winding and wearing of their own special brand of turban which was creating much hilarity for everyone involved. Duvet inners were scattered about the square and various family and friendship groups were settling down to create a patchwork of multiculturalism. On the four corners of the square were buskers of varying ages and musical styles. All in all, this heralded warm and fuzzy feelings for a city that has a long history and reputation as being a rough and tumble place.

George Square is surrounded with imposing Victorian architecture, and on the southern side the equally imposing City Chambers stand awaiting further inspection. We have learned that during the week, one can take an escorted tour through the hallowed halls and if time and schedule allows, we might well do this in the ensuing days.

The Gallery of Modern Art is close by, and after discovering the tourist information in the basement and picking up a good city map, we explored the exhibitions on the floors above. As per normal, there were many works of “art” we did not appreciate however I was delighted to find a Stanley Spencer and a couple of Beryl Cook’s work, the latter not considered a serious artist by the academics, but certainly enjoyed by an ignoramus like me. It was also amusing to join a large group of visitors watching a rather odd film where the artist had set up a chain of events including tyres and fire, a little like watching a thousand lined up dominoes falling. Such odd things capture the attention of humans, and we were no less than the rest.  

The art gallery is housed in what was once a grand mansion built in 1775 for the tobacco lord William Cunningham, obviously on the back of slave labour, which we will pretend we know nothing of.  Later it served as the city’s Royal Exchange and does seem to have been better suited to a commercial use rather than a private residence, however there is no accounting for taste. When it was built, it was then on the most westerly point in the city, something that seems quite incredible from this end of history, even armed with only the visitor central city map.

The gallery was opened in 1996 with six galleries, and today we were able to view three galleries full of an eclectic mix of modern art and could have taken part in CPR training in Gallery One had we wanted to experience something a little different. I do not mean to dismiss this un-artistic happening; it is something I have been thinking about doing of late, but the timing was off and hopefully any need to use such knowledge will fit neatly with delayed instruction.

Scotch mist had arrived by the time we emerged from the gallery; we were glad to have our raincoats on, but then they have become part of our everyday wear since we arrived in Scotland. We walked up through the city, past the Strathclyde University undergoing major new construction, and up to St Mungo’s Cathedral. 

Like most religious structures in Britain, it has had its share of construction and de-construction, first built in 1136, then destroyed in 1192, partially rebuilt thereafter but not completed until the late 15^th century. St Mungo, aka St Kentigen, was once interred in the basement of the church, but his relics were removed in the late Middle Ages, and have since disappeared, although I am sure there are some odd balls who profess to have little bit of his remains here or there.

These days it is part of the Protestant tradition, although the layout is very Anglican. Chris reckoned it to be one of the most attractive churches we have visited in Scotland, although added “But that is not saying much”.

I rather liked it, although do accept that I was probably influenced by the fact there was music as we stepped inside. An organist was practising and had managed to cause the many tourists to seat themselves quietly in reverential listening pose. We did likewise, although I did think the music was rather dark, a bit like the stonework of the building. I prefer church music to be more uplifting, or even joyful; this was more dirge-like. Later we wandered down into the crypt in search of St Mungo’s remains, admiring various aspects of the architecture, and finally left to more joyful strains from the organ.

Behind the Cathedral, now of course not a cathedral at all, the Necropolis dominates the landscape.  This is an elevated grassy mound crowded with an assortment of crumbling and tumbling gravestones, ornate urns, gloomy catacombs and neoclassical temples. Inspired by the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris, the garden of death was established in 1832, and quickly became a popular place for the great and good of the wealthy 19^th century Glaswegians to indulge their vanity; some 50,000 burials have taken place since the first, and there are 3,500 monuments. My husband found it all rather distasteful, I found it fascinatingly crazy and did love the views afforded from the summit, albeit through rain now much heavier than mist.

We descended from our viewpoint and made our way back to the car park, and finally arrived wet and tired, ready to head back to Strathclyde Country Park via the Tesco at Bellshill, a journey that should have been quite straightforward but was complicated by the fact that the M8 has been altered since we bought our Tomtom. The Chauffeur was no amused.

Strathclyde Country Park Caravan Club Site, Bothwell, Glasgow

We slept later that we ought given the day’s itinerary. If the weather app on my phone is to be believed, today was to be the last of the better weather for the rest of our time about Glasgow. 

Its only about half an hour through to Stirling on the wonderful motorway system of Glasgow and surrounds, and reliably so on a Saturday morning. We wound our way up the narrow steep lanes to the carpark near Stirling Castle, its very existance a surprise given the location. However for the privilege of proximity, we were charged £4 which is quite an extra if you have to pay for castle entry as well. Fortunately for us as three year term members of English Heritage, that was our only cost, so it was soon forgotten.

Stirling Castle is an imposing sight even from some distance back from the township, as it sits on the top of a sheer crag which drops straight down 250 feet from one elevation and similarly dangerously on two other sides.

The first written records from around 1110 AD  record Alexander I dedicating a chapel here, and given that it was here he died fourteen years later, there may have already been an established royal centre here before then. His successor David I granted Stirling royal burgh status and the castle was then an important administrative centre.

Through the following centuries the castle changed hands between the Scots and the English, and more often during the Wars of Independence between 1296 and 1342 when it was finally returned to Scottish control. At this point Robert the Bruce ordered the castle to be destroyed so that there was nothing for the English to retake; hence there is little of the castle that dates back very far, apart from its turbulent history. Standing over the lowest point at which the River Forth could be bridged at the time, Stirling Castle guarded the strategic gateway between Highlands and Lowlands, hence its popularity.

Rebuilding did occur, fine royal residences existed in various forms, and during the reign of James IV, the Great Hall, the largest and most magnificent medieval hall in Scotland, was completed.  But by the time James VI moved to England with the Union of the Crowns in 1603, the need for royal residences in Scotland diminished, and by the late 1600s the Great Hall seems to have been used mostly as a stable and cart shed.
A century later, the Napoleonic Wars created a demand for additional barrack accommodation for Scottish soldiers, and much of Stirling Castle was taken over and altered to house the army, including a remodelling of the Great Hall.

In 1964, after about one hundred and fifty years of occupation, the army moved out of Stirling Castle and work began in earnest to conserve the buildings. However it was not until 1991 that a major project to improve visitor facilities and pre-present the castle got underway. It took four hundred Perthshire grown oak trees to provide timber for the reconstruction of the oak hammerbeam roof and one year for skilled carpenters to restore the Great Hall. More recently the royal palace has been restored, complete with reworked tapestries, the documentation of the work forming an exhibition all of its own.

We arrived just minutes before one of the half hourly free tours, and enjoyed this immensely, giving us a good overview which we then followed up with a further three hours of exploration. The Castle covers an extensive  area, albeit perched on the rock, and deserves the good part of a day, something that surprised Chris more than I; I had done some homework before planning the day.

Despite the afternoon being well advanced, we still had another destination to take in; the National Trust of Scotland’s Bannockburn Heritage Centre, located a couple of miles south of Stirling. This is not a museum in the way that the Culloden Battle centre is, but more an adventure for the younger set. The centre is set on several acres, part of the original battlefield, the rest long urbanised. 

The spot where Robert the Bruce supposedly planted his standard to signal the 1314 battle was marked by a mill stone for many centuries, visited almost as a spiritual shrine by many. These days the history worshippers can still do so, but the spot is marked with much more.

To mark the 650^th anniversary of the battle a bronze statue of The Bruce were commissoned for the site, funded by public subscription and a large donation from a Canadian lawyer, presumably with Scottish heritage. Seven years before that anniversary, a fifteen foot memorial cairn with bronze plaques was erected by the Merchant Guildry of Stirling, also funded from Scots living locally and overseas. There is also a concrete and mortar rotunda surrounding a flagstaff, designed to frame key views in the story of the battle, however it did not do much for me.  As part of the 700^th anniversary of the battle, all the monuments were conserved.

However the paying tourist does not come principally for these, although they are a bonus. The visitor centre apart from offering a café, a shop and conveniences, offers an experience quite different to anything we had ever had before, but then that might be because we do not frequent fun-fares or play computer games. 

Visitors are taken in batches and treated to a couple of little 3D animated films explaining the build up to the battle from both the English and Scots perspectives, then taken through to a room where they are bombarded with more 3D battle scenes, all accompanied by the dramatic and inarticulate passionate young guide. Now perhaps this is because my hearing is no longer what it was, but I was left confused as to what we were supposed to do after that. Finally I managed to figure out that I was supposed to stand on various foot pads and wave my hands about to rouse various virtual characters to hear their stories. The star of the experience is a 3D military game, which surprisingly proved to be the redeeming feature for me, and then only because the large nerdy type who is master of the game had an excellent introductory speel explaining the battle with the field all laid out in front of us, and spoke clearly. After that we watched as a teenage girl and her parents battled out their own version of Bannockburn, a variation that ended up with three times the fatalities actually suffered.

For those not familiar with this battle, it was the most famous in Scottish history when King Robert the Bruce won his mighty victory over the English led by Edward II on 24 June 1314. It was this battle, the climax of the Wars of Independence which united the Scots under Bruce and led to independence from England, sealed with the 1320 Declaration of Arbroath which I mentioned when we travelled through Arbroath ourselves several weeks ago. 

It was well after 5 pm when we emerged from the centre, having gained the education I was seeking but not in the preferred manner; I guess I am just too much of a fuddy duddy.

Strathclyde Country Park Caravan Club Site, Bothwell, Glasgow

I sometimes lose track of the fact we are travelling as part of our life, rather than living our life as part of our travel; yesterday brought this to my attention again. I would have had us out ticking off one of those destinations on the two pages of “places to see”, but my ever practical husband considered our day spent otherwise. It is just as well one of us has their feet firmly on the ground!

The Chauffeur had been mumbling about the vehicle’s suspension for some weeks now, but he is more of a glass-half-empty than I, so I let it all pass over my head. I should have known better because we have experienced this particular kind of problem before, the first time with the Mitsubishi Canter motorhome we owned until three years ago, and more latterly, with our “work” vehicle, our antiquated Isuzu Bighorn. In both cases we had the suspension dealt to and the difference was noticeable, let alone making matters more roadworthy. Thus we spent four hours through the middle of the day chasing diagnosis and quotes for the repair, if required, and also to consider an annual service.

Other mumblings and frustrations within our domesticity have related to the non-functioning of the television remote, an essential tool when travelling even more than when one is settled in one place. The touring television requires frequent retuning and this is done with remote in hand because operating the manual controls on modern televisions is almost a total no-go. 

With full internet reception, I was able to provide contact details for all consultations, and so armed with this, we zigzagged about the southern suburbs of Glasgow, visiting this business then another, through Hamilton, Blantyre, Motherwell and Coatbridge, none of these easy on the eye, and even then, we were left to finish the task this morning.

Soon after 2 pm yesterday I managed to rescue the day by suggesting we find our way to Bothwell Castle, a Heritage Scotland property, to provide some relief from the tedium of technology and financial considerations. Even this turned into a gruelling exercise, because we were caught in a traffic snarl up before we reached the more attractive little suburb of Bothwell.

Bothwell does have charm, and is currently celebrating the build up to the annual Scarecrow Festival, with rather ghastly stuffed effigies in various costume and disguise placed along the High Street. The mere fact I have remarked on this suggests the exercise is successful, although it did not encourage us to park up and add to the economy. Hopefully there were others who did otherwise.

Bothwell Castle was the star of the day, only because it contrasted with the practical aspects of the rest. All historical ruins and remains are interesting but this should not be on the tourist’s must-see. It is more the place you take the grandkids or your dog for distraction; there is room to run about, away from urban surrounds.

The Castle is promoted as one of Scotland’s most dramatic citadels, as well as the most magnificent ruin in Scotland, its great red sandstone bulk looming above the River Clyde, however that is not the aspect the visitor sees on arrival. The painting shown on one of the interpretative panels, one I have seen elsewhere, perhaps hanging in a gallery, supports this publicity. These days it is very much a ruin although one can climb up through some of the keep’s remains.

The castle was built by Walter of Moray, son-in-law of Walter Olifard who was created Lord of Bothwell by King Malcolm in the late 1100s. This Walter Murray wanted a grand residence to befit the family’s high social status, however his plans were never finished, probably interrupted by Edward I’s English invasion in 1296. In fact the castle was torn apart by the Wars of Independence, surviving siege after siege. In about 1362 Joanna Moray, a descendant and heiress of Bothwell, married Archibald Douglas, who set about rebuilding it to become an imposing noble stronghold.

Then in 1455 James II overthrew the Douglas owners and Bothwell became a royal castle, hence its enhanced historical status.

However by the 1700s, Bothwell castle was ruined. Its owner Archibald Douglas, 1^st Earl of Forfar, began work on Bothwell House, to the east of the castle, using stone from the castle to create a fashionable Palladian style mansion. This was eventually demolished in 1926 due to mining subsidence.

All the above suggests I did not enjoy our visit; I did especially appreciate the wonderful large blocks of red sandstone and the castellated tower, but it will not feature on my list of favourite castles, or even those in Scotland.

But actually the highlights of yesterday were contact with family, the first with our daughter and her family, and the second with Chris’s brother to discuss yet another practical requirement, the storage of our caravan for the next year.

This morning dawned cold and clear, a perfect spring day, so appropriate on the first official day of autumn (I say this as I consider that 1 September is the first official day of Spring DownUnder, so surely the reverse is true here?)

We headed away half an hour early for our 9 am appointment, a garage just eleven minutes away, but the morning rush hour prolonged the journey to fit perfectly with our allowed time. The rather rough looking mechanic soon had our Sorrento up on the hoist, then down again, and declared he saw nothing wrong with the vehicle or more particularly, the suspension. So we were left with the fact that he was either an ignoramous, or the garage yesterday had been playing on our concerns. I suggested that the best solution for the immediate future was to do nothing, sleep on it and /or seek a further opinion down in our “home” county. Chris has remained silent on the issue and I have yet to learn his decision, but will respect it whatever it should be. After all, what would I know!? But we did agree that it was foolish to spend money unnecessarily.

The rest of the day was in the Tour Leader’s hands, so we headed for New Lanark south via the Clyde Valley, passing through several little settlements, most host to garden centres. We arrived in the car park at our destination minutes before the opening time of 10 am.

New Lanark, less than five miles short of Lanark, is a purpose built 18^th century factory village on the edge of the River Clyde, immediately below Dundaff Linn, one of the four waterfalls that together are the Clyde Falls. The curved walls of the warehouses and tenements, built in the Palladian style are stunning, even without the fascinating social and economic history that surrounds the place. Since 2001 this has had World Heritage Status, awarded for both the natural beauty of the setting and its history. 

The community was initially founded by David Dale and Richard Arkwright in 1785 to harness the power of the Clyde Falls in their cotton spinning industry, but it was Dale’s son-in-law, Robert Owen, whose legacy is most celebrated here. 

Ten years after David Dale’s builders began work, there were four six storey mills and housing for about 1,500 people, including nearly four hundred pauper orphans sourced from the city. By 1818, the population of New Lanark had reached 2,500, of whom almost 1,500 were employed in the mills. By the year 1901, the population had dropped to 795, due to the efficiency of more modern machinery , and by the time the mills closed in 1968, less than three hundred people were living in the village. 

Back in 1963 the New Lanark Association was formed and registered as a Housing Association, a non-profit making organisation dedicated to restoring the historic buildings, and providing comfortable modern homes to keep the village as a living community. The Gourock Ropework Company, which now owned the mills and village, transferred ownership of the housing to the Association.

Today the enterprise survives as a tourist and event destination, a hotel, a landlord to forty five domestic tenancies and several more commercial ventures including a chartered accountancy practice in the old machinery works, and by on-selling its surplus hydro-generated electricity to the national grid.

While there is much about the history of the mills operations including resurrected spinning and spooling of wool, as opposed to the cotton in years gone by, the focus is mainly on the man who changed the face of what so easily could have become yet another industrial revolution stink-hole. 

Robert Owen spent twenty five years here moulding New Lanark into his own brand of Utopia, building an Institute and school to provide community facilities for recreation and education, along with instigating a set of nineteen rules for cleanliness and hygiene. After selling the mill and embarking upon a rather dubious attempt to set up a similar Utopian settlement in the United States of America, he returned to Britain somewhat poorer, to spend the next forty years or so making his mark on British social history.

Despite his failure in the States, his efforts there can be credited with many firsts in American society:

• ·         The first kindergarten and infant school
• ·         The first trade school
• ·         The first free public school system
• ·         The first free library
• ·         The first civic dramatic club
• ·         One of the first organised women’s clubs, the Minerva Society

In 1844, a group of Lancashire workers, inspired by Robert Owen’s example, set up a small store in Toad Lane, Rochdale. Like him, they wanted to make sure ordinary people got good value for money, a share in the profits, and the opportunity for education. They came to be known as the Rochdale Pioneers and the Co-operative Movement grew out of these trading experiments. Soon co-operative societies were springing up all over the country. With the formation of the International Co-operative Alliance in 1895, the movement became worldwide. A century later, there are co-operatives in eighty countries with over seven hundred million members; all thanks to Robert Owen.

It was also his idealism that inspired the founding of dozens of communities in Europe and the New World, and while many of these were short lived, there were other developments like the model village of Port Sunlight south of Liverpool that we visited last year that can be attributed to Robert Owen.

Apart from the inspiration and wonders of New Lanark, the Clyde Falls are all easily accessed from here. We walked upriver to the lovely Corra Linn, at an impressive eighty four feet, the highest and most famous of the four waterfalls. The pathway along the river is managed by the Scottish Wildlife Trust who has a small exhibition within the mill complex. Here great attention is given to the badgers, peregrene falcons and bats who live hereabouts. I was very concerned to learn that about 10,000 badgers are illegally killed in sporting dog fights just for fun, with another 50,000 killed on the road. I had heard the term “badger baiting” before but never given it much thought; I am appalled that this goes on.

Upriver we passed the workings of a small hydro-electric station, and learned that this and another nearby had been built in 1925, but more surprisingly we learned that only 13% of Scotland’s electricity is generated from renewable sources. We had thought that with all the hydro stations we had encountered over the past few weeks and the hundreds and hundreds of wind turbines all about, Scotland would have been generating well over 50% renewable energy.

Chris was less than impressed with New Lanark, and I had to agree that the ticket price was a little on the greedy side. The interactive experience on offer, a ski-lift like contraption which moves through a tunnel of films and holograms, where you learn about life in early 19^th century New Lanark through the eyes of a twelve year old, could have been done better, and although the other exhibits were interesting, they lacked the modern professionalism of say, the Glenfinnan Visitor Centre visited a couple of days ago. The saving grace of the whole experience was the excellent hour and a quarter tour we took with Paige, hearing all about the operation, history and good works of Robert Owen.  

After leaving New Lanark, we drove into Lanark itself and walked up and down the High Street, finding it to be one of the more attractive townships, although there seem to be few Scottish townships that are a patch on their English cousins.

Back home, the sun was still shining so I celebrated by hanging a load of laundry outdoors on my little rotary line, and had the joy of catching up with yet another of our chldren on Skype, this time with my older son.