Very Inspiring Blogger Award

I’m over the proverbial moon to announce that Finding A Neish has been nominated for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award.

But in order to accept the award, the rules are as follows:

1) Display the award’s logo.

2) Link back to the blogger(s) who nominated you.

3) State seven things about yourself.

4) Nominate fifteen bloggers for the award.

5) Notify chosen bloggers.

And so:

1) See above. I displayed the logo at the outset of this article.

2) I was nominated by The Cycling Scot, aka Colin Baird and his trusty bicycle. Inspired by Scotland on a bike ride to the Orkney Isles, Colin has since travelled far and wide to get to know the country he calls home.

3) Seven things about me:

- I grew up across Scotland, England, Australia and Germany.

- My favourite place in the world (so far) is Berlin.

- It is my dream to visit, and perhaps one day even emigrate to Canada.

- I am an enormous popcorn addict. My love of travel is second only to my love of cinema. I started my own film blog in 2010, and contribute regularly to a number of specialist websites.

- I had my first ever magazine article published in January of this year, chronicling my journey to Syktyvkar, Russia for Quest Magazine. The trip also made it into an article featured by Wanderlust.

- I hold a degree in Psychology, a subject I adore but with which I fell out of love whilst studying at university.

- I am petrified of spiders. Even the tiny ones.

As for my own nominations, they can be found below:

Italian Notes

What Emily Did Next

Have Camera And Megarider

Explore Dream Discover

Elsewhere, Underwritten

Work In Prowess

The Vibe 101

Toemail

Seth Snap

Hiking Photography

Tour Scotland

Love Thy Bike

Bucket List Publications

Life Out Of The Box

The Diary Of A Retiree

5) I understand that this could be viewed as some new form of chain mail, but at the same time I don’t see anything wrong with a little bit of adulation and community building. To accept, simply copy what I have done here, and keep being brilliant.

Day of the dead sheep

Isn’t it strange how you can go your entire life without hearing of a place, only for it to randomly crop up again in conversation almost immediately after you have.

Take Glen Doll, an area just outside Kirriemuir that lies within the Cairngorms National Park. Days after it was ventured by my parents as a possible destination for a quiet Sunday stroll, I was hearing — unprompted — of how a co-worker’s relatives had in the past used it for the exterior shots of their various Star Trek fan-films.

When we eventually arrived in early May, however, it was not being used as a handy double for Qo’noS or Romulus, but by hikers and barbecuers keen to take advantage of the long-overdue warm weather. Reinvigorated by the beating sun and breathtaking scenery, we headed into the visitor centre to select a route and stock up on leaflets.

Due to forecasted showers in the late afternoon, we opted for the relatively short Viewpoint Trail in order to make the most of our small window of warmth. With the promise of crossbills, siskins and, if we were really lucky, pine marten droppings too, we found the first purple marker and set off for Cairn Derg. We had been instructed to allow one and a half hours for the three mile hike.

Billed by the brochure as a ‘strenuous muscle builder’, we were expecting something of an uphill slog to the summit. Thankfully, the road was anything but: a gentle ascent that meandered up the side of the glen high above the car park. As with those accompanying the road in, the views from the trail were simply stunning, each turn revealing a more impressive panorama as we climbed higher and higher.

While we didn’t see any deer or pine marten (though there were a few indistinguishable droppings), the day wasn’t completely devoid of wildlife; sheep and their lambs could be glimpsed far down in the glen below, and pheasants and rabbits could be seen crossing the road on your way in and out of the park. As for deadlife, we passed the intact skeleton of a ram approximately half way up the hill — the first I remember seeing since an ill-fated GCSE Geography field trip almost ten years before. (It had polluted the river we were supposed to be surveying.)

The rain started about an hour into our climb, just as we passed a small viewpoint overlooking a waterfall, the car park and the distant Corrie Fee. Unsure whether this was the end of the trail, we carried on until the track gave way to near-impenetrable woodland. We turned back — but not before spying a small, incongruous patch of snow in a clearing on the other side of some trees — and began our descent as the drizzle turned into rain.

Having passed it on the way in, we stopped at Glen Clova Hotel to wait out the worst of the weather. As a settling fog obscured the views we lunched on lentil soup, haggis and black balls pudding in whiskey sauce and lattes all around. It was a great end to a great day, and more than made up for our delayed arrival to Kirriemuir an hour or so later which ruled out a visit to the birthplace of J. M. Barrie.

Tresspassin’ in the rain

When I returned from Russia at the end of last year, I resolved to spend 2013 travelling. Whether gallivanting around the globe or exploring my own Scottish doorstep, I wanted to see more, to do more, and to experience more.

Over four months into the new year, however, I have done very little to break from routine. Spending my days working, my evenings writing and my money on the necessities of life, I have managed little more than a handful of day-trips to places I have been innumerable times before.

I decided that the next time a free day coincided with workable weather I would walk from Broughty Ferry to Arbroath. While hardly one of the great journeys of our planet, it would nevertheless satisfy the urge to do something different in an afternoon and on a budget.

As it happens, there is currently no coastal pathway leading into Arbroath from Dundee, leaving me with little choice but to stop at Carnoustie. Having never actually been to Carnoustie before, it seemed as good a destination as any. Digging out my camera and packing a jacket just in case, I set off out the door.

Starting at the Seven Arches Viaduct to save myself the walk I make every other day to work, I followed the Dichty Burn beneath the disused railway bridge and along the Monifieth Path Network to an almost derelict car-wash on the A930. Crossing the road, I made my way down to the beach.

It began raining almost immediately. Deciding to carry on rather than track back and sit out the shower in Monifieth’s Tesco, I amused myself by watching the windsurfers out on the River Tay, who were clearly unfazed by the wet weather. I used to think beaches were wasted on Scotland, but I have been proven consistently wrong by daredevil dog-walkers and New Year dookers refusing to give in to the elements.

I didn’t hear the loudspeaker at first, so immersed was I in both my surroundings and the folds of my hastily unpacked jacket. I hadn’t seen the warning sign either, presuming it to be the business of swimmers and surfers rather than day-trippers with no intention of going anywhere near the water. The distant shouts eventually caught my attention, however, as a uniformed man left his observation box to better instruct me to leave the beach, preferably before I was shot.

Unbeknownst to me, there’s a large firing range situated on the outskirts of Monifieth. The Barry Buddon Training Area sits next to Riverview Caravan Park and adjacent to Carnoustie Golf Links, from which it is separated by the Dundee and Arbroath Railway. Although safe to cross when not in use, the site was today restricted to the public on account of an important (and apparently much publicised) training exercise; a fact apparently denoted by the red flags being flown around the are.

Scurrying up a nearby sand dune to the facility’s car park under the watchful gaze of everyone within earshot, I opted self-consiously for a small path that seemed to follow the train tracks alongside the camp, saving me from a lengthy diversion back around the golf course. Unsure whether or not the warning signs applied to the pathway as well as the nearby road into the training area, I waited for a cyclist to slink past before following in his wake.

Aside from the odd startled jump whenever a golfer struck a ball, it was a pretty uneventful thoroughfare. The view unbroken except for strategically situated signposts promising explosions and death should I touch anything at all, I slipped back into my own little world, only to be awoken sporadically by the politeness of strangers, passing trains and the definitely mistakeable sound of someone teeing off.

After an unbroken hour of walking, I finally came to the end of the path at Barry Links, where it gave way to yet another golf course and a this-time-guarded entrance to the training area. Unable to return to the coast, I crossed the railway line and walked up Station Road towards Barry, a small Angus parish which as since been all but swallowed by the suburbs of Carnoustie, a welcome sign for which stood on the same roundabout which also fed into Barry.

Unsure exactly how large Carnoustie was going to be, I entered along the A930 and kept my eyes peeled for whatever might constitute the town’s centre. Pausing at every Post Office, hotel or clutch of shops in case I had just reached my destination, I kept walking for another mile and a half as Barry Road gave way to Brown Street, Dundee Street and, finally, High Street. Approximately two hours after setting off, I had arrived at Carnoustie.

Thankfully, the town was quite a bit larger than I had expected. The sun had finally come out, driving me into the first (open) newsagents I came across for a drink and something to eat before I took a look around. There is a lovely small-town feel to Carnoustie; the high street is incredibly green, thanks to the blooming war memorial and regular kempt plant-pots which line both sides of the road. Finally, having been separated from it since Monifieth, I decided to revisit the beach.

While it may not have been the most ambitious of excursions, it was still nice to get out of Dundee for the day and to see a town I had only ever bypassed by car on the way to Arbroath. A step (or rather a two-hour trek) in the right direction, it proved that you don’t have to go to the ends of the earth to see something new.

Just Glasgow with it

I’ve never known quite what to make of Glasgow.

While it might be the largest city in Scotland, with a vibrant retail centre, handsome suburbs and a busy subway, Glasgow also lacks the beaches of Aberdeen, the parks of Edinburgh and the Northern charm of Inverness.

Having never spent more than a single day (or, more often than not, night) exploring the town, I this weekend found myself with some time to kill in between commitments at the Glasgow Film Festival. When not rushing from Glasgow Film Theatre to Cineworld along the length of Renfrew Street, I took the time to explore a number of the side streets and surrounding areas, almost immediately finding a small but scenic little enclave just along from the cinema.

Following a Saturday morning screening of Beautiful Creatures on the fifth floor  of the world’s tallest cinema, and a trip to GFT to pick up my allocated press tickets, I travelled out of the centre by subway to Kelvinhall Station to meet a friend for dinner. Settling on The New York Kitchen on Dumbarton Road, I ordered a burger and drank in the Ketchup reds and mustard yellows of the themed decor.

With four films to watch and a festival podcast to record on Sunday, I breakfasted with Glasgow Evening Times’ house film critic and settled down for a full day of low-budget British horror, Irish musical comedy, Hitchcockian thriller and Nicole Kidman peeing on Zac Efron. After comparing notes at The Butterfly And The Pig, I returned to GFT for soup and a roll and settled in for my next film.

Stumbling out of the cinema at the back of eight, only then remembering that the subway closed early on a Sunday, I strolled down to Central Station to try and catch a train out to Partick where I had been staying. Pointed in the right direction by the woman selling tickets, I headed down to my platform and back out to the West End.

With nothing planned for Monday and a morning to kill before my bus back to Dundee, I unpacked my camera and headed back into the city centre. Despite the weather, I found myself warming to Glasgow as I was swept down Buchanan Street by swarming commuters and left astride Glasgow Bridge just in time to watch the sun rise over River Clyde.

By the time I boarded my bus at Buchanan Street station I was not only looking forward to returning the following weekend for another slate of films, but to getting another chance to explore. After all, now that I’ve has been awarded Wanderlust’s Blog Of The Week, I suppose I should really get looking — I still have a niche to find.

Freebiscuit

So what did you want to be when you grew up?

While at school other children took inspiration, ideas and leaflets away from careers day, I would routinely find myself leaving the event with nothing but a clutch of free pens, branded gonks and biscuit samples from the McVities stand that always sat by the door.

Recently, almost ten years on, I attended another recruitment fair, this time at my local town hall. I was surprised by just how little had changed. By and large it was the same industries, the same giveaways (minus McVities) and the same sense of complete befuddlement.

Despite going to university and working across a number of roles, I still have no idea what jobs are available to someone with my experience. Staring blankly at men in suits, confounded by inaccessible company names and intimidated by complicated business jargon, I once again found myself walking in circles looking for someone I might know.

I think it’s fair to say I don’t have realistic expectations where careers are concerned, and I don’t think I’m alone. Whether its bloggers eschewing gainful employment in favour of unpaid internships, wannabes enduring televised humiliation with hopes of instant celebrity or anyone studying sports science at university, it’s clear that something has at some point gone amiss.

Not to come across all Daily Mail, but I genuinely believe that the media is at least partly responsible. Turn on the TV, open a newspaper or visit your local cinema and you quickly notice a disparity in the portrayal of different professions. Analysts, bankers, administrators — they’re only ever revealed to possess unrealised potential or skeletons in their closets. It’s no wonder that just about everyone who appears on reality television begins by saying they don’t want to be a DESK JOKEY in an OFFICE JOB working NINE TO FIVE. I mean, how boring!

No, nobody wants to feel like they’re wasting their time, especially at work where they should be saving the world or producing art. But while you can laugh at a child who wants to be a Jedi or a superhero, it’s far more difficult to ignore a large group of working-age adults who all want to be authors, musicians or simply famous for famous’ sake. After all, half of the jobs that we have been conditioned to desire never even existed to begin with; the rest are woefully over-saturated.

Take journalism, for example. I have spent the last two years engaging in freelance film criticism for a variety of online outlets. But while I have enjoyed my taster of the high life — visiting sets, interviewing actors and attending film festivals — I would enjoy it even more should I ever get to do it full-time, for a living.  Unfortunately, I’m not alone.  The same is true across most forms of journalism (except, perhaps, the more important and less glamorous investigative avenues), with hundreds of talented and deserving writers pursuing jobs that simply are not there.

Call me naive or gullible to covet fictional jobs and glamorised careers, but I have never been sold on the alternatives. My school-sanctioned work experience saw me serving dinners at a rival school while the careers consultations I did receive were with an over-simplistic computer algorithm that encouraged every other user to become a priest, a vet or a landscape gardener. And these are supposed to be the realistic options.

It’s clearly time that I looked elsewhere for inspiration. Preferably somewhere that still has free biscuits.

Look Who’s Dooking

It took me about a week to settle back in to life in the U.K.

I arrived home just before Christmas, and as a result spent the next few days shopping for presents in Dundee and Edinburgh, my jet-lag on hold until the festivities were finished. By Boxing Day I was desperately in need of a rest, eight weeks of restless nights and long hours finally taking their toll.

I permitted myself a fortnight of freedom before I renewed my apparently never-ending search for permanent, full-time employment – preferably in Scotland this time, and used it to catch up on sleep and with friends. I bought a new camera in the January sales and used the break to get to grips with my newest gadget.

After a quiet Hogmanay spent drinking cider in Broughty Ferry’s Ship Inn, I began the new year with a walk to the harbour in the hope of catching the dookers on the morning of January 1st. It’s about a forty minute walk from my parents’ house, and on a nice day it can make for a very pleasant stroll along the beach.

Dooking is the process of running into the sea, usually in celebration of something or other. Abroad, people don’t dook; other nations would go for a swim or a paddle. But mid-winter in Scotland affords no such sea-side luxury. In Scotland it’s an event – a test of endurance. And one that people seem to flock to.

Arriving over an hour early, I left my parents to secure a patch of pier with a decent enough view of the slipway below while I wandered onto the high street to search for coffee. Costa was open, so I ordered a couple of lattes and the largest Honeycomb Hot Chocolate on offer in a bid to compensate for the piddly portions served in Syktyvkar.

I was surprised by just how cold it was outside; after two months of sub-zero temperatures in Russia I had expected Scotland to feel positively equatorial. I zipped up my jacket against the wind and felt immediately warmer. With my purchases secured in a cardboard carrier, I returned to the harbour.

It was an incredibly clear day, the view of the two bridges feeding Dundee unobstructed by fog or cloud. Most impressive of all was Broughty Ferry castle, which was perched prettily just opposite the pier, across the harbour from where by parents had taken up position. We sipped our drinks as a crowd formed in the structure’s shadow.

A loud-speaker somewhere behind us announced the afternoon’s itinerary: there would be a fancy dress competition at quarter to two followed by the dook itself forty-five minutes later. A quick look around revealed a couple of superheroes, a few cross-dressers and the obligatory smurf. Only in Scotland.

Following a quick photo opportunity at the top of the ramp that the participants would later run down, the costumed competitors disappeared back into the crowds to cover up until the main event itself. We waited for what felt like another hour while paramedics took to the water and the event’s organisers beach-combed for anything potentially sharp or dangerous.

Finally, in a flurry of activity, the dookers assembled once more — Batman and Where’s Wally standing out amongst a scrum of pale-bodied Scots shivering for warmth. One whistle later and they were off — pushing past one another in a race to get it over and done with, as soon as humanly possible.

It was quite the spectacle, as five hundred thrill-seekers — both more brave and more bonkers than I — hit the water. Some shrieked before the water had even passed their ankles, and hot-footed it back up the slipway, while others took to the water like deranged ducks, swimming well beyond the ladders so that they had to be herded back by strategically placed men in boats.

The whole thing was over in about five minutes, as the last of the participants shivered their way back up the ladder and into the arms and towels of various beaming loved ones. The screams of enjoyment gave way to stutters of strife as they were led away from the water. I tried to pick out the smurf but it proved impossible — almost everyone had by this point turned blue.

Not for the first time that day my thoughts turned to Russia, to the time I was told about Baptism Day. Every January 19th, in just about every Russian village, a hole is drilled into the ice covering rivers, lakes and tributaries so that individuals can Christen themselves for the following year. Three times each.

I have never understood such recklessness, even when it’s in the name of charity or – as in the case of Russians – Christ. And that’s not even taking into account the individuals doing it unbidden for their own enjoyment or sense of accomplishment. But each to their own. I’m sure there are those who would consider two months in Syktyvkar just as foolhardy.

Anyway, how did you celebrate your new year?

2012: The Unexpected Journey

Looking back, there’s no way that I could have predicted half of what happened this year. But that’s to be expected I suppose, as — plan though we might — life has a habit of getting in the way.

I started this year in Edinburgh, hopelessly hungover, hurrying around the Grassmarket as I attempted to collect tokens as a part of the city’s inaugural New Year Games. I was an Uppie, you see, and I had a Minotaur to de-ribbon.

After finishing my Christmas temp-job in January, I started to prepare for the following month’s Glasgow International Film Festival. My job-seeking took a short hiatus as I caught a couple of movies and lost myself to Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games, and its two equally superb sequels.

Knowing that I had a friend’s overseas wedding to prep for, I took a position as a runner on a multimedia beer commercial back in Edinburgh. I saw out February on a pier at Newhaven Harbour, fetching coffees and hosing down the nearby fishmonger’s for filming. After a week of camera-sitting in the rain I genuinely thought I might have hypothermia. Little did I know that my year was set to get much, much colder.

It was during the first half of the year — in early April — that I attended the first of two funerals. Tragically, in 2012 I lost my uncle long before his time, as well as my great aunt just a few months later. I was also left to watch helplessly as my grandmother’s memory was savaged by Alzheimer’s. Each was mourned, and each will be missed.

Still unemployed, I took the opportunity to focus more on my writing. As I continued to contribute to HeyUGuys and BestForFilm, I also began writing for WorkInProwess and started filming the occasional reaction for STV’s MovieJuice. My efforts were rewarded with a growing readership for my own blog, PopcornAddiction.

In June I set off for Boukari Beach, Corfu. My lawyer friend and my musician friend were set to get married, and after a number of other friends pulled out I decided just to forget the finances and go anyway. Stopping off in London on the way, I caught up with various BFF co-contributors before heading out to the airport where the bride and groom almost missed their flight.

Less than a week later I was back in Glasgow with the slightest of tans and a rash where I’d accidentally leaned on a sea anemone. No sooner was I back, than I was in Edinburgh for my second and final film festival of the year. For one glorious week I watched movies, conversed with critics and interviewed Robbie Coltrane for Pixar’s Brave.

Like most people, I spent the last two weeks of July obsessing over the London Olympics. Usually anti-sport of any kind, I nevertheless found myself caught up in the excitement and patriotic pride that seemed to grip the nation. I watched everything that the BBC had to show, and still smile whenever footage from the opening or closing ceremonies is aired.

After a summer of sport and cinema, in which Marvel’s Avengers Assemble, Prometheus and The Amazing Spider-man kept my jaw planted firmly on the ground between bouts of vicarious volleyball, I resumed my attempts to find a job, and attended my second wedding of the year. In August, out of sheer desperation, I answered an advert calling for a teaching assistant in Russia.

I interviewed for the position in between my mum’s graduation and my own birthday. Successful, I spent September on Skype with a wonderful and preternaturally patient Ukranian woman down in England, learning the basics of the language and attempting to get my invitation, insurance and Visa in order for the trip.

I left Edinburgh airport on the 25th of October, and landed in Syktyvkar three flights and 30-odd hours later. For two months I taught English, made lasting friends, explored the surrounding area and drafted a pair of magazine articles to be published upon my return. In order to keep a record of my day-to-day adventures, I started this very blog.

It was in Russia that I first tried tongue, that I finally experienced true cold and where I realised my childhood dream of being a travel writer — just like an amateur Bill Bryson, Michael Palin or, er, Tintin. Sort of. Maybe. I soon found a new audience, learnt something of Komi culture and gave an interview for the local newspaper.

I returned home the weekend before Christmas, spending the intervening days devouring Homeland, catching up with friends and family, and attempting to finish my Christmas shopping before the big day. Eating out for the second year in a row, I binged on game pie, turkey and desert, happy to be home and with my family for Christmas Day, and free from washing up.

And that was 2012; a year of heartache, homesickness and apparently endless unemployment. But it was also an exciting year, a successful year, and a hugely enjoyable one. It was twelve very different months that I am unlikely ever to forget. I wouldn’t want to.

Here’s to the future, and to hopefully finding my niche in 2013.