Autumn has bowed to winter in a sharp blast of gale force winds with only minor damage to my shed roof. So far so good, but looking out of my window at watery yellow sunshine on a frosty, clear day has me itching to finish the Coastal Path. It is, of course, part of our human nature to crave something we know we can’t or shouldn’t do, which is why many of us end up having to pay bail or tug on a parachute cord as the ground quickly approaches. I have the suspicion that you did not arrive at this blog looking for a philosophy lesson, however I recently received one of the wisest pieces of advice I’ve ever had and, as we all know, the only thing you can do with useless knowledge is pass it on so it fills up other people’s brains too. You’re welcome.
A friend of a friend came to my house to measure up for a job on my house (not repairing the shed) and while we were chatting, he started telling me about his own health issues. He has coped with these for many years and for a long time he fought against his illness, determined not to let it change his life. I nodded as he spoke, wholeheartedly agreeing. Then he said the thing that stopped me nodding and started me thinking. He stopped fighting because he couldn’t win the fight. The illness was not going away. So he accepted it and changed his circumstances so he could still live a full life. He told me that the key for him was acceptance.
In previous posts, I may have mentioned that I’m quite determined (which some people mistakenly refer to as being stubborn) so to me, “acceptance” has always sounded like “giving up”. So I decided to think about whether I’m winning the fight so far. Since I was diagnosed with MS at the beginning of May, I have walked about a mile of the Coastal Path. A mile in 6 months took some really hard fighting and it doesn’t really feel like a win if I’m honest; at this rate it will take me 44 and a half years to complete the remaining 89 miles of The Path. So what happens if I accept my situation and change my circumstances so I can live a full life? Or in other words: Could I win if I cheat “change the parameters of engagement”? A full life for me is getting out in nature and seeing the sky, the trees, the wildlife; hearing the birds, the waves, the rustling trees; smelling the flowers, the gorse, the sea salt. So as I accept my situation has changed, I realise that I need to cheat and use a quad-bike or an all-terrain assault vehicle or a hang-glider to get out there and finish The Coastal Path. Let’s face it, nobody else cares if I walk the Path or complete it on a rocket-powered rollator, so from now on my blogs will either be sponsored by NASA (“The caring rocket company”) or the NHS (“Had an accident? We can help, call us now on 999”).
The Fife Coastal Path does exactly what it’s name says and has a path running round the whole coast of Fife, from Kincardine on the River Forth all the way round to Newburgh on the River Tay. So far, my ramblings have been along the Tay, but today we bravely ventured to the other side of Fife and worked our way from Kincardine Bridge along to Torryburn in stops and starts.
This smooth tarmac section of The Path ran alongside a quiet road and for a long while, the views were uninspiring since the power station in Grangemouth occupied quite a lot of space on the far side of the river. Running along the sides of the road were stone walls and on the other side of these were a few cottages or houses and an occasional field for a bit of variety. When we reached the car park at Culross, the views had improved. The Path was now marching alongside the freight railway, which cut a long straight line between The Path and the Forth. The views across the water had opened up into green fields and on this side we could see what looked like an old pier. As we drew nearer, we could see it was an odd mix of wood and stone leaning out into the water and decided the information board might have an explanation, otherwise we could have stared at it and offered our own theories all day. The information board can be summed up like this: A long time ago, a clever man opened a really deep mine under the river. The miners needed to get rid of the water coming into the mine (it was either that or learn to swim) so the clever man built a fake island with a tower for machinery to lift the water out in buckets. All this seems very reasonable until you realise that the date he accomplished this was in 1575, not in the Victorian era as you might expect. He was way ahead of his time, so to put this in context: Scotland didn’t start it’s industrial revolution until the mid 1700’s, the average life expectancy in Scotland was 35, Shakespeare was only 11 years old and the first flushing toilet wasn’t invented for another 21 years. To find any of this remarkable structure still standing after 450 winters in the Forth River is very impressive.
Culross itself has more than it’s fair share of history for such a tiny village that no-one has really heard of. The clever man who built the mine also built himself a palace and that is one of the two dominant buildings in Culross. The palace looks like it belongs in the Mediterranean with it’s sun-coloured walls, terracotta pan-tiled roof and small square windows but the tiny diamonds of glass in the windows show all the excess of a Tudor-era aristocrat who was, quite literally, raking in the money. It's a shame Culross doesn't have a Mediterranean climate.
The history of Culross also has a murkier side to it which is linked to the second dominant building - the tall, dark town house. Witch-hunts took place here in the 17th and 18th centuries (as they did in other parts of the world) and in Culross, the accused were imprisoned and “questioned” in the upstairs room of the town-house. I realise that it wasn’t the building’s fault that ordinary women were treated so badly and yet I still dislike the brooding building and it’s patchwork of repairs.
In tiny Culross, it would be impossible to miss the bust of a man on a pedestal even if there wasn’t a huge floor inscription in front of it. But there is an enormous floor inscription and it reads: “Thomas Cochrane GCB, Admiral Of The Fleet, Marquess of Maranham – Brazil, Tenth Earl of Dundonald. By the confidence which his genius, his science and his extraordinary daring inspired by his heroic exertions in the cause of freedom, his great services alike to his own country, to Greece, to Brazil, Chile and Peru, he achieved a name illustrious throughout the world for courage, patriotism and chivalry.” Wow. That’s a long sentence and it took a little while for me to get my head around the grammar but once I did, I was intrigued. Until arriving in Culross, I’d never heard of Thomas Cochrane and I’m sure the majority of you haven’t either, but if you’d lived here in the 18th century you’d have known his name: he was one of the most famous men in the British Empire. Before progressing to Admiral in the Navy he was known for being insubordinate, flippant and disrespectful. But he was also a brilliant general and after being kicked out of the British Navy, went on to command the Chilean and Brazilian Navies and the tales of his victories were reported around the world. These included capturing 7 large forts with only 300 men, securing the surrender of the Portuguese and the independence of Brazil by bluffing. The public loved him and Napoleon gave him the nickname “The Sea Wolf”. I think if I’d met him, I’d probably have liked him but my nephew, on seeing the photograph of Cochrane’s bust, uttered the profound line: “He looks just like Gary Neville!”.
Finishing in Torryburn seemed a bit of an anti-climax compared to the history of Culross. The history of the witch hunts has also scarred this small village with a gravestone slab on the nearby beach marking the only grave in Scotland of a woman accused of witchcraft. Today, with the wind howling and the rain spitting viciously, it was just as well that the gravestone, and the treacherous mudflats it sits in, were hidden by the high tide. As far as I can tell, not much else has happened here that is worthy of recording for history but it’s a small village with a pretty view and maybe that’s a good thing for the locals. Perhaps they were glad to be living their lives quietly here for the last 700 years, since running the port for Dunfermline, weaving damasks and cotton for Dunfermline and Glasgow or digging in the nearby coal mines was a tough enough existence without all that history getting the way.
I’m happy to be outside, even if the rain is being blasted into my face by the wind. I’m happy to smell the salt air, even if I can’t feel my nose. I’m happy to have (almost) kept up with my fellow walkers, even if I did need a little mechanical assistance. I’m happy to be back on The Path, even if it did mean accepting my new circumstances. Turns out, cheating helps you win – who knew?
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