The Scottish Medical Golfing Society

THE SCOTTISH MEDICAL GOLFING SOCIETY

Subtitle: Rye - with no mention of Henry James, Radclyffe Hall, and E F Benson

The current blog is an unashamed ‘puff’ for this venerable society, which is very much an endangered species, only eleven members attending the AGM meeting in Rye, and only eight remaining to do battle with the Rye club members on the Sunday morning.  Despite having a large number of members on the subscription list, a minority still play.  It has been suggested that any internet activity might be helpful in increasing the profile of the SMGS in our search for new members.  So here goes...

The birth of the society came to public attention in the correspondence columns of the British Medical Journal on June 9^th, 1934.  Those who wish to read the original will find it at:

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2444664/pdf/brmedj07156-0040a.pdf

The first president was Bertram Shires.  The entrance fee was one guinea and the subscription one guinea per year.  The aims of the society were concisely stated:

‘On April 30^th, 1934, a meeting was held at the Langham Hotel for the purpose of giving concrete form to a common desire that Scottish members of the medical profession in the London area should meet occasionally throughout each year for the express purpose of vying with one another in propelling the golf ball from tee to hole, according to the rules of golf.’

There followed an impressive list of vice-presidents, treasurer, secretaries (plural), and councillors.  One of the councillors is given as L E Barrington Ward.  Later Sir Lancelot Barrington Ward, this famous surgeon is thought to be the character on whom Sir Lancelot Spratt was based in the book and film ‘Doctor in the House’.  He was certainly a surgeon at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, which was attended by Gordon Ostlere the author, who adopted the pen name of Richard Gordon.

The BMJ was definitely different in those days: the next two letters deal with alleged poisoning by ground ivy and ‘Tests for Drunkenness’ in which, ‘J.P’, a police surgeon, provides a foolproof defence for anybody accused of being ‘drunk in charge of a car’.  I can’t see the present editor of a journal which now takes itself very seriously allowing us column space to push for members, but we are going to try it.

The first golfing meeting of the society was held at Hadley Wood golf club later in the same year.

A number of factors have combined to threaten the Scottish Medical Golfing Society.  When I first joined the society in the mid 1980s, there was a fine selection of Scottish doctors from the Home Counties, and we counted pathologists, coroners, surgeons, physicians, and general practitioners among our number.  GPs made up the backbone of the society, and their contract favoured the meetings of the society because most of them had a half day off during the week, and they were able to extend this to a full day by doing a Saturday morning surgery in lieu of this extra time.  Changes to the contract spelt the death knell of this relaxed and sensible system.  Under the ‘new’ contract, which came about some time in the 1990s, it became mandatory for GPs to be present in surgery on every day of the working week.  Further changes in their contracts have not been conducive to improving this situation.  But another and more important factor is the parochialism of the current system of medical training.  Registrar rotations are now organized such that only local graduates stand much chance of being accepted into their local deanery training rotations.  Scottish graduates are thus an increasingly rare sight south of the border.  At the time when I was seeking middle grade training (what Americans and Canadians would call ‘residencies’), jobs were sporadic, few and far between, and could be as far afield as Inverness.  The Society exists for Scottish doctors (who may have graduated elsewhere) or for doctors who graduated at Scottish medical schools and universities.  It is becoming increasingly uncommon to find Scottish doctors in any posts ‘down’ here in England.  We either need better publicity or an influx of Scottish doctors to the Home Counties.

In considering publicity, our new website will we hope improve our profile, and it is available at:

http://www.scottishmedicalgolfingsociety.co.uk/

Unfortunately, if one puts SMGS into Google, the first entry is the San Miguel Golf Society, and this is followed by pages and pages of entries related to ‘submachine guns’ – otherwise known as SMGS.  St Michael’s Grammar School in Melbourne manages an entry lower down the first page, but that’s it.  Firearms occupy thousands of entries thereafter.

If you try ‘Scottish’, then Scottish Power has the top line.  Scottish Medical produces Scottish Medical Training, and adding the G hits the spot (sorry about the double entendre), though Guidelines feature as well.

It’s been suggested that our name needs to feature in as many internet articles as possible, and anything one can do to make this piece ‘go viral’ would be welcome.

Perhaps, since this is usually my ‘letter to America’, my collaborators can do their best to increase its profile.  Let me describe to you the feeling of this year’s Rye meeting...

Rye is an elemental place.  One of the arbours in Golf heaven.  It was Henry Longhurst who was credited with saying ‘If I could play one more round of golf before I die, I think it would have to be at Rye’.  (Sir Peter Allen has said the same about Deal, the Royal Cinque Ports Golf Club, but I think Longhurst may have precedence).  Despite the despoliation of the Romney Marsh to the east by an enormous wind farm, the elevated position on the two main ridges of dunes that make up the main course gives a wonderful perspective when we visit it in April.  New born lambs, with that perfect creamy white colour that they carry for the first few months of life, lie contentedly in the polders of the marsh, the occasional bleating carrying on the breezes, while above, the glorious song of the Rye skylarks announces to the world that the Scottish Medical Golfing Society is here again.  To the northwest the unmistakable silhouette of a town that is now two miles from the sea, having been lapped by the waters in the 14^th century.  To the west, the headland towards Hastings, and the remarkable sight of sailing boats apparently skimming through the fields, though of course they are down at water level in the River Rother on their way out to the sea.  I have occasionally played at Rye when the winds have been gentle and light, but even when the sun is shining there is usually a stiff breeze blowing.  The humps and hollows of this classic links course mean that it is famous for rarely giving one an even stance.  Bernard Darwin, grandson of Charles Darwin, and the man who could be said to have invented golf writing, was captain of this club on two occasions, separated by an interval of 50 years!  He is famous for inserting quotations from Charles Dickens into his writings – often leaving the reader to guess the origin of the sentence.  When he wrote about Rye he was unequivocal, and he did not need the assistance of the great Dickens when he wrote, ‘Surely there can nowhere be anything appreciably better than the golf to be had at this truly divine spot.’

On Saturday 21^st April, the fortunate few gathered in the clubhouse, exchanged a few words, drank coffee and emerged to do battle with both each other and the elements.  The sun was shining, the larks sang, but the wind was chill, and slow moving and substantial showers were forecast.  My partner and I hacked manfully up the first and retrieved par by dint of holing a long putt to which we had no claim of expectation.  Thereafter the usual in and out experience of golf on these links contrived to put us out of contention in the competition, but the most remarkable feature of the round was the dramatic hailstorm which attacked us on the 10^th tee and continued for a further two holes.  A very satisfying five on the dramatic 13^th hole with its blind second shot (third in our case) over the ridge of the dunes towards its exposed green was our main reward for our efforts.  ‘It is the constant and undying hope for improvement that makes golf so exquisitely worth the playing’ as Darwin observed, and we clung to this hope like drowning men at flotsam.

A substantial lunch was followed by our afternoon singles round in competition for the Shires cup.  On some previous occasions I have been so depressed by my performance in the morning that I have sought solace in the Rye club bitter and claret at lunchtime, making my apologies early in the afternoon by an air shot on the first tee.  With eagle eyed and equally determined members of our society beside the tee it has been impossible to pass this off as an extravagant practice swing, and the die has been cast.  Today however I only drank ‘Gunners’ and water, and was passably pleased by 17 points on the front nine holes, substantially enhanced by a birdie three on the 9^th.  But a vicious and unpleasant shower which lasted longer than the morning’s visitation by the elements put paid to my hopes, though I eventually only lost the competition on a count back to our secretary Iain Dow, who also scored 27 points (poor I know you will agree, but anybody who has played Rye will have feelings of companionship over this).

Our evening meal together in the George Hotel was an occasion for great company and that fellow feeling of bonhomie of those who have striven and at least succeeded in reaching the clubhouse intact, even though their cards have been ruined both metaphorically by their score and literally by the ingress of water.

Our President, Professor Lindsay Symon was in the chair.  Known as ‘the neurosurgeons’ neurosurgeon’ he must have been a ferocious chief, but his bark is now somewhat worse than his bite, and he is full of wit and anecdote, including one scatological story which I can’t include.  Perhaps his best throwaway remark this evening was when the discussion turned to the SMGS club tie, which is dark blue and carries a wreath and the Scottish thistle as its emblem.  On occasion it has been mistaken for the tie which members of the Scottish rugby football team are entitled to wear.  I asked whether it had proved an entrée to the VIP areas at Murrayfield, to which Lindsay responded that it had not, but it had been a topic of conversation when he had ‘put Gavin Hastings up for membership of the R&A’ and had garnered a certain amount of respect.  Any non-golfers who have followed me thus far might need to know that the ‘R&A’ is an abbreviation for the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrew’s, both the most famous of golf clubs and the body responsible for the administration of the rules of the game.  Gavin Hastings is of course a famous Scottish ex-international rugby player.

Our guest for the evening which follows our AGM is always the captain of the Rye club, a strategy which we think is likely to allow us to continue our privilege of visiting the club every year, but which also allows us to hear some news about the club.  Occasionally there are good jokes to be had.  Nigel Wilkinson, the captain elect of Rye, a barrister and an expert on medical malpractice (sic) did not disappoint.  Although I have heard this before, he produced a fine joke about talking to his wife when his nomination to the captaincy was announced.  He asked her: ‘Darling, did you ever imagine in your wildest dreams that I would one day be the captain of Rye.’  To which she responded, ‘Darling, I’m afraid that you don’t feature in my wildest dreams.’

At some of our finest meetings, the repartee and the recitations of Rabbie Burns have ‘set the table on a roar’ as Shakespeare would have it.  I remember once that one of our members recited the whole of Tam O’ Shanter as a party piece.  I mentioned to Mr Wilkinson that Lindsay Symon, despite being over 80 years of age could not only recite the famous Betjeman ‘Seaside Golf’ poem but also the less well known parody of the poem, which is equally enjoyable.  Overhearing, our President did not disappoint, and duly delivered both.  Some discussion about the authorship of the latter followed.  Lindsay correctly identified it as being by Robin Butler, subsequently Sir Robin Butler, thereafter Lord Butler, best known by the epithet ‘The Butler Report’ apropos of Iraq.  Butler, like Betjeman before him, is a member of St Enodoc, the club in Cornwall which is the subject of the poem.  Here are both, reproduced below:

Seaside Golf How straight it flew, how long it flew, It clear’d the rutty track And soaring, disappeared from view Beyond the bunker’s back – A glorious, sailing, bounding drive That made me glad I was alive. And down the fairway, far along It glowed a lonely white; I played an iron sure and strong And clipp’d it out of sight, And spite of grassy banks between I knew I’d find it on the green. And so I did. It lay content Two paces from the pin; A steady putt and then it went Oh, most securely in. The very turf rejoiced to see That quite unprecedented three. Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves And thyme and mist in whiffs, In-coming tide, Atlantic waves Slapping the sunny cliffs, Lark song and sea sounds in the air And splendour, splendour everywhere. John Betjeman

Seaside Golf – a parody:

How low it flew, how left it flew,
It hit the dry-stone wall
And plunging, disappeared from view
A shining brand new ball –
I’d hit the damned thing on the head
It made me wish that I were dead.

And up the fairway, steep and long,
I mourned my gloomy plight;
I played an iron sure and strong,
A fraction to the right
I knew that when I reached my ball
I’d find it underneath the wall.

And so I did. I chipped it low
And thinned it past the pin
And to and fro, and to and fro
I tried to get it in;
Until, intoning oaths obscene
I holed it out in seventeen.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
They really get me down;
In-coming tides, Atlantic waves
I wish that I could drown
And Sloane Street voices in the air
And black retrievers everywhere.

Sir Robin Butler

The St Enodoc website is a vision in immaculate green sufficient to make one drool, and to wonder why we do not spend more time in the UK for our holidays.

http://www.st-enodoc.co.uk/the-club/

The George Hotel is an obvious venue for our dinners, attended by history (Rye Golf Club was first proposed and discussed there), but it is certainly expensive.  Our previous secretary, Alasdair Short had chosen three very fine wines for our dinner, much superior to what was available at the George, though with a mouth-watering corkage charge of fifteen pounds a bottle.  We drank two wines of Bouchard Finlayson – a sauvignon blanc and a chardonnay; a Rioja Riserva, and another South African red from Rustenberg.  All were greatly appreciated.
On Sunday 22^nd April, eight remaining members met the Rye Club in our time honoured competition.  The minutes will show the true date of origin, but as far as one can tell this match has existed for around forty years or more.  A brief shower as we started cleared, and we played the course largely in sunshine, but with a steadily freshening westerly breeze, eventually reaching force 6 or thereabouts.  These foursomes games are all enjoyable, friendly and sociable.  Although Tony Strong and I won our game 2 up, SMGS were roundly defeated 3 matches to 1.  A final lunch in the dining room (jackets and ties mandatory) allowed us to carry fond memories back up the road from Camber Sands, and the promise of even better things next year.
If you have enjoyed this blog, please pass it on to any golfers or medics that you know.  Please spread the word of the Scottish Medical Golf Society, and visit the site to make your presence known to our secretary, Iain Dow.

http://www.scottishmedicalgolfingsociety.co.uk/

I apologise to those of my few regular readers who may have no interest at all in golf.  Golf like cricket is however a metaphor for how to conduct oneself in life, and how to bear the vicissitudes of what life can throw at you.  Even for those who cannot play, to study the ebb and flow of fame and fortune during the last nine holes of a ‘major’ championship is an object lesson in fortitude and stoicism.  ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster’ was never more true than in golf.

Above is a view from the western side of the river Rother, showing Rye clubhouse in the distance standing above the dunes.  Below is a tranquil view of the Rother further inland at Rye town.

From Galle to galling - a miscellanea of moan

I had firm intentions of just writing about Sri Lanka, with the odd topic of UK home grown news, but so much has been happening in England that I just hope I can reach Sri Lanka by the end of this blog...

I had firstly meant to lament the lack of dedication to work which benefits other people.  When a syndicate of bus drivers in Corby won the lottery recently, to a man they just failed to turn up to work the next day.  It turns out that this group comprises 20% of all public service drivers in Corby, so the effect on bus routes for the poor workers of this former steel town was substantial.  What a load of mean spirited w..... these men are.

At the risk of being a grumpy old man I might as well get it all off my chest.  The quality of working life within the NHS continues to go down by several degrees a month it seems.  The latest Big Brother episode is the reduction in hours being paid to consultants.  While simultaneously being required to do more and more – especially as regards admin and bureaucracy – the number of sessions devoted to non-clinical care, i.e. catching up with medical correspondence, teaching activity, phoning GPs, is being reduced.  At least you are still expected to do it, but you won’t get paid for it.  Some time back we were warned that use of the internet was to be monitored – and clearly there are sites that are inappropriate – but now if any site is deemed unsuitable, access is blocked.  The other day, in my lunch hour (an oxymoron – most people take only a few minutes for lunch and many just eat some sandwiches in their office while answering e mails or dealing with other admin), I went from our home page (no choice, the merry Poole hospital website comes up first) to the main BBC news page (approved), but when I saw the headline ‘England take late wickets to stage comeback in Sril Lanka’ and followed the link – Bingo – Poole Hospital Big Brother threw me out of Internet Explorer, and when I tried the same thing today my computer froze as well!

Many years ago, consultants were encouraged to meet together at lunchtime, and this meant that not only did we know who our colleagues actually were (nowadays we have no idea), but we did sometimes talk about shared aspects of medical care, a subtle but invaluable education for us all.  These days it’s regarded as elitist to allow consultants separate dining facilities, so we are all in the same canteen.  The only people who regularly dine together and discuss matters both personal and clinical are the pathologists, but even they are being squeezed by big brother managers who maintain that they are taking far too long over lunch.  In our brave new pathological world, post mortem examinations have been farmed out to some post mortem factory in Bournemouth, which is not on the site of either of our major hospitals, so it is impossible to attend an examination of a patient who has been under your care to assess whether you have done what was appropriate.  Many patients die without any exact cause of death being determined!  The reduction in NHS funding has resulted in pressure being brought to bear to reduce referrals to the coroner if one is uncertain of the cause of death.  Death certificates are probably as unreliable now as at any time in the past thirty years.  Bear in mind that the only thing the Coroner is interested in, when reduced to its simplest principle is: ‘Was death due to natural causes?’  As students at University College Hospital (UCH), many years ago, we were encouraged to attend post mortem demonstrations which took place several times a week if there were interesting cases.  As we made our way up the iron stairs to the students’ entrance to the mortuary viewing gallery, an imposing sign lettered in gold on a varnished wood background greeted us, ‘Mors ipsa docet succurrere vitae’, or for those of you whose Latin is a bit rusty, ‘Death itself teaches us to sustain life’.  Great stuff.

In politics, we have had some bizarre and unintended black comedy recently.  The Chancellor, George Osborne, announced his budget the other week.  Pensioners have had some tax breaks – some relaxation of tax banding – which the Chancellor has decided to abandon.  Naturally dubbed ‘the Granny tax’, it hasn’t been great publicity for the Conservatives.  A review of the budget in the papers reminds readers that in the USA there are certain no-go areas for taxation and fiscal interference, known colloquially by analogy with the electric subway services as ‘The Third Rail’ – touch it and you die!  Another somewhat bizarre tax is the imposition of VAT (similar to state sales taxes in the US) on food which is heated before sale.  Food is zero rated, but if a pastie is sold at more than one degree above ambient temperature the tax will be imposed.  Mr Cameron (our prime minister) recalled that he had recently eaten a very good pastie, but on further investigation it appeared that the business he claimed to have bought it from closed down five years ago.  It has always seemed to me bizarre and unfair that when you visit a fast food and beverage shop, e.g. Pret à manger, you are asked if you are eating in or taking away, and if you reply that you are going to eat in, a whacking 20% is added to the bill because it is taxable.  Most people say, ‘Oh, take away’, don’t pay the tax, and then sneak off to the far corners of the store and eat in anyway.  Sadly, now that the UK is in thrall to the European Union, we have little choice about our taxation system which is dictated by Brussels.

Finally, a remarkable event occurred in politics this week.  A By-election in Bradford (West) constituency was won by an independent candidate, George Galloway.  Galloway, who calls himself the ‘Respect’ party, overturned an enormous Labour majority and got himself elected.  At the risk of boring you, I will not dwell on Galloway’s past history, a very crafty speaker and self-promoting figure in politics who has previously been a Labour MP.  He was famously a supporter of Saddam Hussain in Iraq, and has had dubious involvement in certain charities relating to Arabic people.  He has coined the phrase ‘Bradford Spring’ to describe his apotheosis.  He points out that so many people are disaffected, and suspicious of politics, they are searching for someone who will speak for them, and he is the man.  In the newspapers today (4.4.2012) the news is announced of his fourth marriage, to a woman aged 27, 30 years his junior, only 4 months after wife number three gave birth to his second child by her...  There is justified speculation about what it can be that attracts them to him.  Apart from wife number 1 the others all either look Arabic or have Arabic names.

As a political footnote, as you will know, we currently have an uneasy coalition government, with the Liberal Democrats being the power brokers together with the Conservatives.  The Lib Dem leader, a man on a hiding to nothing, is dignified with the title ‘Deputy Prime Minister’.  He is one Nick Clegg.  A letter in the Telegraph recently came from someone who visited his old prep school, and looked at the honour boards.  It was noted that even in prep school, Nicholas Clegg was not the head boy on his own – but jointly.  Poor Clegg, no change for him then.

There is no easy segue into tales of Sri Lanka, except perhaps that as I write this, England are playing in their second test match against Sri Lanka, this time in Colombo.  Last week it was in Galle, and we would definitely have been there except that hotels in the area would only accept bookings for 5 days rather than two or three during the match.  At the time we booked our holiday it was still uncertain that the match would be played in Galle because the Australians had been critical of the pitch during their visit there last year.

The highlight in both literal and metaphorical terms of our visit to Sri Lanka was the High Country, and specifically our ascent of Adam’s Peak, known to Sri Lankans as Sri Pada.

This 2243m high pinnacle is perhaps most sacred to Buddhists, the indentation in the rock at the top being said to be where Buddha placed his foot.  But Christians claim it as the footprint of Adam, and Hindus as the footprint of Siva.  There are conflicting claims for St Thomas and the Queen of Ethiopia.  It was also known to Marco Polo, though he did not visit it.  He was aware that fixed chains had been attached to the rock and were needed to ascend it.  These days, the entire path up the peak is made up of steps.  The first section is a gentle ascent through the gardens which rise up from the ramshackle hamlet of Dalhousie.  There is very little to see as one ascends because the majority of foreign tourists do the climb at night, so the tea plantations on the lower slopes are scarcely noticed and the only sights are the booths of the vendors, lit by oil lamps or fires, or occasionally by electric light.  The total distance of the uphill climb is about 7Km, though the distance is as nothing compared with the ascent.  It’s not too clear how high Dalhousie is – perhaps 800 to 100m.  Thus the total ascent is something up to 1500m of altitude.  The major problem with the steps however is the fact that the pitch of them varies enormously, from as little as two inches to around 15 inches in some cases.  Walking up steps which are a foot high is not easy.  The final 30 to 45 minutes is up steps so steep that there is a metal hand rail placed in the middle, which is essential to use.

Every 20 metres or so there is a fluorescent light illuminating the steps.  Very occasionally the light is not working so one needs to step carefully until the illumination improves.  All the way up there are booths, the occasional beggar, religious pedlars, and resting places where the religious adherents can stop and lie down.  Many of them spend hours here overnight sleeping, and can take up to a day to make the ascent.  We have no idea how long it is going to take us to climb – the guide book estimates 2½ to 3½ hours.

Our guide and chauffeur from Red Dot tours, Ervine, has said that we might take an hour to reach Dalhousie from the Tea Trails Norwood bungalow, and dawn is predicted at around 0630.  The alarm goes off at 0145 hours and we are in the car and on our way just before 2am.  On the road we see a few denizens of the night – a ring tailed civet runs across our path; a porcupine rattles its way into the brush; a pair of wild boar trot briefly alongside before abruptly turning off.  In the dirt car park at the entrance to Dalhousie there are literally hundreds of cars and coaches – all empty.  Where are their occupants?  On the hill somewhere presumably.

As we start, there are a few back packers, but once onto the steps it’s clear that most of the pilgrims are local people, of all levels of ability.  Young husbands cradling babies, grannies with walking sticks, obese mothers.  Some of them are still asleep in the resting areas, huddled shapes swathed in blankets like the famous pictures of the figures on the underground platforms during the blitz in WWII.  We have started walking at about ten to three in the morning.  It’s cool and vendors huddle over open braziers, glancing at us as if they realize that hopes of selling supplies or religious emblems are small.  There is little to report except that we just walk and walk and climb and climb.  We are using our walking poles which are very helpful to reduce the legwork, and will prove even more useful on the way down.  I have rather a heavy backpack with two cameras, binoculars, water, a waterproof, and a fleece.  A German girl with no backpack, who possibly weighs about 50Kg as opposed to my 85Kg, and is wearing leggings that appear to be sprayed on to her lovely legs and gorgeous backside pauses to ask me something.  Sadly all she wants to know is the time.  Having got the answer, she skips lightly up the next flight as if she were walking on air.  Other more seriously clad tourists march on past us, but as we find out later, it is a case of the tortoise and the hare, and we make the top very much at the same time as most of these younger walkers, some of whom are about 40 years younger than I am.  Apart from the Sri Lankan families, there really are only three people who are about our age on the walk.  Two of them are a German couple who do not manage to make it.  One is a somewhat hippyish grey pony-tailed man, who is very slim and fit looking for his age.  He has no trouble.  If you are not comfortably able to do a major hill walk of about 10 miles then I would advise not tackling Adam’s Peak.  Surprisingly we meet as many people coming down – all local pilgrims – as we see going up.  Clearly they have not been bothered to stay to see the dawn.  I ask a slightly plump lady in a sari what time she started the climb.  ‘About 6pm’ she answers.  It’s now about 4.30am, so her journey has taken ten and a half hours so far.

Once one is clear of the gardens and firmly engaged on the climb, we can at times see the lights marking the route winding up to what we assume is the top.  It doesn’t seem too far.  But this is misleading.  What we can see is probably only the next section before the path winds out of view.  After about an hour or so I suggest to Lindsay that we should take it easy.  We don’t want to be at the top and hang around in the cold for an hour or more.  This appearance must be deceptive – the steps just go on and on, and we can’t really spot where the summit is.  I have decided that we should do this army fashion.  We will walk at the pace that we will maintain for the whole ascent.  Every 55 minutes we will stop for around 5 minutes, and then resume.  But now we’ve been going for two hours and it seems that we are nowhere near the top.  After about two hours and twenty minutes I ask one of the booth holders how much further it is.  At least another half an hour he says.  And it is.  It takes us in all two hours and fifty-five minutes to reach the top.  The last twenty to thirty minutes is the section where the steps are so steep that we abandon the poles and use the rails to help pull ourselves up.  Amazingly, as we arrive at the level segment by the temple, we see that there are hundreds of people already arrived.  It’s cool, and you need a fleece, but it’s not too bad.  Perhaps that is because of the cloud cover, it is not a clear night.  There is a faint lightening of the sky in the east through the clouds.  Some rain or mist bearing clouds drift across us and everything is suddenly wet, even though it doesn’t feel as though it has rained.  An angry red flush appears in the sky, and the clouds and the lake below become visible in shades of grey.  After the red horizon, the sun is obviously on its way, but the clouds conceal it, so after about 30 minutes on the top we decide that it isn’t going to become any more attractive so we start down again.  At the start there is a huge throng, mostly making their way slowly down the most severe of the steps.  Eventually we can pass them, and the pace of our descent improves.  I’m surprised that our journey downwards takes around two hours, but two hours it is.  It’s nice to see that landmarks become visible as time passes by, so that we can see where we have been.  The bazaars and booths appear even more tawdry in the grey light of dawn.  The garishness of the kitsch religious items is jarring for westerners.  Finally we find Ervine.  We jolt back along the rough roads past Maskeliya to Norwood bungalows where we arrive at about 0915, in time for a spectacular breakfast on the terrace.  The only activity that I can compare Adam’s Peak with is our ascent of Cathedral Peak in the Drakensberg, which was even tougher – longer distance, and ascent from 1400m to 3000m.  The fact that Adam’s Peak is all steps means that our muscles are challenged in such a way that it is very difficult for us to walk or to climb up or down stairs for about five days afterwards.  Here are some pictures to illustrate the climb:

Adam's Peak from Maskeliya Lake

Pilgrims on the peak waiting for the dawn

First light from Adam's Peak

Descending from the Peak

The start of the steps proper up to Adam's Peak

I would like to add so much more about Sri Lanka, but it would almost certainly bore you.  The spectacular nature of the World Heritage sites at Dambulla and Sigiruya, the picture perfect nature of the high tea country, walking up trails between the tea bushes and through woods of cardamom groves, the heat and sunshine on the south coast and the tranquil charm of the old town of Galle inside its ancient fortifications.  Enough.

A view across the roofs of Galle town

Sunset from Galle fort

Easter Sunday

April 8^th.  Yesterday and today we have been out walking in the middle of Dorset.  Yesterday up around Turnworth and part of Bulbarrow Hill with views over to the Northwest to the Blackmore Vale, and today near Cheselbourne, some way West of that with views across to the East to Bulbarrow, Northwards up around Nettlecombe Tout and down over enormous fields of rape back to the car.  Looking to the Southwest we can see the distant tower of the Hardy monument.  Although the trees are not really in leaf yet there is still some beauty in the woods and the skies – wood anemones and bluebells, pure white hawthorn blossom in the hedges, skylarks and buzzards, the drumming of woodpeckers.  The striking thing about Dorset away from the coast is that one sees almost nobody.  We are very lucky to live in this county.  A quiet evening with the final round of the Masters golf to watch.

Hawthorn blossom and a field of rape, Dorset, Easter Sunday