Sam Derbyshire's Blog

as my Aussie pal Peta used to say, back in the days when we were Primary Shool Sports Coordinators in Inverness, responsible for cajoling volunteers into coaching a variety of sports to eager kids, who were grateful to participate in anything that meant running around, and basically getting them out of the confines of a stuffy classroom. It wasn't easy of course, good volunteers are always hard to find, but we were a pretty good team back then, and if any opportunity arose to give kids a sporting experience, we took it. There were five of us; Peta, Carolyn, Kirsten, Susie and, of course me. I was the mummy of the group, as at the ripe old age of fourty-something, I envied their twenty-something youthful enthusiasm, their energy and their freedom, as I was the only one with kids. We had a fantastic three years together, all bringing different strengths, experience and expertise in a variety of sports. Peta was fabulous; a teacher and true gritty Aussie, her mantra was always, "We can do that!" even though sometimes, it was blatantly obvious that we couldn't. If we couldn't, then "God loves a tryer," always kicked in, and always backed up by Carolyn, who used to do marathons in the the frozen wastelands for fun, we were a Dream Team. We had fun, the kids and volunteers we worked with had fun and I still miss them. They kept me young, they inspired me with the personal challenges that they undertook and still continue to take, and I'm richer for knowing them.And so I would like to think, that they would be pretty proud of me right now, as more than ten years later, I embark on another adventure. For somehow, I seem to have found myself in another Dream Team, spookily another team of five, who have already inspired me to challenge myself, forget about age and generally just have a blast.They do say, of course, that one thing leads to another, and it appears to have all started with the sea swimming. If you had asked me a year ago if I’d have been swimming in the North Sea at -2 Celsius, I would have laughed hysterically, but it has simply turned a fear into an incredible experience and an experience into an exhilerating habit. And it appears that when you face one challenge, the universe conspires to send another one along, just to keep the momentum going. For the sea swimming, or sea floating about in my case, seems to have coincided with crazy friend Milly, having triathletes staying at her hotel, and inspired, and as usual up for anything, she sends me a message. Her: "I'm starting a triathlon team and you're going to be in it."Me: "Are you mad? No I'm not, I can't swim."Her: "Yes you can, you sea swim, thanks to me of course."Me: "That's not swimming and I can only do breast stroke."Her: Lots of people do breast stroke, I’ve looked it up and it doesn’t matter because you're not going to win anyway. It'll just be for fun."Me: Thanks, but I dont like running either, I was a sprinter at school, I don't like running."Her: But you can do the super sprint, I’ve done my research, it’s only 16 lengths of a pool, a 12k cycle and it’s only a 3km run, you could do that now. And you’d be a super vet, because you’re getting on a bit."Me: "I'm not doing a triathlon."Fast forward.Her: "This is your last chance, you won’t be the oldest, Betty's older than you, you'll both be Super Vet’s, and its called the ‘TRY’ team as in Try, it'll be great fun, we'll raise lots of money for charity, come on be in the team, you know you want to. I've ordered team kit."Me: "I’m not sure I do."Her: "See, you said 'not sure', which means you do, you know you do, come on, it’ll be amazing, we’ll be amazing, it’s an adventure."Me: Big sigh. "Ok then, but why I'm signing up to this, I have no idea."Her: FOMO I had, of course to look that up, and for those of you who don't know, it means 'fear of missing out'. And she was right, because even when she suggested it the first time, and I refused point blank, there was a little bit of me that was shouting yes, just do it, you know you want to. Life’s too short. And so here we are. I'm in the Invernairne Try Team. Team kit has been purchased and she’s even bought a camper van which sleeps 6, for , god help us, when we “do the circuit” next year. But it doesn’t end there, because we might not have entered any triathlons yet, but unbelievably we seem to have entered the Loch Ness Etap; a baptism of fire if ever there was one. A 66 mile cycle with a torturous 4.8 mile climb. I only got my bike last year and the furthest I’ve cycled so far is 25 miles. But we're up for it. We've set ourselves up for indoor winter training, bought our bike trainers and downloaded apps. We’ve been to workshops with Bikes of Inverness where we've learnt to change a tyre, clean our bikes and try to ignore our Captain’s comments about lubrication, as well as set up a winter training program. We've dragged each other to circuit classes, and with the help of gorgeous dog Roxy who pulls me along, I've started running my 3 km. Some training sessions have gone a little better than others of course, but we’ve surprised ourselves with what we’re already capable of. So far it’s been fun, exciting and we’re all looking forward to world domination in 2019 and raising lots of money for charity.The best bit for me though, has been to be back with a dream team of fabulous women, who aren’t afraid to challenge themselves; who have each other’s backs, who make me laugh and who genuinely inspire me to be a better person. It's also given Jim, my personal trainer, a valid excuse to push me even harder, so 2019 should be very interesting and I can guarentee that no amount of whinging will make the slightest bit of difference.So Happy New year everyone, when it comes. If you've set challenges of your own, please give it your best shot. You'll feel so good if you achieve it. And if you think you're too old, or it's too late, you need to give yourself a stiff talking to. There are women at my circuit class in their seventies, I'm regularly thrashed by eighty year old golfers and my hubby's aunty Jane is still getting world records for swimming at 85. In short, life is for living and age is only a barrier if you allow it to be.My book Trust Me I'm a Personal Trainer will definitly be out in January by the way. Im sorry it's taken so long, but sometimes that's just the way it is. I promise to give you the heads up as soon as Thor Thorogood is ready to be unleashed.Thank you for all your support and encouragement.Here's to 2019!

So as the clocks have gone back, I thought it was time for a wee update on the swimming challenge and I am proud to say that, hopefully, I'm winning the bet. Hubby hasn't actually told me what his bet with himself is yet, so consequently, I'm still going in and still haven't got a wetsuit. Roxy has been a bit ambivalent depending on her mood. She was in season this month and maybe decided that she couldn't face it and instead watched dutifully from the beach, but this morning she was back in again, jumping the waves and having a good time. I haven't managed every day though, as with summer well and truly a distant memory, autumn has brought a few new challenges.The first challenge has been the wind, and it's beaten me on several occassions. Storm Ophelia wasn't to be trifled with and the last week has also brought more gales and horrendous downpours. The wind makes things tricky, not from a swimming point of view, as the wind makes it fun in the waves and the sea still isn't freezing. I've not had to scream yet but I'm sure that will come as the temperatures continue to plumet. No, the problem with the wind, is that it's made getting out of the water a bit of a challenge as I've tried to hold onto a towel and then my clothes as I've battled to get them on over a wet swimsuit, all the while keeping an eye on a frisky dog in season. I've just about managed to deal with it by taking a bin bag, into which I put my rucksack and clothes so that they don't blow away. Like a good mountaineer, which I'm not, I have my clothes turned the right way, all in an orderly pile in the rucksack, ready to put on as soon as I get out. It seems to work, although I haven't had to deal with wind and rain yet. That will probably be a step too far. The thought of getting wet on top of wet with a two mile hike back, isnt actually very appealing. Time will no doubt tell, but swimming in a cruel, north-east wind, is probably complete madness. The other challenge has been the tide, which was something I hadn't considered; the issue being that when the tide is out, it really is out, and one morning I waded out quite a distance before laying down in about a foot or water. When the tide is out, it's almost Weston-Super-Mare in minature. For anyone who was ever dragged there as a child for a day out and then spent the whole day walking miles to reach the sea to fill your bucket with water,you'll get my drift. This isn't on that scale, but I've been surprised at just how shallow the water is, and to be honest it's a bit embarrassing looking as though you're swimming, then standing up trying to look like a Bond heroine in about six inches of water.And then my zip broke on my swimsuit, the long sleeved swimsuit that mad friend Milly had bought me and that had been working rather well. So I messaged her, asking her where she'd got it. The conversation went something like this."Ha ha, did your boobies fly out?""No I wasnt wearing it at the time!""Shame! Just google sexy rash vest eighties style, on ebay"She then sent me a photoI went on ebay, made a purchase and sent photo.Message came back. "You obviously didn't google sexy!!""I'm 55, I'm swimming in the North Sea at 7.30 am, sexy doesn't come in to it. It's a bit sexy in a surfy hot pant sort of way!""It's not sexy. Buy another one immediately."Anyway, suit has arrived and it's ok, but I'm thinking that I should have gone a size smaller, as the thing is, you need them to be tight to the skin if you need to stay warm once your clothes are back on top. I might actually be ordering another one. I might even google sexy!Anyway, I'm very proud of myself today, because this morning, in 2 degrees centrigade with a pink sky and snow on the hills, Roxy Rockstar and I went in. The waves were fabulous after the gales and although the tide was out, it was swimmable. Unsurprisingly the sea was actually warmer than the air temperature and I was fine when I was in, but my wee hands and tootsies cooled down pretty quickly when we got out. Time was of the essence on the getting dressed front and gloves are now a necessity. But hey, we did it, it was awesome and I'm going to keep on going in whenever the elements allow. I might even take a wee dram with me next time.I'll let you know when I've won the bet.PS. I'm now running to the beach in the morning, and being a sprinter at school I actually hate distance running. But Mad Milly has set another challenge. You're going to love this one!

[image error]is finally finished but don't get excited yet, as I'm now ploughing through it all again, re-reading, tweaking and correcting, making sure it's as good as I can get it before sending it off to a proper editor, who will probably tweak it all over again. But it's finished, I have written The End in big bold letters, and hopefully Thor Thorogood will shortly be unleashed on the world, just in time to weadle his way into your Christmas stockings.And while it's always a good feeling to finish a book, there's always a touch of sadness in saying goodbye for a while, to characters that you have spent a lot of time with in your head, getting insde their minds, talking their talk and bringing their world to life. I even made myself cry writing this one, and its not even supposed to be sad, but I've now got a real soft spot for Kyle Cameron, the self confessed loser who simply wants to find a bit of romance. Whether he does or not, I'm obviously not divulging, but I'm sure he'll reappear again in another tale further down the line, because that is the joy of creating many different characters whose lives intertwine; it leaves so many options for spin off stories. To keep everyone happy, I've hung onto Maggie and Callum Dunbar and Myles Cavendish in Trust Me, as well as Rachael and Rex Haig, but interestingly, I'm still getting asked to write more about Tracey and Simon Lewis, the love rat Guy Montgomery and Simon's stalker Susie, who I of course left hanging in London, in Text Me no Lies. It won't be the next book; I've already started that, but its definitely not off the agenda.But lets talk about Thor, because in my mind, Thor Thorogood, Glasgow's Personal Trainer extraordinaire, is definitely here to stay; for in the nature of his work, the opportunity for creating new characters and interactions are endless. I do, in fact, go to a personal trainer and I'm sure I must shortly be eligible for a long service award, as if my memory serves me right, I first started putting myself through the ringer just over five years ago, as the dreaded fifitieth birthday was approaching. With hormones kicking in and aches and pains increasing, I gave myself a talking to and decided that I didn't want to shuffle pathetically into old age; I wanted to be fit enough to enjoy the second half of my life, because quite frankly, there is still so much of the world I want to see. I also had no desire to be at the mercy of an increasingly overstretched NHS and end up taking a cocktail of drugs that should only be required if I didnt take the responsibility for my health into my own hands. So I signed up with my own Thor, mainly because, having broken both my wrists playing indoor cricket, (basically by throwing myself at a brick wall trying to show off in front of the boys and score the winning run,) I was in need of some guidance. Knowing myself well enough, I didn't want to thrash about in the gym and cause more damage; an expert was required.And it was one of the best decisions I've ever made, because I know that I wouldn't be as fit as I am now without his support, encouragement, and of course, the dreaded weekly weigh in. I certainly wouldn't have been pulling a tyre around a running track, running up sand dunes or pulling him up hills with a harness. I would also have probably injured myself and given up. Even when I've been feeling crap, he's pulled me back up and by now he probably knows me better than I know myself. Because that's what good trainers do. Encourage you when you need encouraging and bollock you when you're just being a wimp. And Thor Thorogood as a character has all those qualities and that's why he'll last the course. He's too good to leave after one book. So who knows where Thor, Maggie, Myles and Kyle will head next. I'm sure they'll be back soon, but in the meantime I've started a new book, about three mature ladies who decide to try internet dating. Click Me a Man for Christmas is now underway, and hopefully will be ready for next November. As you can imagine, I'm already having a lot of fun with this one; my hubby said the chat during a lesson in tinder dating from my friends daughter, was hilarious, especially as I have a problem with left and right. Unfortunately I managed to left swipe a rather handsome creative type and apparently you have to upgrade to unswipe. I think she forgave me but it's certainly a strange old world out there and I've merely scraped the surface. Lord knows where this may lead me but I have a feeling it's going to be interesting.So I'll keep you informed. I'll let you know as soon as Trust Me is available and if you subscribe to my website, you'll have the opportunity to get it half price on release day. I'm hoping for the end of November, so fingers crossed. Thor Thorogood is nearly ready to face the world and trust me, with Maggie and Rachael on his client list, he'll need the patience of a saint. I'll be in touch soon.Sam Derbyshire is the author of What Goes on Tour, Text Me No Lies and Trust Me, I'm a Personal Trainer.

[image error]is finally finished but don't get excited yet, as I'm now ploughing through it all again, re-reading, tweaking and correcting, making sure it's as good as I can get it before sending it off to a proper editor, who will probably tweak it all over again. But it's finished, I have written The End in big bold letters, and hopefully Thor Thorogood will shortly be unleashed on the world, just in time to weadle his way into your Christmas stockings.And while it's always a good feeling to finish a book, there's always a touch of sadness in saying goodbye for a while, to characters that you have spent a lot of time with in your head, getting insde their minds, talking their talk and bringing their world to life. I even made myself cry writing this one, and its not even supposed to be sad, but I've now got a real soft spot for Kyle Cameron, the self confessed loser who simply wants to find a bit of romance. Whether he does or not, I'm obviously not divulging, but I'm sure he'll reappear again in another tale further down the line, because that is the joy of creating many different characters whose lives intertwine; it leaves so many options for spin off stories. To keep everyone happy, I've hung onto Maggie and Callum Dunbar and Myles Cavendish in Trust Me, as well as Rachael and Rex Haig, but interestingly, I'm still getting asked to write more about Tracey and Simon Lewis, the love rat Guy Montgomery and Simon's stalker Susie, who I of course left hanging in London, in Text Me no Lies. It won't be the next book; I've already started that, but its definitely not off the agenda.But lets talk about Thor, because in my mind, Thor Thorogood, Glasgow's Personal Trainer extraordinaire, is definitely here to stay; for in the nature of his work, the opportunity for creating new characters and interactions are endless. I do, in fact, go to a personal trainer and I'm sure I must shortly be eligible for a long service award, as if my memory serves me right, I first started putting myself through the ringer just over five years ago, as the dreaded fifitieth birthday was approaching. With hormones kicking in and aches and pains increasing, I gave myself a talking to and decided that I didn't want to shuffle pathetically into old age; I wanted to be fit enough to enjoy the second half of my life, because quite frankly, there is still so much of the world I want to see. I also had no desire to be at the mercy of an increasingly overstretched NHS and end up taking a cocktail of drugs that should only be required if I didnt take the responsibility for my health into my own hands. So I signed up with my own Thor, mainly because, having broken both my wrists playing indoor cricket, (basically by throwing myself at a brick wall trying to show off in front of the boys and score the winning run,) I was in need of some guidance. Knowing myself well enough, I didn't want to thrash about in the gym and cause more damage; an expert was required.And it was one of the best decisions I've ever made, because I know that I wouldn't be as fit as I am now without his support, encouragement, and of course, the dreaded weekly weigh in. I certainly wouldn't have been pulling a tyre around a running track, running up sand dunes or pulling him up hills with a harness. I would also have probably injured myself and given up. Even when I've been feeling crap, he's pulled me back up and by now he probably knows me better than I know myself. Because that's what good trainers do. Encourage you when you need encouraging and bollock you when you're just being a wimp. And Thor Thorogood as a character has all those qualities and that's why he'll last the course. He's too good to leave after one book. So who knows where Thor, Maggie, Myles and Kyle will head next. I'm sure they'll be back soon, but in the meantime I've started a new book, about three mature ladies who decide to try internet dating. Click Me a Man for Christmas is now underway, and hopefully will be ready for next November. As you can imagine, I'm already having a lot of fun with this one; my hubby said the chat during a lesson in tinder dating from my friends daughter, was hilarious, especially as I have a problem with left and right. Unfortunately I managed to left swipe a rather handsome creative type and apparently you have to upgrade to unswipe. I think she forgave me but it's certainly a strange old world out there and I've merely scraped the surface. Lord knows where this may lead me but I have a feeling it's going to be interesting.So I'll keep you informed. I'll let you know as soon as Trust Me is available and if you subscribe to my website, you'll have the opportunity to get it half price on release day. I'm hoping for the end of November, so fingers crossed. Thor Thorogood is nearly ready to face the world and trust me, with Maggie and Rachael on his client list, he'll need the patience of a saint. I'll be in touch soon.Sam Derbyshire is the author of What Goes on Tour, Text Me No Lies and Trust Me, I'm a Personal Trainer.

especially if it's made of plastic beacause, for me, this weekend has been a real eye opener. For those of you who don't know me well, I've always been a bit of an environmentalist, my nickname amongst hubbies pals is 'Save the Whale', but I'm getting increasingly frustrated with both myself and the world I live in, for not being as plastic free as I would like. I could go on all day about it, but I won't, because I want to tell you about my sunday morning which involved taking part in the Nairn Beach and Riverside Clean Up organised by Nairn River Enterprise and Green Hive, a charitable organisation run by good honest and caring volunteers who should be applauded.And it was actually a lot of fun, as after being warmly welcomed, my hubby and I and two pals headed out from the Nairn Sailing Club with our gloves and plastic bags and at the beginning it felt more like an Easter Egg hunt than a litter pick. The competitive excitement at finding our first pieces of rubbish and taking the mick out of each other for missing bits, soon gave way to disgust and then sadness at what the human race could so carelessly and selfishly leave behind. A giggle over an empty bottle of Buckfast and an old sweatshirt, was soon forgotten as we picked up plastic bottles, coffee cups, barbecue implements , all whilst trying to avoid such a large amount of dog poo that I was actually shocked. Who lets their dog mess on coastal footpaths where children are playing? Who does that? We didn't, of course, pick up the poo but all in all, we picked up a whole variety of other peoples stuff. To be fair, the bit of beach we had chosen to clean, conveniently located close to James's Cafe, at first sight didn't appear to be that ba. Thankfully volunteers do go out regularly. But as I trained my eyes to look for the smaller stuff, my heart felt a lot heavier.For it's the small stuff that can cause so much damage to our ocean wildlife, the small stuff is probably the most lethal and it's the small stuff that I ended up concentrating on, filling my bin bag instead of letting it creep down the throat of some poor unsuspecting marine creature. As expected, the closer we came to eateries, the worse the problem became, but unless you were looking for it, it would go unnoticed. The little plastic clip that keeps a Fruit Shoot lid intact, is very difficult to see when discarded on the floor and the little white lollipop sticks and plastic sweet wrappers are ten a penny if you look hard enough amongst the fag ends. Then there's the discarded birthday balloon, a joy for a day or sometimes only ten minutes, but a nightmare when it hits the ocean. The plastic stick, the plastic ribbon and the empty balloon itself, all pose a threat to marine life. I was fortunate enough to go on a whale watching trip in Monteray last year and helium ballons were the scourge of the waters. The whale watching boats regularly fish them out of the ocean to precvent them from being mistaken for jelly fish. Is it worth it? I think not. The shortage of Helium is another story, but I wont go there today.And so it was, that we all returned to base for soup, sandwiches and cake and while we didn't think we'd individually collected that much, when the bags were added together, I felt a little sad for our beautiful planet and for our children who will have to deal with this ever increasing mess. Plastic is such an inherent part of our lives now and, of course, it does have a hugely important role to play in our modern life but when you do start to notice the small stuff, it is seriously disturbing. I don't, of course, know what the answer is, I wish I did but all I can ask, is that maybe, if you're reading this, you'll start to take notice of the small stuff and if we all try just a little bit harder to be better guardians of our beautiful Earth, we might have a chance to save it for future generations. Green Hive and others like them, are doing a fantastic job, so if you're feeling like you'd like to get involved, check out your local groups. I only gave two hours of my time on a Sunday morning, it really wasnt much but we kept a whole load of stuff out of our river and oceans. I'll definitely do it again and I'll continue to take my bag to my own favourite beach and pick up other peoples rubbish. I'm also going to try even harder to cut down on my own plastic, despite it being increasingly difficult to shop without buying it, I'm sure it can be done. As David Attenborough said so elequently,“We are at a unique stage in our history… “Never before have we had such an awareness of what we are doing to the planet, and never before have we had the power to do something about it… Surely we have a responsibility to care for our blue planet. The future of humanity, and indeed all life on Earth, now depends on us.”I'll leave it at that.Sam Derbyshire is author of best selling What Goes On Tour, Text Me no Liesand soon to be released Trust Me, I'm a Personal Trainer.

once said the indomitable icon that is Dolly Parton, and as I thought about this, I wondered if dear Dolly would ever have considered plunging into the Moray Firth on a grey murky morning, with the outside temperature lurking just below double figures. She probaby would if you asked her, she seems like that kinda gal.So yes, I'm still going in but the quote about bravery is not about the daily dip. The bravery bit or lack of it in my case, refers to the next step of actually getting my face in the water and having a look around. As I said before, I'm actually afraid of the water but I'd convinced myself that if I donned the goggles, I could tick off another challenge. Sadly, I haven't cracked it yet. I can get my face under, just, but I can't open my eyes. It's so frustrating. I go to open my eyes and it seems to set off some wierd automatic reaction with my breathing. I just can't coordinate the two. Some fears, it seems, are not that easy to conquer. It's been a good ten days though and the morning walk has been lovely. We've had close encounters with several deer and Roxy has a new favourite game of flushing out pheasants. It's amazing, she can smell them a mile away. Apparently she is part Vizsla and they love to flush out birds but please don't worry and don't start writing in, no pheasants have been killed or injured in the writing of this artical. Somehow, as dim and tiny brained as they are, they always get away. On the swimming front, however, I am happy to report that I've been in every day apart from two, when life got in the way and I just didn't have time, and to be honest, I really missed it. It's definitly getting colder outside and there is a touch of autumn in the air, but actually the water is still warm and I am a much better person for the rest of the day if I go in. Roxy is getting quite good now, although I am starting to sense a little reluctance as the weather takes a turn. and to be honest I was a little annoyed with her yesterday.Being a Sunday, it started a little lazily and I was behind schedule for my dip. I like to get down to my spot early, preferably before 7.30am as the beach is always completely empty. This is not a modesty thing on my part, it's purely due to the fact that, should Roxy see another dog, she will always take off to say hello and I have no desire to have to come running out of the water, more Julie Walters than Halle Berry, and chase her along the beach in my cossie. Bo Derek I am not. So lying in bed with a cuppa, I persuaded the old man to accompany me so that I could swim and he could keep control of the dog, hand me my towel and be in charge of the coffee and biscuits. I tried to persuade him to go in, he's a really good swimmer, but he told me to bugger off. He also ridiculed my pink flamingo swimming shorts, which belong to my son but are easy to throw on and off over my cossie, and told me they looked great with a wax jacket, golf cap and a pair of goggles.Anyway the reason for telling you this, is because when we got down to the beach and I ran in with abandon, trying my best to look like Ursula Andress, Roxy refused to come in. She made a pathetic attempt and promptly decided that she preferred the warmth of dry land, the old man and a tennis ball. I was so disappointed. Afterwards, when moaning about it with my coffee and biscuit, I mentioned the fact that she usually runs in when I start swimming."Thats because she thinks youre drowning" said Hubby "and obviously as I wasnt bothered she didn't see the point."I wasn't sure how to take that. Luckily I'm still alive.So, I still haven't opened my eyes, which I really need to get sorted, although as I was getting out of the water the other day, a small fish scuttled along the sand and buried itself. I looked it up when I got home and scarily I came across a picture of a Weever fish, which apparently lurks around on sand banks and has a really nasty sting if you stand on its fin. I called my dad. "It's possibly a dab" he said reassuringly. "Thats a relief" I said, "I thought it might be a weever fish". "Well it could be, maybe you should wear shoes!" On further investigation, my father-in-law offered up what they used to call a Sand Fluke, a type of flounder. Perfectly harmless apparently and loves sandy bottoms. I'll take both dab and fluke. I'll forget about the Weever. And that’s maybe the problem with opening my eyes. If I do open them, I might terrify myself and never go in again. It's a bit of a dilemma. Blissful ignorance or death by Jelly but I so want to be brave enough to become one with the ocean. In my dreams I'm a sort of Jacques Cousteau of the Moray Firth. Reality can sometimes be very cruel mistress. Trying to be helpful, Hubby's has suggested snorkle and full face goggles. "It might just stop that big nose of yours snorting up the water" he joked. I laughed, but having thought about it, it just might be the answer. The other good thing about having the old man in tow yesterday, apart from his fabulous wit and reapartee, was the fact that he could take a couple of photos to prove to you my friends, that I really am going in. Unenthusiastically, because his hands were cold, he snapped away."It's not your best look" he offered encouragingly. "I've seen you look better.""Yes, but I'm 55, it's a Sunday morning and I've just got out of the North Sea, this is the real thing baby, no airbrushing or editing, this is the real me, I am who I am, I'm not proud.""Obviously" he said as he put away his phone. "And you'll look even better when you've got your full face mask and snorkel."And as he walked away with Roxy, leaving me to grapple with my socks, I thought about the bet thats he's having with himself. He's bet with himself my "giving up on sea swimming date." He won't tell me what it is, of course, because he knows that I'll have to keep on going. He knows I'm not very brave but he does know that I'm stubborn. I wont be able to help myself. I won't be able to give in. I really need to order that wetsuit. This could be a very long winter.Sam Derbyshire is the author of What Goes on Tour, Text Me No Lies and Trust Me, I’m a Personal Trainer, due for release in September.

Yep, three weeks since I first took the plunge, I am happy to report that I'm still going in and have only actually missed three mornings. It's become a ritual now and even though when I wake up, the prospect of a sea plunge isnt always instantly appealing, by the time I've walked through the fields, woken up and warmed up, the sea dip halfway is now an essential part of the day. Now dont get me wrong, Iron Woman I am not. I'm not a great swimmer, I'm actually afraid of water, I can only do breastsroke and if I'm honest it's more of a quick up and down in the shallow end with the dog than a preparation for swimming the Channel. But, the bottom line is that I go in, it feels great, I emerge tingling with invigorated circulation and pride at finally becoming the woman in the water rather than the woman I used to be, sitting on the beach, wishing I was the woman in the water. My skin feels great, I feel great, it's good for the body and it’s definitley good for the soul. A lady I was speaking to the other day, goes in as often as she can. In her eighties and full of enthusiasm, she told me that she wasn't fanatical about it but if the sea called her, she went in. Three weeks ago I would have thought she was barmy. I get it now. I definitely miss it if I ignore the call.But therein lies the next challenge, as yesterday morning I had my second test and it was a lot more difficult than the first one. You see, up until yesterday, the sea had been as calm as a lake, the sun has been shining and the water has enticed me in with a promise of clear waters, a view of it's sandy bottom and the warmth of the sun on my face. Not so yesterday, or today, as the skies had darkened, the waves were rolling, not quite surfer level but still rolling and more nerve wracking for me, I couldnt see the bottom, or anything really, other than the swirling water and a greater abundance of seaweed. Which is a bit of a problem as I'm actually a bit of a wuss when it comes to unidentifiable sea creatures and unfortunatley I know that they are in there because I've seen them. Thankfully, so far, I've not seen them in the water, but I've seen them washed up on the beach. It would appear that they definitely prefer the town beach but who knows where they are, they could be anywhere, floating about quite happily, all pretty and elegant but with a nasty sting in their tentacles. Apparently the Lion's Mane Jellyfish is a real bastard, But unbelievably, I didn't let it stop me. Maybe it's an age thing, maybe I'm losing my marbles but for once, I didn't let fear hold me back and Roxy and I plunged in again, jumping the waves and generally behaving like five year olds. Luckily no one saw us. But it was fun, really great fun. It was mad, cold, scary and brilliant all rolled into one. I never saw a jellyfish, but to be honest I didn't look too hard, although the moment when a piece of seaweed wrapped itself around my leg, was an interesting one. Roxy had never seen me thrash around in a panic before and she didn't hang around. She was off. Some life saver she is. Heart pumping, I waited for the sting, it never came. All was well. I need to get braver though. I need to get my head under and really start looking around. I've come this far. If I can conquer that challenge I'll be really proud of myself.But it’s getting colder and I've got another little challenge going with myself to see how long I can keep going in without a wetsuit. I've tried to convince myself that if I just keep on going in every day, I won't notice the change in temperature and my body will just get used to it. Which is probably absolute nonsense, because by the time I got home today my tootsies were a little on the frozen side. Ok I was bare foot but still, it was the first time I'd felt a little chilly. So I should probably start looking now. Suggestions anyone?As a footnote, there are hundreds of articles on the benefits of dipping into cold water so if you're intrigued I've attached a couple of links. According to most of them, the benefits are endless, from lowering blood pressure to improving mental health and interestingly, far from dulling it, cold water can actually increase your libido! Oh er Mrs...... maybe I'll keep the results of that experiment to myself. Sam Derbyshire is the author of What Goes on Tour, Text Me No Lies and Trust Me, I’m a Personal Trainer, due for release in September.https://.scotsman.com/news/what-are-t...

because I honestly just didn't get it, but I am now grown up enough to admit, that a dog really can change your life. My hubbie and kids are furious, of course, because if I said, "look, we are not getting a dog and that's final," once, I said it a thousand times throughout their childhood and I can appreciate their frustration, in that now they're all grown up and flying the nest, Roxy dog moves in. Mum, who didn't like dogs, is now hopelessly smitten. The thing is, I was never a dog person. I grew up in a rural village with cats, birds, rabbits, guinea pigs and any other stray, injured creature that walked into our lives but we never had a dog. I don't think we ever asked for one either. We had enough to do, cleaning out bloody rabbit cages, most of which we ate, by the way. We never named any, it was too traumatic. I'll never forget the look on my mum's face when my little sister asked where Flopsy was as we tucked into our pie. Which is why I think I resisited, knowing full well that having a dog would only add to my very long list of all the responsibilities and general mental torture of bringing up three boys. I just knew that should I have given in, I would have been the one doing most of the walking and feeding, despite their promises and in my opinion, I would basically have been taking on another child.And I was right, I am chief treat and bone purchaser, vet appointment monitor, poop bag supplier and tennis ball provider and, of course, I do the longest walks. But am I bothered? Absolutley not because our early morning ritual has become something so special that I am truly grateful that Roxy came into our lives. Now dont get me wrong, living on the edge of our small town and pretty close to the beach, I was no stranger to a stroll on the sand but since I've had a companion, the beach has taken on a whole new meaning, as even though we take off on the same 3 mile circuit every morning, through the fields and then onto the beach, like the weather and the sky, no walk is ever the same. Every day the landscape has offered up something new, either through the gentle life cycles of the plants, the wildlife, (of which I have to be far more observant than speed merchant Roxy), or the natural, ever changing, seaweedy debris on the beach. Walking the same route every day isn't boring, because if you allow yourself to leave your headphones at home, free up all your senses and really observe what's going on around you, it becomes something of a meditation and an observation of everything that is wonderful about the planet we inhabit. Many a plot twist for my latest book Trust Me, I'm a Personal Trainer has been worked out during this sensory reverie and thankfully, Roxy doesnt think I'm mad when I talk to myself. At least I hope she doesn't. The Scottish summer has so far been fabulous, of course, and for the last few weeks, the beach has been nothing short of stunning. The light and the colours have been spectacular at times and the regular appearances of the dolphins, a solitary heron and an occasional lone seal, peeking at us from a safe distance, have only added to the genral awesomeness. Roxy loves to romp in the sea, all Bo Derek like, with any male dog, or any dog actually, willing and able to take her on and her eternal optimism that she may one day catch up with the low flying Oyster Catchers is heart warming. I'm not sure what she'd do if she caught one. Kiss it to death probably.And amazingly, the sea has been warm. Yes I did say warm. I do not lie. You may not believe it possible for the Moray Firth to be anything other than baltic, but it's true. It's warm. It's so warm, that this morning I finally took the plunge and went in. I'd been building up to it, inching ever fiurther in up to my thighs over the past few weeks but hadnt been brave enough to put the cossie on and just go for it. Sometimes it just takes a crazy friend to help you out and so it was that at 6.30 this morning, she turned up, silouhetted against the sun like a 007 heroine and kept me company on my first plunge. She brought me webbed gloves and goggles. I brought a flask of Earl Grey tea and a packet of ginger nuts. Not that I needed it, as it was, as I said before, warm. It was warmer than the hotel pool I swam in in Ibiza. The water was warm, the sun was shining, the beach was empty and we didn't drown and because the ground is so dry and the grassy paths have turned into carpets, I even managed to walk all the way home with bare feet. I probably looked completely deranged but for me this morning was just about perfect.So, once again, I apologise to all you doggie folk, and in a nod to Don McLean, I now understand just what you've been trying to say to me all these years. A dog really is for life and for Roxy, I am very, very grateful.

As I settled down to my hearty bowl of porridge the other morning, my eyes strayed casually to the cereal box in front of me and as I fixed my gaze once again upon his taught torso, I experienced the sudden realisation that the The Scott's Porage Oats Man and I, actually go back a very, very long way. You see it all started in the small Cotswold town of Witney in 1976, when I got my first job at the ripe old age of 13, a paper round for which I slaved for the princely sum of £1.25 a week. Occasionaly, if they remembered, I also got the odd 25p tip from the farm over the hill, an added bonus which I would add to the box containing the little brown wage packets. My challenge was to save them in a box until I had £10 and then see how many items of clothing I could get for my money in Chelsea Girl in Oxford. Those were the days, of course, when kids worked for their money and could get themselves out of bed in the morning but that's another discussion. You see, back then, my dear old mum was suffering with the harsh realities of Multiple Sclerosis, so it was up to me to get myself up at the unearthly hour of 6.00am and in order to set myself up for the gruelling task that was the Oxford Hill paper round, I used to fill myself up with porridge. On my return, I would then have another bowl before walking another mile and a half to school. It was good stuff porridge, it alwyas kept me going until break time. And that was how my relationship with the Scott's Porage Oats Man really began, for in the loneliness of a cold kitchen on a dark winters morning, I used to stare at the box and wonder just what Scotland was really like and whether all men were gladiators, throwing things from mountain tops wearing white vests and kilts. In the dim kitchen light, Scotland looked a beautiful place, with mountains, lush grass, lakes (I didn't know they were called loch's then) and beautiful sunsets. I used to stare at him and wonder what his name was, whether he was married and where the hell he was trying to throw that shot putt. I mean there was no one watching, it was just him and the mountain. Was he practicing for something or trying to kill a haggis? Back then I thought that haggis (or is the collective term haggi) actually existed as I'd read about them in the Beano. Anyway, at 13, I had absolutely no idea what he was up to, up there, alone in the mountains and I also never thought to question why porage was spelt funny. I just knew that I loved him, well him and a boy called Andy, who wore double denim, loved AC/DC and splashed Brut literally all over. Now don't get me wrong, I haven't always been loyal. I was faithful in the early years, bravely fighting off my mum's attempts to introduce me to the more sensibly clad Quaker Oats man. I even rejected her purchase of that sad excuse for porridge that is commonly known as Ready Brek. I think she really believed the whole orange glow thing, bless her. Advertising is a powerful tool. But I am proud to say, I held firm. Not for me, the jolly looking Quaker, I was sticking to my man in a kilt. But then, of course, the big bad world beckoned and I started to experiment with more exotic types, firstly going off-piste with Swiss Meusli and Alpen, then moving on to the good all-round, regular American Granola. We actually hung out for quite a while, right up until I entered my dark period, the celibate years when carbs were entirely banished from my life. They were dark and fruitless times indeed but fortunately, like the force, the pull of the porridge was strong and Organic Jumbo Oats became my new crush.And now, suddenly, the kilted man and I are reunited, as being the only oats available in the local Spar a few nights ago, I welcomed him cautiously back into my arms and back into my life. 40 years on and incredibly he hasn't changed a bit. Strong, wholesome and reliable as ever, no plastic packaging, just oats and cardboard, as it should be. But as I sit once again in my kitchen with SPOM (probably not the nicest abbreviation), I have a feeling that my destiny has been fulfilled, for not only did I eventually make the Highlands of Scotland my home but I also bagged myself a real Highland Scotsman. Ok, he doesnt walk round in a vest and kilt on a daily basis, but he does have a kilt and so do my three strapping Scottish sons. Scotland, with its mountains, lochs, beautiful beaches, big skies and sunsets, is now my home. I know now, of course, that the haggis doesnt roam freely on the hillside, that a lake is a loch, a stream is a burn and a valley's a glen. I can Strip the Willow and flirt with a Dashing White Sergeant and I have also come to appreciate the poetry of Robbie Burns, despite him being an obvious, womanising philanderer. I'm quite sure Jean, Elizabeth and numerous other poor souls would have been brandishing the #MeToo hashtag should it have been available 250 years ago. I now also support Scotland at Rugby, much to my dad's annoyance but I'm also a very firm believer that the Loch Ness Monster does, in fact, exist. Who would have thought it?Funny how thing turn out.

As one of my 2018 mid-life crisis resolutions was to be more spontaneous and random, on a whim I called upon two simarly like-minded friends to drag themselves out of their toasty homes on a bitterly cold January evening and accompany me to the tiny fishing village of Burghead on the north-east Scottish coast. The conversation had gone something like this."Do you fancy coming to the Burning of the Clavie festival in Burghead?""What's it about? Is it Viking?""I dont really know, I think its Pictish, maybe Viking. Probably pagan anyway. Pagans have more fun. They burn a clavie and the Clavie King takes it round the village""Whats a Clavie?""I dont know. A sort of barrel I think, they make it especially from what I can gather and it's supposed to bring good luck if you get a bit when its hot. I might be wrong, Google it""Unless you burn yourself, that wouldn't be lucky""Or burn your house down, that wouldnt be lucky either""I think its a New Year festival""On January 11th? A bit late isnt it""There must be a reason,I think its to do with the Gregorian calendar when we lost 11 days""So they changed New Year to the eleventh?""Yes but they kept the old one too, to be honest, I'm not sure. Google it. They have a big bonfire on the hill, I think its an old Pictish fort""I love a bonfire""Good""Is the bonfire before or after taking the barrel thing round the village?""I don't know, Google it""It'll be freezing""Probably""Can we get Scampi and chips on the way home?""Probably""Ok then"And so it was, that last Thursday evening, the three of us turned up in Burghead with absolutely no idea what to expect, what to do or even why we were there at all. I don't really know what I expected. I'd read various news snippets, tourist blurb and Wikipedia and from what I can gather, the festival has its origin in Pictish times, although whether its origins are Pictish, Roman or Norse, no one really seems to know. What is known, however, is that when Britain changed over from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in 1752, not everyone was happy about losing eleven days and riots and protests erupted throughout the country. The canny Scots in the north-east however, never keen to pass over an opportunity for a right good hoolie, seem to have opted for celebrating Hogmanay twice, once on the 1st and again on the 11th of January, conserving their ancient traditions and refusing to bow down to the distant powers that be. And despite the strict Presbyterian Church in the eighteenth century trying to stamp out what they considered to be "superstitious, idolatrous and sinful", (always a sign of a good party), this "abominable heathen practice" thankfully still survives. And boy did we enjoy it. Having opted to miss out the walk around the village following the Clavie, we took local advice and took up stance on the hill overlooking the main hill, where all the activity would supposedly take place. Now from what I can gather the Burning of the Clavie involves a hand-crafted hooped barrel filled with tar and wood, which is then hammered onto a pole. There seems to be something special about the nail used but I haven't managed to get the real story. The elected Clavie King and his very able crew then traditionally take the Clavie to the house of the Provost, where it is lit from the hearth of the fire. Once lit, it is then carried around the village, stopping at certain houses to offer embers for good luck before proceeding to Doorie Hill, the site of Burghead Fort, and thought to be one of the earliest power centres of the Picts.It is there that the real fun begins.So under spectacular starry skies, we gathered with fellow bemused onlookers on the hill opposite the beacon, as the locals of all ages, bravely pitched themselves on the hill around the pillar erected to hold the Clavie and as our feet began to lose feeling in the -2 degrees temperature, our crowd huddled together for warmth and started to chat. One man had travelled from the United States simply because he had read that his birthday was the same day as the festival and another couple I spoke to were from Canada. Others, like us, were local outsiders, travelling from far flung townships like Nairn, Forres and Elgin, all of us not really understanding what was going on but all drawn to a spectacle that we had heard about but never attended. And we had plenty of time to chat, as it was a good hour before the smoke and light of the smouldering Clavie finally appeared from behind the hill to cheers from the crowd.And from then on it was fabulous or completely bonkers if you are looking at it from a health and safety point of view as the aim of the game is obviously to burn the Clavie to dismantle the staves and create embers for sharing amongst the locals. But this barrel takes some burning. I have no idea what was being thrown onto it , but with huge cheers accompanying every explosion as small nuclear like clouds erupted into the night sky and beautiful golden sparks drifted down from the hill, the spectacle was awesome. To virgin onlookers, the first explosion was a bit of a shock, especially when half the hillside seemed to be on fire but with each explosion, our twenty-first century risk-averse sensitivities went gleefully up with the flames and our cheers got louder and more excitable. Our feet were still frozen but it didn't matter. We were children again. We were transfixed.For there is something about a fire that brings people together and from time immemorial, fire has represented cleansing, purification and rebirth. It is an incredibly powerful symbol. And as we witnessed this wonderful event , we all felt something which is very hard to describe, a feeling that comes from being part of a ritual that has taken place in the same spot, for what some people say is 1600 years. For a fleeting moment we were in touch with our ancient past. When I was trying to describe it to another friend ,who had been many years before, she used the word visceral, meaning basing the experience on deep feelings and emotions rather than logic and reason. That was the word I was looking for. You can tell she went to a posh school.And so it was, that the fire finally went out and the crowds drifted peacefully away and as we walked up the street towards the car, the aroma and whisps of smoke still hanging on the crisp night air, I watched a young local couple walking ahead. The proud owner of a burning ember, the young guy clutched his prize and as he showed it to his girl she put her arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. I almost cried. I hope the Clavie brings them much health and happiness. Back in the warm sanctuary of The Bandstand in Nairn, we ordered Scampi and chips, well soup and chips "for the vegan" and I even had a small whisky. I never drink whisky but it seemed appropriate and somehow elemental, to be partaking of the "Water of Life" after a fire festival. For your information it was a Bruichladdich single malt from Islay, so warming and delicious, I even drank it neat. It tasted like nectar.Will I go back next year? Probably, although I wonder whether, like many special experiences, it could ever be as good as the first time. Maybe I'll follow the Clavie next time and get down with the locals on the street. Who knows. The pull of the fire is strong, it is. Not that Yoda said that, but had he been to Burghead, I'm sure he too would have felt the force.Happy New YearPS: Thanks for reading and if you'd like to hear more of my random musings or to get in touch please either subscribe to my website or like my facebook page.