War machines, tav avoiders, climate change. If you want to escape politics, walking along the Firth of Forth is not the place to do it.
In 1918, my grandfather and seven other British officers escaped from a Turkish prisoner of war camp. That was the easy part. They then faced 450 miles of deadly heat, hostile terrain and trigger-happy brigands.
Once, London was a city of horses. Humans lived cheek by jowl with the 300,000 horses of cabmen, traders, laundrymen, grocers and rag-and-bone men. You can see the traces of that time everywhere: old stone drinking troughs, hidden cobbled mews, mounting blocks, slips and ramps.
Dreams, gods, ghost guards, emperors, a lovestruck moon – tea has a rich and often macabre heritage of superstition and stories.
Finding ghosts and spirits at a Victorian séance in one of Britian’s oldest music halls.
How a friendship inspired the great Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, to write a poem about a Scottish naval hero.
This town has an abandoned harbour, lost-in-time cafes, a train junkyard, old-world cinema and an astonishing annual fair. You’ve probably never heard of it (unless you live in central Scotland).
Celebrating new English football, drunken tales of the Tartan Army and looking forward to a football homecoming to Glasgow in 2020.
Submarine commander, sailor, governor of Burma, prisoner of war camp escapee and politician – my grandfather served a fascinating public life yet remains an elusive family figure.
Lennox Castle is an impressive ruin, lost in the woods, gleaming in winter sunshine and overlooked by the snow dusted Campsie Fells.