Strictly speaking this page isn't about the Loch Ness Monster (scientific name: Nessietarius-rhombocterix. sensible name: Nessie), but her cousin Lizzie, who supposedly lives in Loch Lochy, which is next door to Loch Ness. It stems from an experience my family had in the mid '70's.

An Encounter with Lizzie

I was four years old and we were driving from Fort William to Inverness in our little blue three-wheeler van (which, incidentally, is more embarrassing than the rest of the story). We were alongside Loch Lochy when my parents suddenly pulled over in a right commotion. Next thing I know, my Mum has dived outof  the van with her camera and my dad is staring agog into the water. I don't remember his exact words, but they would've been something along the lines of "my goodness graciuous me, that appears to be the darned Loch Ness Monster".

Yes indeed: he was staring at a large unidentified grey mass cutting through the water at a fair rate of knots. There were no windows in the back of the van, so by this time I'd unbuckled my seat and pulled myself towards the passenger window. I looked in astonishment as I saw what appeared to be a large trunk-like tail protruding from water. As any four-year would, I yelled "Daddy, It's the Loch Ness Monster!" - making exactly the same geographical mistake as my father had done moments earlier. At this moment, the 'beast', apparently reacting to my shouts, subsided below the surface. (I've been kicking myself ever since. So have my parents.)

Mum had run a good half-mile back down the loch-side so we set off up the road to turn round and collect her. My dad raced to the nearest layby and swung the van round viciously. In the layby was a woman eating sandwiches in her car. As my dad pulled up, he yelled, "We've seen the monster! We've seen the Loch Ness monster!". Not sure what to make of a lunatic in a blue three-wheeled van ranting about other-worldy beings, she rapidly wound up her window, and drove off at speed in the opposite direction.

We drove back and collected Mum, who by this time was somewhat flustered, and indeed traumatized - she had felt distinctly eerie as she stood alongside this strange beast. So... what about the contents of that camera?!

Ahhh... I can see the camera now - it was as much a monster as the object in the water. It was all dials and knobs and buttons, and not a hint of the word automatic. [Oh Kodak disposable or Cybershot Phone - where were you when we needed you?] Amazingly my Mum had kept her wits about her, and instead of firing off shots at random, she'd actually tried to set the picture up with the correct focus and exposure, as you had to do in those days. And this was whilst running along the road. Consequently she was delayed in taking the crucial photo, and my shouting had been badly timed, it transpired.

The photo was taken just as the grey object dipped below the surface, leaving just a huge wake in the water as evidence of its presence. Here is the photo:

Clearly we were disappointed that the picture didn't show the 'monster'. It was such a rare opportunity, to see something at such close quarters, and (quite by chance) to have a camera with us. If it was to happen again today, there is no doubt that with modern equipment we would have a series of photographs, possibly a video, that would have proved quite a talking (or even tweeting) point.

We still feel the photo is strong evidence for the presence of something in the water, as yet, unexplained. The wake is equivalent to something a mid-size power boat would make: not the trace of an otter or seal. It is clearly not a log or a rock - for where did it disappear to? The photo was submitted for analysis by several experts, none of whom have been able to provide a definite explanation. It is documented in a number of books, and we still treat it with an open and intrigued mind.

The tale (tail) still brings a shiver to my spine as I recall it. Although I was four, the image is as vivid as it was the day I saw it. And although it might be tempting to think the story is an elaborate fabrication on the part of my parents, how on earth could they convince a four year old to go along with the story??

Our eyes meet again fleetingly. I want to know her, but any more and I’ll give the game away. I may even earn a knuckle sandwich from gorilla-boy.

This is so superficial, I feel my best, perhaps only, chance lies in asking her back to see my fridge. Setting aside the implausibility, it strikes me a refrigerator says far more about a person than any well-worn chat-up line.

Of the 100 ill-placed letters on my own fridge door, prominent phrases include “big hugs here” and “mad moo”. The faint pulse of my street cred is kept alive with “Helena wants to stay, x x x”. Though I’ve never yet explained Helena is my 6-month-old cousin. And if you look hard, you can probably construct “chocolate rules” (with a ‘zed’).

Back in reality street, and my mate waves his empty at me. The bar is heaving with pheromones, most of them condensing on the outside of my glass. But all this sexual charge is having an unpredictable effect on me. For here I am thinking to myself, “how am I going to get into.. her kitchen?”

Crisp. Dry. It could describe any winter mountain scene, but this is actually my triple-strength coffee. Hot. Wet. Not a tropical paradise, but in fact my trousers. Like they say, you shouldn't drink and drive.

Caledonia is a land of beauty and great contrast, and a fabulous way to experience it is by car (and well sealed waterproof). But to do that, you have to get there, and the journey can be almost as epic as the destination, particularly in winter.

These days I always begin my journey at the eleventh hour. Nothing to do with spontaneity, but a question of conscious timing. Starting the 10-hour journey just before midnight means arriving in the Highlands in time for a sizzling Scottish breakfast and a warm slice of hospitality.

The journey is one of solitude, shared mainly with long distance truckers and snoozy coppers hidden in lay-bys, whose presence is marked only by a momentary flash of luminous yellow and blue.

In a primitive way, it is easier to measure progress simply by the movement of the sun. Although on this particular brisk night, the empty sky is filled with the crystal-like sweep of comet Hale Bopp. It's almost Christmas and its biblical gaze makes me wonder if I should stop at the next service station to pick up some gold-points.

This first landmark is the appropriately named Scotch Corner, although ironically it is barely half distance. Nor is it a corner. One sandwich and a trouser-drying session later and the steady rise west through the Pennines begins. It's easy to glaze over the grey detail of the undulating road underneath as the sun tentatively begins its dawn climb directly ahead. The sky is a cocktail of deep purple and orange, mutating through reddy pink. At its most intense, this vibrant palette lasts but a moment - any loss of concentration and the backdrop is rapidly approaching commuter-blue.

In this clear weather the road allows good progress. Only the need to negotiate the odd tractor serves to remind of the daily life that goes on outside my metal cocoon.

Half distance is marked by a pleasant change of direction north onto the M6. A dreary road, but swift. Besides, I have my radio for company, at least until the heights of the Lake District. Soon, the traffic reports begin to interject, and those luckless London-bound workers disrupted by carriageways of spilt milk seem a world away. That reminds me to sip my coffee. And slowly my mood rejects urban insanity and turns to the tranquility of the islands and drama of the snow-capped mountains.

Glasgow is the next target. The steady progress means I'm soon passing the very "Welcome to Scotland" sign. The lack of an immediate "Welcome to England" on the reverse once more makes we wonder what territorial antics are possible in no-man's-land between the signs?

Right on cue, the sky begins to loom with precipitation. Not sinister, but the characteristic dreich grey is best hidden by the sun visor. So much for telling the time by the sun.

The City of Culture beckons, and the twisting Lowland passage soon approaches the once-industrialised landscape of the Glasgow environs. Almost spontaneously I'm surrounded by civilisation. Traffic, tower blocks, and roundabout hell - the curse of the 60's 'New Town'. I'm fighting my eyelids which are adhesively heavy and gulping my liquid Java breakfast. In a stasis somewhere between reality and commuter madness, I'm drawn onward by the bold orange orb of sunlight, faintly piercing the city mist. Stage 2 complete.

The home run, as I like to think of it, requires a change of pace. This is the gateway to the Highlands, and the word 'haste' is not in the dictionary. The journey is spectacular, the weather unpredictable, and even the mobile phone drifts into solitude. By now, the main threats to journey time are stray sheep, black ice, or an irresistible urge to 'give it some welly': although with care, the first two are avoidable. The sensuous curves of the road make driving a thrill.

The "low road" twists along the craggy banks of bonny Loch Lomond, her surface churned up by a chilling breeze. Squeezed between the overhanging stone wall and tree-lined shore, the poise of even the most confident of drivers is challenged. It's too cold for a morning dip, with or without the car. (Anything to avoid wet trousers again.) The crackling into radio silence signifies a transition to the "high road". The well-maintained tarmac trail soars over Rannoch Moor; bleak and barren, inhabited by hardy deer, circling eagles, and lonely mountaineers treading the damp heather. It's the top of the world, but being frozen and exposed, there's no incentive to stop. Not even if nature calls.

Eventually, the trail tumbles through the glaciated landscape of Glencoe. A landscape characterised by the spray of waterfalls, craggy outcrops and slightly less lonely mountaineers. Over thousands of years, the river beneath has cut through rock as if it was butter. This is Ben Nevis country, and on either side, mountainous giants of the Ice Age stand guard, never faltering, leaving me feeling vulnerable and humble. This timeless vista deserves respect: for it claims lives. And yet the silent panorama kindles my thoughts of the warm welcome that soon awaits. (And the chance to dry my trousers).

Perhaps not quite the reaction you'd expect whilst largin' it in Ayia Napa, Cyprus. Most reports talk of this small town as the "New Ibiza" -Dance capital of Europe for Garage worshippers.

So here I am, paddling my ocean kayak round the sea caves, somewhere off Grecian Bay. Out of view of the garishly-clad tourists, flipping themselves every half-hour within a soupcon of well-done, the sea is calm, clear and tranquil. The occasional snorkeller or tourist boat does little to spoil the overall scene; while the jet-skis churn up their white plumes half a mile off shore. Their faint buzzing to and fro like bees, forever leaving and returning to the hive. It's close on 35 degrees - it feels it - and I can't help but wonder if everyone that conquers the sea feels the same sense of satisfaction. I circle and wave to the swarthy skipper of a nearby anchored yacht - he grins back in the dozy afternoon shade. For a split moment, I am a pirate, and his "ship" is my unsuspecting prey...

By day, Ayia Napa is like any other tourist resort for sun-seekers. Golden sand, rows of tightly packed holidaymakers tanning to impress. The hotels are ugly - but I'm not here to look at the hotels - and their air-conditioned rooms are an essential haven.

Situated toward the east of Cyprus, and not far from the Turkish area, Ayia Napa isn't best situated for exploring the island. You'd be best placed further along the coast - Limassol - for such pursuits. But there are some local villages that offer cheaper shopping, and splendid views to be had from Capo Greco - just a few miles up the road. Walking is not an option however - not in this heat - and car hire, with insurance, is affordable- though you pay extra for air-conditioning. Scrimp on this at your peril.

By night, Ayia Napa is not ordinary. And it is not for the faint-hearted. The regime is straightforward: eat at nine, find a bar at eleven, hit the clubs. The bars stop their music, and then their drinks somewhere between one and two, so that's when those who are warming up, are swarming up to the clubs. Bed?... what's that?

On the stroll into town my companion points out an "English" bar that did good steak last year. We poke our noses in, and the owner, a stout well-worn local, remembers last year's patronage and welcomes us as if we are his prodigal children. One chicken and one pork kebab later we are sorely disappointed. I ask him about his food and his business. He is a local farmer and the lack of rain for the last three years has made farming a struggle. He tells me he has "downgraded" his menu, so that it appeals to the younger up-fer-it types who now frequent this place. He is glad the way the town has changed, because without it, he couldn't pay his bills. And he proudly gestures towards his nine year old daughter as if to make a point. We begin to leave, but courteously accept a lemon liqueur on the house. It's sweet and sticky - at least things can only get better.

We continue our townward stroll, dodging the dishevelled and incomplete pavements. They bemuse me; and they will probably claim me on the way back, if I return tipsy.

Finally, "The Square" - odd, because it isn't square, and even moreso, because it's co-located with a ruined monastery. It's quite a sight and sound to behold. It creates a sense of dizziness and disorientation the moment you stand still - far better to keep moving, pushing past hot bodies. It is a melee, a crowd, a huge crowd, crushed, standing, drinking, chatting - indeed shouting - over the pounding sub-bass of the surrounding bars. Each establishment is competing to see whose PAwill distort first - don't even try to pick out a tune. Too noisy to think, but if you stop and allow yourself to feel for a moment, then you will sense you're at the centre of an ants' nest. Utter chaos on the surface, and yet everyone with a purpose - lines of ants pushing their way through the mass, forging onwards - and not a drop of beer spilt! My colleague turns to me and shouts: "Every time I come here, I lose my faith in mankind and the future of the planet". In a subconscious way I understand exactly, but I quickly turn and say "Don't you get it!? That's the point. While the rest of us are saving the planet, we keep all these people busy here!...". Perhaps we're getting old.

Bar after bar runs some kind of alcoholic promotion - buy one, get one free. Buy one, get two free. The most impressive was buy two, get ten free! Ten what? I'm not sure, but it was sweet and sticky, and very dilute - unlike the local beer, KEO, which was surprisingly pleasant, and pleasantly cheap. The number one premise here seems DRINK. And presumably inebriation is what seduces us into the night clubs - after all there's nothing overtly memorable about the music that's the mainstay of this place: UK Garage playing master to House. All the clubs promote "big-name" DJ's making appearances, but personally I don't get too worked up - I just keep reminiscing of my hospital radio days.

In the bars there's a wider aural selection, with some M.O.R Pop, and a smattering of R&B, Hip Hop. I even saw an Irish Folk Pub: but there were more people in the band than in the pub. What you won't find isJungle, that's for sure. We were laughed at when we asked. For a trek through the 80's and 90's, take a trip to the pinkly-neoned Jasmin Bar; where the cockney gaffer sings along, takes his top off and encourages his punters to dance on the bar and tables. And remember, someone just ate their food on that table! "Oy Oyyyyyyy!"

Before the rush (at 4am) - we head over to River Reggae club to wind down. This outdoor bar sports palm trees, mellow music, and a u-shaped swimming pool. Additional entertainment is in the form of a large 'telephone pole' strapped across one end of the pool. It begs drunken males to attempt to cross, and impress the onlookers by remaining dry. On my first attempt, my weary dancing legs are so pathetic, I can barely balance a few seconds. Amazingly, soaking wet underwear, four in the morning, and it still feels warm. This is sufficient to encourage a second and no-less foolish attempt! Within a metre of completing my challenge and suddenly I feel unsteady, and so I leap for home, onto the slippery tiles of the pool edge. It's a lesson well-learnt in impressing onlookers. I slip backwards, and crack my head down on the poolside. I'm sure eighty-thousand people go "oooohhhh". Next thing, I hear twinkling and some bloke is pulling me up saying "YOU DIDN'T WANT TO DO THAT!". How astute. I wibble gratefully.

River Reggae is a compelling way to spend the last few hours of darkness, despite the inherent perils of beams, concrete pool edges, water, alcohol and exuberance. It transports you to some kind of state of mind, where nothing matters, and time is irrelevant. My kind of holiday.

...After a pause, this pirate grins back. Capture will be another day - it's addictive out here on the water - I will be back! For now I must seek some shade, water and factor 60. I weave among the lilos, with their roasted occupants meandering on the tide, and head beachwards. I must build my strength for tonight's trip into town...

© august 2000

You ask me about life. I've never thought about it - there is no time for thinking, only surviving. I've known death as much as life. Two years ago my husband was killed in the mountains by men with guns. No-one knows why he was shot in the head. But the mountain areas are dangerous. Not just the guns, but the volcanoes and earthquakes too, so we keep away.

Meet Camila, my daughter. There are 5 of us in the family now, and she is the oldest. So I must teach her all there is to know. She will have to take over the family if I fall sick or am unable to work to keep them.

Most days she comes with me to the plantation, where we pick the fruits of the arabica tree to make your coffee. It is unforgiving work; high on the slopes in the heat of the midday sun, it is exhausting and unrewarding. If the harvest is good, together, we can usually earn enough to feed the family. Most of the women from the village work there with me, and my second daughter, who is eleven, will soon be able to join us.

The man from the government said that what we do is important for our country. He would help us. But when the harvest fails, and we have no work, he and his help are nowhere to be seen. It is the same when we go to collect our wages from Miguel, the man who keeps the plantation. Sometimes he is unable to pay us. He says it's because the amount of coffee we grow varies, but the people who drink it always want the same. He talks about forces and markets, but all I know, these things make my family go hungry.

Miguel is a good man, but I am suspicious of the big man called The Exporter. He visits once a month in a large shiny car, and wears a lot of jewellery, especially for a man. Our nickname for him is The Wallet. He waves his hands unnecessarily, and I know he makes Miguel agree to arrangements he doesn't want. None of us trust The Wallet.

If I had the choice, this isn't how I would live. I'd prefer not to leave my children behind each day with my mother, for she is frail. I would like to make clothes and baskets to sell at the market. That way I could stay at home, and be sure of a regular income. Maybe even enough to by some picture books for my children. But for as long as I am unable to purchase the raw materials, it remains a dream. It would cost me over 5 dollars to get started, and it is impossible for me to save that much money.

I've heard that sometimes it is possible to borrow the money. There are people from other countries who will lend families like mine the money. It's hard to believe it is true. Is there no catch? We are used to people who squander money. The man from the Government is one of them. The rumour is that the coffee we pick goes towards paying the debt of our country. But Miguel says that for every dollar of debt, we have to pay twice, four, maybe ten times as much back, and still the debt stays. How can this be? I don't know. But I trust Miguel. And perhaps not everyone is bad.

I must be going soon. You can see all around that our homes have been destroyed, and there is much to be done. The worst storms we can ever remember came this year and washed our dwellings away. Mine stood over there, by the river bank. I managed to rescue my husband's clothes, my bible, and my children. We're safe now, that's what matters.

You ask me about life. Well, I suppose it is beginning anew. Death nearly took us in the night, but we refuse to give up that easily. We refuse. Things won't get worse, only better. Isn't that something to grasp onto? There is no time for thinking, but I think we are surviving.

Do I run, do I jump, do I stand and fight.
Can I stay, can I count on your help tonight.
Got my feet on the ground, got my head way up in the sky;
I can keep my soul alive if I find out who am I?

Caught up in this shut-down-zone of my own.
Got a couple of friends, but got no home.
All I got is my name in gold on a credit card.
Where do we turn when life is hard...

Do I run, do I jump, do I stand and fight.
Can I stay, can I count on your help tonight.
Got my feet on the ground, got my head way up in the sky;
I can keep my soul alive if I find out who am I?

If only I could feel it, if only I could see;
Break out of the dark and set myself free.
Forget about the worries, forget about the pain.
Grab life by the throat and start over again.

Do I run, do I jump, do I stand and fight.
Can I stay, can I count on your help tonight.
Got my feet on the ground, got my head way up in the sky;
I can keep my soul alive if I find out who am I?

In times like these we must shout out loud,
every lining has a big black cloud.
All I got is a cardboard box in a backstreet yard.
Where do we turn when life is hard...

Do I run, do I jump, do I stand and fight.
Can I stay, can I count on your help tonight.
Got my feet on the ground, got my head way up in the sky;
I can keep my soul alive if I find out who am I?

Winter draws in, and the frost bites hard.
Its teeth are sharp and it won't let go.
The clammy cold presses in, and snow-
flakes tumble blindly from the nothingness.

Every edifice is decorated with buntings
of fragile frozen fingers of water, clear
as glass. And the low subdued sun, with sheer
timeless persistence, penetrates every drip.

The world halts; vegetation completely 
frozen in rigor mortis. And
the dead, sparse land 
sleeps - in silence.

Life submits to the harsh battle; even 
the bones of hard burly creatures will 
shiver and shake when the cruel chill 
of winter attacks.

And yet, in all its brutality, bleak 
weather is driven away. And when 
life resumes its perpetual vigour again, 
the skies brighten, and nature lives in harmony.

Have they ever stopped to consider
what's driving their loved ones away?
'cos the music is so bloody awful! 
we'd all prefer Rap any day.

My Dad once said “lift your feet up!”
So I did, and I tripped and fell down.
If bread crust will make my hair curly,
perhaps chocolate will make my eyes brown?

My Gran says I’m young for my age.
Well, I say she’s SHORT for her HEIGHT
And it’s just a bunch of baloney,
that carrots help see in the night.

I’m completely addicted to apples,
but Mum says “They don’t grow on trees!”
And when they say “do you want me to slap you?”
Do they think that I’ll answer “yes please”?

I’m scared to eat greens when it’s mealtime,
‘cause I’d hate to get hairs on my chest.
And I don’t know why Mother bothers, 
to iron my pants and my vest...

“You must ask if you want”, says my Dad.
But my Mum says “I Want, doesn’t get!”
I just don’t know who to believe.
I don’t think they’ve worked it out yet!

My Dad says “You’ll have someone’s eye out!”
If you play with a pillow or stick.
But you can sleep with your face in a pillow,
so is my Dad playing some kind of trick?

So I think that grown-ups are crazy,
When they say all these things so absurd.
It’s not US that should sit here in silence, 
GROWN-UPS should be seen and not heard.