Uninformed

Over the past three days, I've been reading The Independent's guide to Presidents of the United States of America (as in the heads of state of the world's most powerful country, not the 90s college rock band).

Flicking through the book makes me brutally aware of how little history I'm actually aware of - I'd barely heard of most of the men who have led America since George Washington, and I'm even shamefully ignorant of most of the pre-Reagan presidents.

But thinking about it, I'm not terribly well-versed in the leaders of my own country - both monarchs and Prime Ministers. I was born during Thatcher's reign, but prior to Maggie, I'm very hazy on who followed who.

Considering that I'm supposed to be a journalist (well, actually I've been a market analyst since January 1st, but it's the same ballpark), I suppose I should really know more about the history of this wee green country on this wee blue planet.

A bit of learning is in order methinks.

Country Living

Along with Alasdair Gray, Bill Bryson is one of my favourite authors - I've yet to read one of his books that hasn't left me in stitches.

Perusing The Guardian website this morning, I was delighted to read Bryson's views on what makes the British countryside so special.

I agree with his statement that we seem to take our countryside and heritage for granted. I remember when Mrs Wife and I visited Tasmania, we were shown "the oldest bridge in Australia", built in 1823.

In my home town of Brechin, the Brechin Bridge is so old that no-one seems to know for certain how old it is. All that we seem to know for is that up until the 1780s it was the only bridge across the River South Esk. Which means that, in all likelihood, it is more than 100 years older than Australia's oldest bridge. And no-one knows or cares enough to bother even finding out when it was built.

I agree wholheartedly with Bryson's view that we should fight to protect our countryside and to preserve it from haphazard development. By all means, we should enable this country to grow, and we should be looking to build affordable homes, but not at the expense of our countryside.

Waste

It's easy to forget, in this era of the Supersize Big Mac Meal and the Kingsize Mars Bar, that food in Britain was rationed less than 60 years ago.

For people of my generation, Thatcher's Children, a life where you can't eat whatever you want, whenever you want, is unthinkable.

It wasn't actually food that got me thinking along these lines. One day, whilst out walking in the Bruntsfield area of Edinburgh, I came across a balloon shop. As the name suggests, this was an emporium that stocked only balloons and related parephenalia And it struck me that life in Britain has progressed pretty fast in the last 60 years - from a country where meat, eggs and cheese were rationed, to one where we need a shop exclusively to sell balloons.

I can see vast differences in attitudes between my grandparents' generation and mine, with my parents' generation somewhere between the two. My grandparents would carefully manage their finances, down to the last penny. If something wasn't essential, it wasn't purchased. Household items were repaired, often many times.

My generation is almost the complete opposite. If you can't afford something, buy it anyway and rack up huge credit card bills and overdrafts in the process. If something breaks, buy a new one.

Our society in the west today seems to be geared towards the short term. How can it make sense that it costs more to repair a broken kettle than it does to buy a new one?

The recent Channel Four programme The Human Footprint showed in stark terms how wasteful we Brits are. As well as showing how much urine and vomit we produce in our lifetime, it also said that most of us will get through four televisions and nine DVD players.

The programme's website also has a nifty calculator, which told me that I've probably now consumed 291 tins of baked beans (probably more in my case - I was a student for four years), that I've had 36,011 dreams and bought 183 books.

And it came in short on the number of mobile phones I've had - it suggested six, when in fact I'm on my seventh. In fact, there are now more mobile phones in Britain than there are people.

If anything points at how wasteful a race we are it's that.

Well Well Well

As the sun was beating down last Wednesday and Mrs Wife's parents were visiting Dungroanin' for the first time, it seemed like a good idea to take a walk up Glenesk to the Queen's Well.

It was a wonderful drive up the Glen, where my family lived for five of my teenage years, with the unseasonably warm sunshine allowing the scenery to look its best.

Upon arrival at Invermark, at the top of Glenesk, we decided to head straight for the Queen's Well, which is roughly 2.5 miles from the car park.

The only problem was that I was a tad hazy on the direction to take, as I hadn't visited the well since I was at primary school, and that wasn't yesterday.

So, our little party, accompanied by the in-laws' Scotty dog Islay, set out past Invermark Castle. Which, after five minutes of walking, I was fairly sure was the wrong path. Nevertheless, we kept on going, eventually arriving at the head of Loch Lee with its now dilapidated cemetery.

Having caught our breath and taken in the view, we returned to Invermark, having taken around an hour for the round trip.

Then, having found the correct path towards the Queen's Well, we set off again.

They say that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun - well, we're all Scottish, but we certainly felt the heat as we continued ever onwards towards the Queen's Well - never quite sure that we were on the right road this second time around, as you can't see the well until you are less than half a mile from it.

But eventually, hot and weary, we reached our goal. The Queen's Well was built to commemorate a visit by Queen Victoria in 1861, the year of Prince Albert's death. Apparently the Queen stopped at the well for a drink, which she reportedly found "most refreshing", and a 6m high stone crown was erected in her honour.

So, after spending about 10 minutes taking photos of the well, we headed back to the car, having hiked 7 miles in the baking heat.

Which I think more than compensates for the fact that I didn't play football at all last week.

As you can see from the photograph on the right, neither me nor Mrs Wife died during the lengthy walk - in fact, I would say that we look quite perky for having undertaken such a lengthy walk in the sun.

Islay struggled a bit more though - it must be tough being a foot high and having a thick black coat in that heat.