The Wallace Statue, Dryburgh

            The woodland path is littered with acorn shells, crisp leaves and pine cones, which I hear crunching beneath my feet. In the distance a car trundles slowly downhill to the ruined monastery by the River Tweed. Otherwise, it’s virtually silent. The earth is brown and surprisingly dry, and most of the trees are bare. After a short walk a wall of rock appears to the right and I catch a first glimpse of a giant, reddish-orange figure: William Wallace.  

          There can be few pleasanter places in Scotland in the spring than the area around Dryburgh Abbey. The lovely river meanders past the ruins of this long-abandoned monastery, and from the hills above you can see green fields stretching away to the south and west. The land across the water undulates gently, with the exception of the three dark humps of the Eildon Hills, which rise abruptly out of the countryside. The fields are full of lazy sheep and horses, and the roadsides are yellow with gorse bushes and daffodils. 

            Most visitors come here to wander round what remains of the Abbey, which is home to the graves of Sir Walter Scott and the unlamented World War One general Earl Haig. Others, like me, come to see the statue of a man who achieved global fame nearly seven hundred years after his death, courtesy of a violent movie starring an American in a kilt. 

          The bearded Scottish warrior stands atop a huge, weather-beaten plinth that bears the following flowery inscription: ‘Great Patriot Hero! Ill Requited Chief!’ He gazes intently over to the Eildon Hills and clutches the trappings of war in his hands: a colossal broadsword and a shield adorned with a saltire. His helmet features some kind of mythical winged creature. 

          You get the feeling that Wallace probably looked nothing like this beefy man of war, which is not at all surprising considering it was erected in 1814. As the sculptor presumably intended, the overall effect is one of enormity and prodigious strength. It brings to mind Greek demigods and burly yeomen with powerful forearms, but clad in a kilt and a billowing cape. 

          This curious tribute to Wallace was commissioned by the eleventh Earl of Buchan, an aristocrat of ‘immense vanity’, according to his friend, Sir Walter Scott. He must also have had a highly romantic disposition as well as bucket loads of cash. An eroded urn opposite Wallace features a highfalutin poem penned by the Earl himself, who also paid for the sandstone Greek-style gazebo (‘The Temple of the Muses’) down by the Tweed. This was a homage to the poet James Thomson, author of ‘Rule Britannia’.

         

                   

          You can't help but like the Wallace Statue. It's no masterpiece, but the serene location and weird backstory are very appealing, at least when the sun is out. Otherwise, I’d probably rather watch Braveheart.

Where's Kyoto? Trip Advisor Announces World's Top Destinations

       I vividly remember my sole visit to the Forbidden City in Beijing a few years ago. I was in and out in after about 30 minutes, my patience having vanished following a dose of elbows and shoulder barges courtesy of an army of old Chinese women in red caps. I resolved not to return.   

         Reading the above, you may be surprised to hear that China’s capital was voted the world’s fourth best destination by Trip Advisor reviewers. So was I. Admittedly, the city’s food is fantastic and often very cheap. In my experience, it’s far superior to what you find in Paris and New York, no matter what your budget. And you never have to tip. It also has a fine Buddhist temple, where you can regain your sanity after immersing yourself in the chaos and stress of street life. 

         For make no mistake, Beijing is staggeringly stressful. A taxi ride through the city’s clogged and choking streets is enough to convert you to religion. The drivers are generally furious and pound their horns as if their lives depended on it; they weave in and out of traffic with a crazy abandon, their recklessness suggesting they believe in guardian angels. And yet, miraculously, in the six weeks or so I have spent there I have never seen a crash. 

         Of course, everybody knows the city’s polluted, but you can’t really imagine how bad it is until you’ve been there. You feel it on your face and at the back of your throat. It’s especially obvious at night, when streetlights shine dimly in the murky haze. I always imagine this is how London must have been in Conan Doyle’s time.    

         How can Beijing have attained such a lofty position when Kyoto, my favourite city, didn’t even make it into the top 25? This is madness. OK, so the Japanese city is insanely humid in the summer and features one of the world’s most hideous modern structures (Kyoto Tower). But Kyoto is a place of historical and architectural wonders. 

         When I was living in the ugly industrial city of Fuji I used to regularly escape to Kyoto on the shinkansen. Merely getting off the train was enough to lighten my mood. I knew that ancient gardens and temples waited, and that I could walk along old stone canals and down narrow, atmospheric streets by the river. 

         The garden at Koke-dera could be the most beautiful place I have ever seen. On the day I visited the grey skies were full of rain, but who cared? Thin trees soared high above as I wandered round the large walled garden, hundreds of years old, admiring the carpet of lush green moss and the tiny stone bridges connecting the islands in the central pond. Yes, it cost 3000 yen and I had to go through the bizarre ritual of writing a document in Japanese, but it was unforgettable. 

         Or there is the startling Fushimi-Inari shrine complex, famous for the hundreds of orange and black torii gates that continue to the top of a mountain (I never got that far). You can stop in one of the huts along the route and soak up the superb views over the city while enjoying a beer or a cup of Nihon-cha (green tea). 

          So, my advice is to ignore Trip Advisor and travel to Kyoto. It is truly one of the world’s greatest cities.

Holy Island

 

            It’s like I’m watching a clip from Night Cops. Four police officers are bundling one of the drunkest men in Britain into the back of a van, while his indignant mate remonstrates with them. The latter has a thick Slavic accent and a fearsome appearance, his mohican bringing to mind Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. 

         The onlookers are themselves a strange bunch: Chinese tourists, locals from Northumberland, Scots, and a pair of foreign nuns in Mother Teresa-style blue and white garb. It’s a surprising time and place for such a scene: the middle of a Saturday afternoon in a hamlet on a small tidal island off the coast of North East England. 

         I had wanted to visit Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, for years. Driving south from Edinburgh to Newcastle I had often seen its castle looming just off shore. There was a sense of uniqueness about this thin strip of land, home to less than 200 people, which twice a day is cut off from the mainland as the North Sea swamps the connecting road. 

         The approach to the island is indeed a little special. You pass signs warning you to beware of the tides, then you follow a causeway over an expanse of sandy flats and tufty grassland. Pools of water left by the retreating sea lie on both sides, and dunes rise on your left as you skirt the edge of the island. Eventually, the houses of the small community at the southern end come into view ahead of you.   

         One of the most striking aspects of the place is its relative silence. Cars are few, and as you walk towards the castle, which sits upon a rocky crag like a miniature cousin of the famous strongholds of Edinburgh and Stirling, the sounds are amplified dramatically: the breaking of waves in the bay, birds calling, the soughing of the breeze. A man closing a door breaks the stillness like a gunshot.  

          It’s surprisingly easy to forget you are on an island, for the land is uneven, shielding the sea and the tidal flats from view. Despite the presence of large numbers of tourists and pilgrims who have reached the end of the 60 mile St Cuthbert’s walking route, there’s a bucolic feel: sheep and ponies chomp grass in the fields and a sign advertises free bags of horse manure. 

         Having sampled a tiny quantity of Lindisfarne’s honey-flavoured and syrupy mead I return to my car, wary of becoming trapped by the encroaching tide. Then again, would it be such a bad thing to be stranded for a night?