February is a month of fits and starts. It can be either the prolongation of winter, to which January opened the door, or it can provide the first chink of spring. There is evidence of new life in the snowdrops and other spring bulbs, and the odd tempting day that is mild and welcoming. On the other hand, it can provide days that are vicious and unforgiving. Today was one such. A coverlet of grey cloud, stretching into infinity, a wind that penetrated the warmest clothing and a landscape so bleak and unattractive as to lower one’s spirits to the level of the earth. I decided to take the dog to East Linton for our morning sojourn. Some wag had altered the ‘E’ on the road sign to ‘F’, so it read ‘Fast Linton.’ Fast it certainly isn’t. I know every inch of East Lothian after prowling around it for thirty years, and, whenever I’ve been there, East Linton slumbers away quietly and pleasantly, like a badger curled up in his sett. The nearest one gets to excitement is to hear the bark of the speeding trains, for the village is right in the lee of the East Coas
t main line. The park is large and generally empty, as it was today. We played with a tennis ball as usual, for a complete circuit, then I decided to strike out for a place called Pencraig, about a mile and a half to the south. All it is is a standing stone and a picnic area adjacent to the A1, up a hill from East Linton. The views of the ancient Traprain Law and the Firth of Forth are spectacular from there. The wind was billowing in straight from Stavanger and Tromso, and was at our backs as we traversed the muddy track for the slow climb to our destination. As soon as one leaves the village, one is out in the country without a dwelling in sight. A dry stone wall, ploughed fields, the odd telegraph pole, brambles and mud were our only companions. Even the sheep had deserted the place. There was no sound except the shriek of the wind, for here one is cruelly exposed to the elements. Not a single bird could be seen in the leaden sky. In places, the dry-stone wall had collapsed, leaving a shrine of jumbled stones by the path. We fumbled our way over an awkward stone stile, and continued the gentle climb. The farmer had recently ploughed the field and had dug in a great number of half-eaten turnips, winter fodder for the sheep. Amazingly, some showed signs of new growth. We opened a gate that was far too tightly chained and walked into the adjacent field. We found the path becoming more awkward and rutted with stones. Then, at a bend in the track which led to a wider, muddier path that leads to Pencraig picnic area, the dog stopped and refused to go another yard. Instead, she stood in a pool of water six inches deep and refused to move until I had retraced my steps. When she realised I had done this, she trotted gaily alongside me. We never did get to see the wonderful views of Traprain Law and the Firth of Forth. We ran slap-bang into the teeth of the howling wind instead. The cold made my eyes water so much you would have thought I’d just finished reading the death scene of Jo the crossing-sweeper in Bleak House. Walking down the hill back to the village was far worse, because one could very easily slip on the muddy stones and break a leg. I wondered how long you would have to wait to be found on a day like this, and I came to the conclusion that you’d die of hypothermia long before you were rescued. I was obliged to use the tennis racquet, which I’d carried all the way from the park, as a prop
to help me back over the stone stile. My boots, which were coloured blue at the start of the walk, were now brown. I thought I had caught a chill, for I shivered and shook a little as I reached the car, but five minutes of the car’s heater set me to rights. After ninety minutes in that barren windswept place, I felt like N.F. Simpson’s chap who ‘received a trouncing at the hands of fate.’ One thing is for certain - I’m not going back there until July.
t main line. The park is large and generally empty, as it was today. We played with a tennis ball as usual, for a complete circuit, then I decided to strike out for a place called Pencraig, about a mile and a half to the south. All it is is a standing stone and a picnic area adjacent to the A1, up a hill from East Linton. The views of the ancient Traprain Law and the Firth of Forth are spectacular from there. The wind was billowing in straight from Stavanger and Tromso, and was at our backs as we traversed the muddy track for the slow climb to our destination. As soon as one leaves the village, one is out in the country without a dwelling in sight. A dry stone wall, ploughed fields, the odd telegraph pole, brambles and mud were our only companions. Even the sheep had deserted the place. There was no sound except the shriek of the wind, for here one is cruelly exposed to the elements. Not a single bird could be seen in the leaden sky. In places, the dry-stone wall had collapsed, leaving a shrine of jumbled stones by the path. We fumbled our way over an awkward stone stile, and continued the gentle climb. The farmer had recently ploughed the field and had dug in a great number of half-eaten turnips, winter fodder for the sheep. Amazingly, some showed signs of new growth. We opened a gate that was far too tightly chained and walked into the adjacent field. We found the path becoming more awkward and rutted with stones. Then, at a bend in the track which led to a wider, muddier path that leads to Pencraig picnic area, the dog stopped and refused to go another yard. Instead, she stood in a pool of water six inches deep and refused to move until I had retraced my steps. When she realised I had done this, she trotted gaily alongside me. We never did get to see the wonderful views of Traprain Law and the Firth of Forth. We ran slap-bang into the teeth of the howling wind instead. The cold made my eyes water so much you would have thought I’d just finished reading the death scene of Jo the crossing-sweeper in Bleak House. Walking down the hill back to the village was far worse, because one could very easily slip on the muddy stones and break a leg. I wondered how long you would have to wait to be found on a day like this, and I came to the conclusion that you’d die of hypothermia long before you were rescued. I was obliged to use the tennis racquet, which I’d carried all the way from the park, as a prop to help me back over the stone stile. My boots, which were coloured blue at the start of the walk, were now brown. I thought I had caught a chill, for I shivered and shook a little as I reached the car, but five minutes of the car’s heater set me to rights. After ninety minutes in that barren windswept place, I felt like N.F. Simpson’s chap who ‘received a trouncing at the hands of fate.’ One thing is for certain - I’m not going back there until July.
