efog-blog
Recent outings and activities...
A visit to the Treshnish Isles and the Island of Staffa
Boarding the "Staffa Tours" boat at Tobermory
As part of the EFOG's group visit to the Isle of Mull, where we stayed at Tobermory Youth Hostel, a sub-group elected to do a day-trip from Tobermory to the Treshnish Isles and the island of Staffa. This was on 27th May 2014. Those that went on the trip were Fozie, Jinan, Pam, Fritz, Fred and Paul
The Treshnish Isles are a group of small islands off the west coast of Mull – which is itself west of Oban in Argyll. They are owned by the Hebridean Trust, and are designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest. (SSSI). Although uninhabited now, there are remains of chapels, castles and homesteads – proof that this remote and exposed archipelago was once home to a vibrant community.
Lunga
There are apparently no good landing places on the Treshnish Isles, and proof of this was when the “Staffa Tours” boat that had carried us from Mull reached the island that we were to land on: Lunga.
A dark mass of boulders separate the boats from LungaThere are two or three floating pontoons permanently moored adjacent to Lunga. Lunga, by the way, is Viking for “Long Island”. The tour-boats draw up alongside one of these and move it towards the island, so that passengers can step off the boat and onto the multitude of different-sized rounded boulders that constitute the “beach”. Now these boulders really are treacherous, and there is a lot of balancing, mutual hand-holding, unintended sitting-down and trepidation before safe and lovely land is reached.
Once across the boulders, the way is easy...And it really is lovely; short rabbit-cropped grassland with ferns and wild flowers of all sorts including thousands of bluebells. The path works upwards to the flat, grassy top of a low cliff, and below, the rocks and islands of the archipelago are ranged around, with the tour-boats and visiting yachts moored off-shore, In the distance the Small Isles of Rhum, Eigg, Canna and Muck are visible, and beyond them Skye. Nearer is Mull, and in the distance the mainland of Scotland itself, all visible on a beautiful turquoise-sea, blue-sky, fluffy-white-cloud day.
...and this is the traditional Lunga Puffin greetingWe had been warned about the puffins. The puffins were there on the edge of the cliff with their rabbit-stolen burrows. They were waiting for us, seemingly as curious about us as we were about them, but happy to see us because we keep the predators away. And predators there are: Golden Eagles, Sea Eagles, Buzzards, Hooded Crows, Bonxies, probably.
It is almost too nice a day to go on...Loads of photos, of course, and a whole island to see, the heights still enticingly above us – for those of us who like to get to the top. But the weather was too warm, the grass too dry and inviting, and the puffins too intent on us. So we sat down, then laid down, and either closed our eyes against the sunshine or lay with our feet against a puffin and looked out to sea.
Some of the group waiting to board the boat for StaffaSuddenly – a flurry, and all the birds had either disappeared underground or gone over the edge out to sea. I am familiar with this sort of scenario and looked immediately around for the attacker. From behind, from over the heights of Lunga, a big black bird came winging towards us. I believe it was a Hoodie, one of the Hooded Crows which are actually the same species as our familiar all-black Carrion Crows. These hoodies, though, have aspects of grey on them which give them their name.
The attack being unsuccessful, gradually the Puffins returned to do their thing or stand and look at us. (Narrow-boaters would call them Gongoozlers). I made a fast excursion further along and up Lunga, but we needed to return to the boat, to get across the boulder-beach and head for Staffa.
Staffa
Staffa may well be – after Skye – the most famous of the Scottish islands. Even though the name of Staffa isn't very well known, surely Fingal's Cave is? After Mendelssohn visited the island in 1829 he included “Fingal's Cave” in his Hebrides Overture.
First views of StaffaMany years ago I went to the Giant's Causeway in County Antrim, and I have to say I was slightly disappointed. The basalt columns which comprise the Causeway in Northern Ireland and the Island of Staffa in the west of Scotland are similar geological formations. But Staffa is not disappointing; as the island came into view the grandeur of the columns was plain to see. It has an imposing outline, and – drawing closer – the boat hove to and manouvered almost in the mouth of Fingal's Cave for photo opportunities
... and the caves; Fingal's is to the right.I was not surprised that the Overture was played over the boat's speaker system for a moment – that was almost inevitable and humorous – but I was disappointed that already on the island and making their way in and out of the cave was a string of people. We were not the only visitors. Bloody tourists! The boat moored alongside a concrete causeway for easy access to the island, and its tourist cargo disembarked.
The hand-rail leading to Fingal's CaveUnlike Lunga, walking on Staffa – at least at the base of the basalt-columned cliffs – is easy. The hexagonal columns – at this level worn smooth by the sea – are mostly easy to walk upon, like big, flat stepping stones or steps. Hard by the cliff-side, a metal handrail has been set into the rock so as to give grip, safety and comfort to those who may be less happy on the stepping stones, or indeed when the weather is less equable than on this day. So, there tends to be a line of people either going to or returning from the cave and clinging onto the hand-rail. Others, nimbler or younger, don't bother with that.
The mouth of the cave, from the interiorAt the very mouth of the cave the way narrows to a ledge, and it is necessary to wait as if at a “Single Track Road with Passing Places” as others come out before you go in. The cave is huge, a grand opening cut by the sea – so large that artificial light is not required because of the daylight through the entrance. The ledge continues narrow, with the columns towering above and the sea rolling in below. The light and the sounds are wonderful; no wonder that it is called in Gaelic as An Uamh Binn or “The Cave of Melody”. Eventually, a rope is reached, stretched across the ledge/path to indicate a less-safe beyond. But this was certainly no barrier, as some were already beyond and I decided to join them.
...and the spectacular interiorWhen I turned round to look back towards the entrance, there was Pam, also getting as much from Fingal as any giant may be prepared to give. The cave was emptying of people as they made their way back to their boats, and we enjoyed the sights, sounds and atmosphere without other people's hassle and chatter. There was one last possibility: my earlier disappointment at all the tourists had been abated by the magnificense of the setting. I suggested to Pam that she went ahead, out of the cave, and as she disappeared I stopped. I stopped and I stood and I looked and I listened – and I felt. I was in Fingal's Cave - all by myself.
I liked the Tresnish Islands, and the visit to Staffa and Fingal's Cave is an experience that will remain with me for ever.
Paul Ferris, 16th July 2014
Staffa and Beyond
A month and two days since casting myself over the edge of a concrete causeway on the Hebridean island of Staffa, to land two feet down on barnacle-covered concrete, I have arrived home. From here I shall need to administer my life and to try to judge what adjustments may be required to my life-style.
For three of those four weeks I was almost totally dependent on assistance given by others; of course by nursing and ancilliary staff, but also by friends. I have never been dependent in such ways since I was a baby, and it was a depressing and embarrasing time.
Only on one occasion during that time did I reach the star-stained heights; that was when 
The causeway: x marks the spotmy Pagan beliefs (or non-beliefs) overcame my reluctance to bother (myself and others) and I asked to be assisted onto the edge of the bed at 4.30am on 21st June to watch the Solstice Sunrise. I set up a henge on the table between me and my window on the Sun - comprised of seeds, dried fruit and raisins. The goddess rose perfect, never occluded by cloud, from an orange sliver to a golden disk that lit the room - and me - through my henge. That was the ultimate star-stained height; if anything better was experienced at Stonehenge, then then there must have been thousands of elated people. The extra benefit I had was that I was able to eat my henge!
The other side though - and not just once - was going to that place where the iguanas live. in fact not only did I reach iguana-cave, but I went to that part of the cave where even the iguanas don't go. I have been there before, many years ago - or somewhere similar - and it's difficult to see an exit-sign. In fact, if there is an exit-sign- and it's not guaranteed - it will probably be illuminated by people, and they are certainly not guaranteed.
So it was that my high-dependency hospital room/prison cell/torture chamber became a haven of light when I had a visit from a friend, or from my sister.
During the first week, in the little Mull and Iona Community Hospital, there were dark days even while looking at red deer grazing on the mountainside from my hospital bed, particularly after the EFOG group left on Friday. There was an ink-black, coal-black, black, black, black day in Maple Ward in Newham when I was told the extent of the damage needing to be repaired, that it would be eight days before parts and time could be arranged for an operation, and that my life might be changed a bit afterwards. 
Fingal's Cave on StaffaThat happened to be one of a few days whilst I was back "home" (at least in Newham) when I had not a single visitor; that's right - from my vast range of friends, not a single visitor! People have their own illnesses, cares and lives these days, and there it is. Just as I write these words the hospital chaplain has come in. He is a High-Church of England Priest, with down-to-the-ankle cassock, cross on a chain, sympathetic smile and hands crossed reverential-style at his stomach. He tells me that he has been praying for me. That helps, I suppose - but what more significantly and practically has helped are those of my friends that have been able to visit from time to time, and those who have sent messages by text. Thanks - sincerely thanks - to all.
Now to the future. My Consultant - a walker and outdoor enthusiast himself, as it happens - tells me that after a VERY major operation lasting nearly five hours, I have made remarkable progress. That is because I am fit, you see - and because I don't want to go to Iguana-hell. I suspect the doctor's crack about sending him a photo of me at the top of Snowdon may never be fulfilled; that may be an ambition too far. But the Beckton Alps is a definite possibility.
Walking in town, visiting Wanstead Park, walking along the green rides of Epping Forest, these I shall probably be able to manage. But Essex mud and the curse-of-mankind stiles, they might defeat me after all. Taking up Molly-dancing, like I should have, is probably not a good idea. Will I move, marry, settle down? Well it could happen, but there are years of past experience there in which those haven't happened...
I am home, and I have to exercise and practise a variety of what should be straightforward procedures. I have a lot of work to do towards an indeterminate future.
Paul Ferris 29th June 2014
From the Cookham Teapot to the Jolly Farmer - 6th April 2014
One of the cardinal rules for an EFOG walk is for the leader to know exactly where 'rest' stops are, and Eileen's chosen port of call on a lovely walk around Cookham, the town on the River Thames that inspired The Wind in the Willows was a real peach of a tearoom called 'The Teapot'. The landlady was a bit surprised at having so many of us land on her doorstep early on a Sunday morning, but she came up trumps with a selection of tea cakes, crumpets and toast - all this before we even got started!
Once refreshed, we made our way past the Tarry Stone, a large rock that acted as a gathering point for the townsfolk, through the grounds of the the very attractive Holy Trinity Church and along the Thames path. This area must have taken a bit of a hit during the flooding judging from all of the flood gates on people's back gardens and the proximity of the river, but the houses seemed to be in good repair.
We then turned our attention to Winter Hill, a steepish section with nice views of the river. It is a also a favourite with dog walkers, who were out in number, and their mad selection of dogs, one of whom thought it was a great sport to chase the ducks in the bottom of the hill much to his owner's chagrin. Not that he would ever have caught a duck, they were far too canny, but he did cause quite a stir.
In the woods at the top of the hill there was a bit of discussion about what the instructions actually meant us to do, but with several maps and compasses to hand, we worked our way down the far side, through a chicken farm and into Cookham Dean where we stopped for lunch at the Jolly Farmer. At least some of us did. Naming no names, but a small section of the group had mistaken the entrance to a very high end spa as the entrance to the pub and had gone in to enjoy the facilities! Redirected by bemused staff , they joined us in 'The Jolly Farmer'. 
This pub, quite apart from being very nice, is notable for being owned by everyone in the village in a co-operative, designed to stop the pub being closed and turned into housing. The church opposite, St. John the Baptist, is also notable for being one of the few in the country to have two lych gates, one on each side, so that the funeral procession would not have to go all the way round with the deceased.
After lunch we headed down the hill again past Hillgrove farm and through a golf course, where a red kite that had been showing itself briefly during the day gave us a splendid aerial display across the fairways. We made our way via the railway and the Fleet ditch back to Cookham and the ice cream van on the edge of the green, with a procession along a very interesting High Street back to the car park and the end of a lovely walk.
Text and photos by Sue C. 15th July 2014
A tour of the medicinal garden at the Royal College of Physicians
21st June 2014 saw a group of us visiting this intriguing but little publicised medicinal garden in central London.
The guide in full flowThe college itself dates back to 1518 but the garden to only 1965 – the same year that the college’s current modernist building was completed on a World War Two bombsite amid the Georgian terraces. Given the starkly contrasting architecture, the garden provides a natural link with the shrub-lined greenery of Regent’s Park opposite.
We discovered that the medicinal garden is home to around 1,100 different species, all of which are used now or have been used in the past medicinally or are named after a physician – Fuchsia after Dr Fuchs, Dahlia after Dr Dahl. The aim of the garden and the arrangement of plants is clearly educational, but it is also a surprisingly attractive and calm haven of peace edging a busy road.
Brugmansia suaveolens - Angel's TrumpetsOur guide, retired physician and garden fellow Henry Oakeley, succeeded in impressing on us that most plants are at best unpalatably bitter-tasting if not downright poisonous – an evolutionary mechanism to ensure their survival – whilst the plants we cultivate for food are but a tiny minority.
The symbol of the Physicians - taking a pulseThe sap of some plants, such as Spurge, causes a nasty skin reaction, and we were shown one north American plant whose caustic sap was a cautionary blood-red. Fascinatingly though, it is sometimes the most poisonous plants which we have to thank for some of the most potent medicines – such as Yew and the Madagascar Periwinkle for treating cancer and Monkshood for rheumatic pain relief.
If we were left with a less benign view of the plants in our own gardens, I think we may also now accord them greater respect.
Susan B. 21 June 2014 Photos by Sue Ullersperger
"The Missing Belly Button" at UCLH, Euston Road, London NW1
Theatre Lights Five Star Review:
In his latest appearance at UCLH Euston, local thespian "Rambling" Cliff Hendon gave another outstanding performance as the Sleeping Prince, in Rattigit’s well-known play “The Missing Belly Button”.
Centre stage for the whole three-hour performance, Rambling Cliff was enthralling to see. Parts of him that are seldom if ever exposed were viewed through a 30 cm abdominal incision. At the close at least 50 steel staples were used to draw the curtains.
I am pleased to be able to tell you that the missing belly button was reinstated. Everything is fine now, and all the hernias were repaired. Additionally we hope that Commander Carol US Navy (retired) will be able to remove all the metal work on 6 June 2014