(Video of Sully guiding Ian through a walk tunnel)

Follow your dog

Near the station, the pavement sweeps round towards a zebra crossing, and I made the mistake of encouragingSully towards the tactiles too soon. He ignored me completely and kept walking. “Follow your dog, he knows,” Jen said. So I did, and he took me straight to the crossing point. Bang on, as it turned out.

That was near the end of the walk, mind you. I’m getting ahead of myself.

This week’s post is going to be shorter than usual. We’re at the stage now where there aren’t quite so many firsts, and it’s mostly repetition: going over what we’ve learned and sorting out what still needs worked on!!

Last week Kirsty, my regular trainer, was on leave. I was going to say my normal trainer, but we’ll stick with regular for now.! So Jen came along instead. She was the instructor I first trained with when I got Major, and she’s now a manager in my area, so it was a chance for her to see how Sully and I were getting on.

There’s no pressure to impress. At least there shouldn’t be. But there’s always a slightly competitive bit of me that wants to do a good job. And it’s not all down to me either Sully also has to play his part.

We repeated a route we’ve now done two or three times, from my house to the railway station and back. It was a bit mixed to begin with. As I’ve mentioned before, my road is tricky. Lots of smells, lots of hedges and some fairly poor pavements. Sully can be slow to get going there because there’s so much around to distract him. Once we got properly under way, though, he settled down and worked really well.

We also nipped into Tesco to practise that section again. He’s only done it once before, and finding the stairs seemed to throw him. For some reason he kept veering right, towards a fire door round the side of the building, when the stairs were the other way entirely. There are pillars to get round and a barrier at the top of the stairs, however, there wasn’t much point in turning it into a battle, so we left it there. Kirsty can have another go when she gets back. [Good luck Kirsty]

(Photo of Sully relaxing after working! He is lying on a bench with his head balanced on arm of it. Is this the face of concern!)

The rest of the walk to the station went really well. In fact, the biggest mistake of the day was mine, as you already know.

On the way home Sully hardly put a paw wrong. He worked really well along the High Street and all the way back to the house.

Because things are going well, Jen’s given us a little more freedom. We can practise that route again with supervision, but it doesn’t have to be a Guide Dogs instructor. So Christine & Daniel are stepping in to support. Along with being able to practise around the BBC office, the restrictions are slowly being loosened. Bit by bit, we’re starting to get on with things without an instructor watching our every move.

Next week Kirsty’s back from holiday, and we’ll be going over some of these routes again. The stairs at Tesco are still unbeaten. She can have another crack at them.

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(Picture of Sully with his harness & halty on standing at the pavement kerb)

Day one: Monday

Today’s song: “Walk of Life” by Dire Straits

It felt right for the start of another week. There is a train in the song, and Sully was about to learn another part of the walk of my life, while learning how to keep me safe along the way.

Week four began with another first.

We were heading into Glasgow and into the sort of city work Sully will have to deal with as part of my everyday life. Before that, though, there was traffic work in Hamilton.

This is done in a controlled and safe way. We were not practising with random cars on the road. Jen, one of the Guide Dogs staff, was driving the training car and Kirsty was supervising the exercise.

The idea is to teach Sully what to do when traffic suddenly makes the obvious route unsafe. There are two versions: near traffic and far traffic. With near traffic, I stand at the kerb with Sully beside me and listen for a car approaching from my right. When it gets close, I give him the forward command. His job is to ignore me and stay firmly at the kerb rather than take me into the path of the vehicle.

Far traffic is slightly different. Again I am standing at the kerb, this time with a car approaching from the left. Sully can stay where he is or move off, but if he does go forward he must stop safely in the road and face the side of the vehicle. He must not take me in front of it or try to go behind it. Once the car has moved on, I can give him the instruction to continue to the opposite kerb. I have known the odd dog, while stopped, to put his head through the driver’s open window, which is very entertaining. Thankfully, they have only ever tried that with an instructor behind the wheel rather than a member of the public.

We tried both versions several times. He got them right.

I’ve done this exercise numerous times with every dog I’ve trained with. Nevertheless, it is still nerve-racking and, strangely, gives me a bit of a buzz, particularly when the dog stops exactly when he should.

One of the remarkable things about a guide dog is that it is trained to refuse a command if carrying it out would put us in danger. I might be telling Sully to go forward, but if he believes it is unsafe, his job is to say no. When you are standing there waiting for him to make that decision, you are very aware of the trust involved.

From there we moved into Glasgow.

The city brings different problems from home. There are wider pavements and fewer overhanging hedges, which can actually make some things easier, but there are more people, more noise, roadworks, bins and all the clutter of a busy city centre.

The rain joined us as well.

Sully worked through it, finding poles and crossing points, with the clicker still doing its job whenever he got something right.

I am not against cyclists. In fact, I ride a tandem myself with a friend from time to time. But cyclists in shared spaces can cause problems for Sully and me because it can be extremely difficult to judge where they are and where they are coming from.

The vast majority are respectful. Then there is the odd one. On Monday afternoon, one cyclist came down Buchanan Street far too fast in the rain. He managed to miss Sully and me, and a couple nearby, before crashing to the ground himself.

Why go so fast through such a busy space? I genuinely do not understand it. Fortunately nobody else was hurt and, from what I could tell, he was not badly hurt either. His ego may have taken the worst of it.

So, cyclists, I am not asking you to stop. Just slow down a bit when you are moving through a crowded shared space.

However, by the end of the day Sully had dealt with busy road crossings and his first proper taste of Glasgow. I was beginning to see how he might fit into my working life.

Tomorrow we move on to more of Glasgow, including the stations and routes that will become part of our regular working life.

(Video of Ian, Kirsty & Sully walking through the train station)

Day two: Tuesday

Today’s song: “Where the Streets Have No Name” by U2

The title seemed appropriate. One of the biggest challenges today was not really a street at all, but a large open space with very little to tell Sully where the route was supposed to be.

We were working around Exhibition Centre and one of the more awkward parts of a route I will use regularly in Glasgow.

The difficult bit is the large open space between the SEC Armadillo and the Hydro. If you know that part of Glasgow, you will know just how open it is. A kerb, wall or building line gives a guide dog something to follow. Here there is very little of that.

It is not only difficult for Sully. It is difficult for me to help him as well. There are no nearby buildings to give me useful echoes and very little sound from shops or traffic that might help me judge our direction. If it is windy, even the few sounds that are around can disappear or become harder to place. In a space like that, both of us can feel properly lost.

Sully has to cross the open area, keep his direction and find the tunnel ( known locally as the smarty tube!) that leads towards Exhibition Centre railway station. There is very little telling him where to go, which is precisely the problem.

We worked the route more than once. Repetition is part of the job. The aim is not to expect him to understand the whole route after one attempt, but to let familiarity build.

Once we reached the tunnel and station area, the route became much more defined again. One minute he is crossing a huge open space; the next he is back in the structured environment of a pedestrian tunnel and railway station.

The other big moment was going to my place of work, BBC Scotland.

We practised several routes around the building, including from the front door to my desk and to one of the radio studios.

I think, no …. I know ….my colleagues were considerably more excited about Sully arriving than Sully was about BBC Scotland.

For the moment they were politely asked not to approach him. He was working and, more importantly, learning. There will be plenty of time over the coming weeks for everyone to say hello.

For now, his job was simply to learn where I go to work. Not make new friends.

Day three: Wednesday

Today’s song: “A Different Corner” by George Michael

A different corner felt about right. Sully and I were starting to make these familiar journeys together, rather than treating every one of them as an exercise.

For the first time, I had a little more independence inside BBC Scotland.

After yesterday’s work around the building, Sully remembered the route to my desk. For the first time in a while, I was moving around the building at something approaching my normal speed.

From there we went back to one of the places that is still requires more work. I met Kirsty my trainer and Daniel my producer and we spent time practising the route around the Exhibition Centre station again. This is not the sort of route Sully is going to learn in one go. We repeated the railway platform, the lifts and the ticket office, giving him the chance to understand how the separate pieces fit together.

There is a strange thing about working with a new guide dog on routes that you have known for years. Major dealt with so many of the obstacles that I had almost stopped noticing they were there. With Sully, everything is new again. I am suddenly conscious of corners, doors, open spaces and little decisions that had disappeared from my awareness with an experienced dog.

In that sense, Sully is making me notice my own world again.

Away from home, he somehow feels bigger too.

At home he is the dog lying around the house or emptying his toy bag. Out in Glasgow, in harness, he takes up a much bigger part of my attention because I am reading every movement and working out what he is going to do next.

That continued as we learned the route from BBC Scotland to the Village Hotel, crossing Govan Road. Another familiar journey for me, but another collection of new decisions for him.

Later Sully had a free run in the wooded part of Pollok Park. After all that concentration, he could tear around without having to make decisions on my behalf.

Tomorrow the cameras are back and we will be filming around the Exhibition Centre station and Glasgow Central, including the bits Sully has not quite cracked yet.

That is probably a better story than pretending everything is perfect.

Day four: Thursday

Today’s song: “With a Little Help from My Friends” by The Beatles

We were filming again, this time around Glasgow.

There was plenty of help around me: James on the main camera, Daniel on the second camera while also producing and directing, Kirsty keeping an eye on the training, and Sully doing the actual guiding.

The route began at BBC Scotland and took us towards Exhibition Centre. Sully handled the open space between the Armadillo and the Hydro much more confidently, found the tunnel and then worked through the station, including the lift and ticket office.

From there we moved on to Glasgow Central.

Central is still a work in progress, which made it useful for the documentary. There is no point filming only the bits that already look polished.

At Central Low Level the lift was out of action, so we used the stairs. Sully dealt with the access points, and we used the clicker and treats when he found what I wanted.

After the station work we headed out for a coffee, but not in the station. We came out onto Gordon Street, turned and made our way towards Union Street and Buchanan Street.

And somewhere along there, something clicked.

It is hard to explain guide dog movement to somebody who has never felt it. Sully was bobbing and weaving through the crowd, his body turning and mine following him. Left, right, left.

He moved around people, street furniture and all the usual obstacles without me having to think consciously about every one of them.

I could feel his body turn and I turned with him.

We had already done Buchanan Street before, but this felt different. It felt fluid.

Then we repeated the same thing in Glasgow Central Station as we made our way back towards the BBC.

Again there were people everywhere, bags, barriers and all the unpredictability of a busy station. Sully moved through it and I moved with him.

The thinking starts to disappear and muscle memory takes over. His body moves, mine follows, and suddenly we are not negotiating every obstacle separately.

That is what this felt like.

It had clicked. And you know immediately when it happens.

For the first time, I came away thinking less about Sully as the new guide dog I am training with and more simply: this is my dog.

(Picture of Sully, back at hime having a relaxed time on the bench, he looks relaxed and calm with a wet shiney nose )

Day five: Friday

Today’s song: “The Climb” by Miley Cyrus

Not because I was looking for a grand finale. Friday turned out to be a reminder that Sully and I can still have a bad ten minutes.

The day began with a wobble.

Sully was hesitant at the start and made a mistake at the open space at the SEC. He seemed to lose confidence in an area we had already covered successfully three or four times. It was frustrating, particularly after how well he had worked there the day before.

We reset with the help of Kirsty and carried on.

He worked through the tunnel and into the station, then to the ticket office, and finally on to the platform.

Each bit asks something different of him. First we have to reach and enter the station, then find the ticket office, then continue safely to the platform. It is a sequence he is still putting together.

We stopped for a break and gave him time to cool down.

On the return journey, the dog who had looked uncertain earlier did not put a paw wrong.

That may have been the most useful lesson of the day.

Those first few minutes had been poor, but they did not have to dictate the rest of the walk. Training is also about learning how Sully responds when something goes wrong, how I respond, and whether we can recover together rather than letting one mistake define everything that follows.

A few weeks in, we are not finished. But something has definately clicked

If you enjoyed this read and you fancy sharing a virtual coffee with me, you can by clicking the link below..with one spoon of sugar please! You can buy me a coffee here

(Photograph of one of Ian & Christines coffee cups,mit is dark bkue with light blue glossy drips on the outside)

(Picture of Sully on his favourite stair!)

And Day one

Today’s song: “Getting Better” by The Beatles

There are some places you associate with particular moments in your life, and sometimes it is easier simply to avoid them.

Today we registered Sully with a new vet in a nearby town. There is nothing wrong with the old surgery, but last year I spent far too much time there with two sick dogs. Going back carried a sense of dread I could happily do without.

The new practice is closer to home and has a 24-hour emergency service, so there are practical reasons for changing. Still, it felt like another small part of moving forward.

After the vet, Sully went back into harness.

We worked in a nearby town with wider pavements and a bit more room to move. At the moment I am still learning his pace, his stride and all the tiny signals that will eventually become second nature.

The temperature was warm rather than hot. We still didn’t push things too far, and he seemed relaxed and comfortable.

Then came the bit he probably enjoyed most.

We took him to a small wood for a free run. This is his chance to be a dog rather than a guide dog, although there are rules. He still has to come back when called, and he still has to remember that I exist.

His recall was excellent. He ran about, sniffed everything that required sniffing and a few things that didn’t. I’m pleased to say, he came back when asked.

That may sound fairly ordinary, but at this stage it matters. The working relationship is only part of it. You also want the dog to choose to come back to you when the harness is off.

It was not a dramatic day. A new vet, a decent walk and a dog disappearing happily into the woods before deciding I was still worth returning to. At this stage, I’ll take that.

Day two

Today’s song: “One Step Beyond” by Madness

There is a lot of repetition in guide dog training. You walk the same streets, find the same kerbs and practise the same manoeuvres until both dog and owner stop having to think quite so hard about them.

Today, though, there were enough fiddly bits to keep us both alert.

We headed from my street up towards the railway station, then back down to find the local pharmacy before returning to Kirsty’s car, which was parked at one of the supermarkets.

Our High Street is wide, but that does not necessarily make it easy. There are benches, poles and assorted street furniture, along with a few small dogs on leads and several small children who, sadly, were not equally restrained. Today there was also a lorry parked partly on the pavement.

It had managed to stop right beside a step, leaving a gap that was tight even by local standards. The driver did not seem especially interested in moving it or offering much assistance, so Sully and I had to work it out ourselves with direction from Kirsty.

This is where one of my unofficial guide dog techniques comes in.

I call it water skiing.

Instead of walking beside the dog in the usual way, I move in behind him, still holding the harness handle, and let him pull me through a narrow gap. That is the water-skiing technique.

It is not in any Guide Dogs manual, as far as I know. I first started doing it with Renton, one of my previous guide dogs, years ago.

Some dogs take a little while to understand what you are doing. Sully got the idea quickly.

It works because most guide dog work is built around what they call right shoulder work. The dog is trained to make sure there is enough room for me to get past an obstacle without clipping it.

I have already told Kirsty that I am not too worried if I take a glancing blow on the right shoulder. A wheelie bin or a pole brushing my arm is survivable. What I would rather avoid is planting my face into a wall or a lamppost.

This clearly goes against every instinct she has as a guide dog instructor.

My argument is that if I am ever going to test how much room Sully thinks I need, I would rather do it while Kirsty is standing beside me than discover the answer for myself once the training is finished.

At the railway station he worked safely along the platform, keeping me well back from the edge. We did not get on a train today. That comes later.

The other important development was the clicker.

Sully already understands it. I am the one being trained.

When he finds something correctly, such as a crossing point or a shop entrance, I click and then give him a treat. The click marks the exact moment he has done the right thing.

Kirsty also finds my clicker technique rather amusing. I have developed a habit of pointing it at Sully as though he is a television and I am trying to change channels.

After over 40 years of working with guide dogs, it is slightly odd to discover that I am the novice in the partnership.

Still, that is the point of all this repetition. Sully learns what I want, I learn how he works, and somewhere in the middle we become a team.

(Picture of Ian squeezing on to the Sully stair and leaning his head on Sullys shoulder)

Day three

Today’s song: “Hold On Tight” by Electric Light Orchestra

I was reminded today that one of the biggest obstacles to guide dog training is not the dog. It is every thing else, particularly humans!

Wheelie bins, cars parked on pavements and hedges that have been allowed to take over half the street all become part of the lesson.

Today we were working on off-kerb obstacles. This is what happens when something completely blocks the pavement and the only safe route is briefly into the road.

Sully has to stop and show me there is an obstruction. I then encourage him forward so I can confirm there really is no way through. Once I am happy it is safe, we step off the kerb, go around the obstacle and return to the pavement.

Then comes the click and the treat.

We did it several times. Written down, it sounds like a lot of steps. In practice, it should become almost automatic.

The weather was not helping. It was humid, and with guide dogs there is a temperature point beyond which you simply do not work them. We kept the sessions sensible and gave him plenty of breaks.

Our second route was along one of the more awkward streets nearby. Potholes, uneven surfaces and overhanging hedges make it difficult enough before you add all the interesting smells.

Sully became slower and much more sniffy.

Sometimes that is simply because something smells more interesting than I do. At other times, Kirsty says, sniffing can be his way of avoiding something he is not completely confident about. There were strong smells around several entrances and he was clearly tempted to investigate.

It should settle as his confidence grows, and it already comes and goes.

We stopped for lunch at a cafe, where he settled quietly under the table, then headed to Tesco and practised finding the customer service counter.

The staff remembered me from previous dogs, which was nice. Sully found the counter twice and did it well.

The walk back was better than the outward journey. The interesting smells were now mostly on his right, with the road on his left, and he seemed much happier just getting on with the job.

That is becoming a familiar feature of the week. A difficult stretch can be followed, sometimes only minutes later, by a very good one. The trick is not to make too much of either.

Day four

Today’s song: “Roll With It” by Steve Winwood

The forecast now dictates our diary almost as much as the training plan.

Another muggy day meant another early start. We set off just after nine, tackling a route we had done before, only this time in reverse.

That sounds straightforward. It is not.

A guide dog does not simply memorise one route and then play it backwards. Kerbs appear differently, crossings are approached from another angle and landmarks that helped in one direction may be of no use at all in the other.

Sully handled it well.

One thing he is particularly good at is stairs. Some dogs can be slightly hesitant when they first meet a flight of steps in harness. Sully seems to regard them as another part of the job. Steady and safe.

Before the heat really set in, we took him for a free run in the woods. He charged about, enjoyed himself and came back when called, which was really all I needed from him.

After that we called at Pets at Home to put him on the scales.

His weight is slightly down, but nobody is worried. We are adjusting his food as the workload changes and keeping an eye on it.

The afternoon was less physical and more about theory.

There is a surprising amount for the owner to absorb during guide dog training. Feeding, routines, behaviour, health, what to reward, what not to reward and when to let the dog work something out for himself.

After all these years with guide dogs, I still find there are new things to learn.

Tomorrow the training and the documentary collide.

Chas and Daniel are arriving with the camera equipment and we will film some of the same training that I have been writing about here.

The BBC documentary is about losing one guide dog, wondering whether I was ready for another, and then starting again with Sully.

That means the ordinary training day suddenly becomes television. Routes have to work not just for Sully and me, but for a camera crew trying to capture what is happening without getting in the way.

For Sully, of course, none of that matters.

He will simply be expected to do his job.

Day five

Today’s song: “The Camera Eye” by Rush

Today there were more people watching.

Chas and Daniel arrived first thing with the equipment for the television documentary. I have worked with them both for years, which helped, because filming guide dog training presents a slightly unusual problem.

For the past few days, most of the training has been Sully, Kirsty and me. This morning there was suddenly a camera behind us, another person moving around with a second camera and the occasional request to do something again because television, unlike guide dog training, sometimes requires a second take.

The trouble is that asking a guide dog to repeat something is not always as simple as saying, ‘Could we just do that once more?’ The dog can quite reasonably think he is being asked again because he got it wrong the first time. So while a second take might make perfect sense to a camera crew, it can make rather less sense to Sully.

Chas and Daniel understood that. We could repeat some things, but there were moments when Kirsty and I had to draw a line and say that was enough. The dog came first, even if the television shot might have been better with one more go.

The heat was still a factor, so we started early and kept the working sections short.

We filmed around the railway station and some of the local routes we have already been practising. That included the usual mix of crossings, pavement obstacles and bits where Sully has to make decisions for himself.

From my point of view, it was useful because none of it was invented for the camera. These were real routes we had already been working on. Sully was a little distracted by Chas and Daniel at first, which was hardly surprising when two unfamiliar humans had suddenly acquired cameras and started following him around, but he settled and worked well.

We also set up an obstacle course, which gave the camera crew something rather more obvious to film.

For Sully it was another test of the work we have been doing all week. He had to pick his way through the various obstructions while leaving enough room for me to get through as well. For me, it was practice at following the dog as he twisted and turned.

He picked his way through it despite the distraction of Chas and Daniel moving around with the cameras. They kept their distance when they needed to and let him get on with the job.

When Kirsty first told me we were going to do an obstacle course, I thought she said assault course. For a moment, I imagined Sully and me scaling walls, throwing ourselves through hoops of fire and finishing with a white-knuckle crossing of a rope bridge.

Thankfully, Guide Dogs had something rather less ambitious in mind.

It turned out to be a few traffic cones and wheelie bins.

Sully looked relieved. So did I.

Once the serious filming was done, Sully got the better end of the deal. We took him for a free run in a shaded area and the cameras followed him there too. He found three retrievers to play with and, for a while at least, being a television star seemed to consist mainly of charging around with some new pals.

After that, day five was done.

Next week the training moves into Glasgow and into BBC Scotland. There will be more people, more open space and different kinds of routes. In some ways that may suit Sully. Fewer narrow pavements and fewer overhanging hedges should give him more room to work.

Glasgow will bring different distractions, but also more space.

If you enjoyed this read and you fancy sharing a virtual coffee witt me, you can by clicking the link below..with one spoon of sugar please! You can buy me a coffee here

Picture of SULLY lying in the sunshine.

I thought it might be useful to carry on in Journal format to note my daily life with my new Guide Dog. A song popped into my head on the first day and I’ve decided that this is a ‘good thing’

So, Today’s song is “Getting to Know You” from The King and I

The song is about strangers slowly learning about each other, which feels like the right place to begin with Sully and me. There is still plenty we do not know about one another, but that is starting to change.

We are slowly getting to know Sully. He is a lovely dog and very biddable around the house.

This is the first time I have been trained at home. With my previous dogs, training took place at the centre in Forfar and, more recently, at a hotel in East Kilbride. This time, it is what they call domiciliary training, where the whole experience happens at home.

There are pluses and minuses to this format. Having more space helps the dog settle more quickly, and it is far less confined than a hotel room. On the other hand, there are many more distractions for both of us: stopping for coffee breaks, uninvited visitors and delivery men and of course for Sully, a different garden to explore and neighbours to meet.

One of the biggest early challenges for Sully is the route from my house into the local town. If you read last week’s blog, and I am sure you did, you will know it is a tricky route and probably not the easiest place to establish a new partnership. (The pavement is not only narrow, pot holed, but also overgrown by hedges)

It is difficult to find a rhythm and, for me, to regain my balance and stride with a new dog. We tackled the complicated walk through my street today, but tomorrow we will switch to easier routes where we can stride out and get a better feel for each other.

We are also discovering the quirks in his personality. Dogs have great personalities, and they are all different. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Sully is easy-going and relaxed, but after dinner he demands attention. He empties his toy bag and scatters its contents through the living room and hall, which is not ideal when you cannot see the obstacle course now lying between you and the kitchen.

I hope he is not trying to kill me. He has only just arrived!

My previous dogs tended to eat their dinner and head straight to bed for a nap, much like me.

As you will see from the photograph, Sully is a lovely dog with a great nature.

And those ears. He has massive ears. Let’s hope they do not get caught in a high wind, or he could probably take off.

Day two tomorrow.

Day two: Downtown

Today’s song: “Downtown” by Petula Clark

It is about heading into the bright lights of the city when life is getting you down. A song that felt right for a day when Sully was heading into Glasgow to show what he could do.

It was a quiet morning, for me at least. I had expected to go out for a walk with Kirsty, but she wanted to take Sully into Glasgow city centre to see how he handled it, so I was not required.

It was raining, so I cannot say I was exactly crushed.

Apparently, Sully did not put a paw wrong. His route included Buchanan Street and Hope Street, and the city was very busy.

So, while Petula promised that the lights would be much brighter there, I was at home listening to the rain, catching up with some work.

After they returned at lunchtime, we headed out for an easier walk so I could get a better feel for Sully. We changed the handle on his harness, and I found it much easier to follow him.

We used the wider pavements and better surfaces of a small housing estate nearby. It was warm and clammy, so he was not moving particularly quickly. I think he was feeling the heat.

All in all, though, it was a very good day for Sully.

It must have taken it out of him. He spent most of the evening in bed, sleeping.

Or was that me?

Probably both.

Day three: Reasons to be cheerful

Today’s song: “Reasons to Be Cheerful, Part 3” by Ian Dury and the Blockheads

Released in 1979, it is a joyful, rattling list of a song about the small and large things that make life good. It felt right for the day the decision came in and Sully got to stay.

Today was a big one.

Sully had been with us for a week, but the final decision was still to come from the Glasgow guide dog team. Would he be mine for keeps, and would our training continue after the trial period?

At half past ten, Kirsty returned from her meeting with the answer.

Sully was staying.

We were delighted and, it seemed, so was Sully. The moment Kirsty broke the news, he became thoroughly overexcited, barking and spinning round on the spot.

Honestly, you would have thought he understood every word. It felt like something out of a Disney film.

To mark the occasion, Kirsty, Sully and I headed out to work on the high street. We left the trickier route from home for another day and tackled this one instead.

It is no small challenge, with people, small children and other dogs all needing to be worked around.

It turned out to be the best walk we have had so far. He did not put a paw wrong. Not once.

We then headed to Costa for a coffee. I wanted to see how he would behave in that kind of social setting. He simply lay quietly beside the table.

He is definitely a keeper.

Mind you, we still have five weeks of training ahead of us, so there is plenty of time for him to test that theory.

Day four: Should I stay or should I go?

Today’s song: “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by The Clash

Released in 1982, it is a song about indecision and being pulled in two directions at once. It seemed a good fit for a day when Sully and I had to spend a few hours apart.

Kirsty, my guide dog trainer, is off on leave for a few days. It was booked long before any of us knew Sully would be arriving a week earlier than planned.

With a gap in the schedule, I used the time to pop into work for a couple of hours, finish a few jobs and drop off some equipment to be fixed.

The real story of the day, though, happened while I was out.

Christine stayed at home with Sully, and I was curious to see how he would manage without me. We are getting closer as a team and the bond is building, but it is not fully established yet. A few hours apart felt like a useful test.

According to Christine, he was a little unsettled after I left.

He also let himself down by counter-surfing and helping himself to butter from the worktop, exactly the kind of thing we had been warned to watch out for.

He was told off, but Christine said he did not look remotely guilty. Cheeky, rather than sorry.

We are keeping a closer eye on him now.

So, a day of two halves. A few jobs finished at work for me, and a lesson in temptation for Sully.

One he clearly does not feel he needs to learn from.

Day five: Have you ever seen the rain?

Today’s song: “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” by Creedence Clearwater Revival

The title made it the obvious choice for a day when the weather became part of the story. It was also the day I discovered that Sully and Scottish rain might not be the most natural of partnerships.

Christine, Sully and I headed out for a walk in the countryside a couple of miles behind the house.

It is a quiet route, with only the occasional tractor for company, and a good place to test a young dog around cows and sheep. (On the lead of course

)

Sully looked at both, decided they were not worth the bother and carried on.

Then the rain came on, and I discovered something new about my dog.

He does not like it.

That is a bit of a design flaw for a dog about to spend his working life in Scotland.

He dragged his feet with every step.

To his credit, he came round. He was not happy about it, but he stopped protesting and eventually got on with the job.

We cut the walk slightly short anyway. By that point, all of us were fairly soaked, and Sully raised no objection to the decision.

Back home, he took himself off to bed for the rest of the afternoon, the sensible response to a wet Friday if ever there was one.

He surfaced in time to meet our niece Jennifer, who runs her own dog-walking business and therefore arrived smelling, presumably, of several dozen other people’s puppies and a great many treats.

Sully took to her immediately.

Whether that was down to her charm or simply the smell of biscuits on her coat, I could not say.

So, that is the first official week done.

I am giving the journal a rest over the weekend and picking it up again on Monday. For now, I can say this much: Sully has settled in far better than I had any right to expect.

photograph of Sully lying upside down in his bed

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(Picture of Ian in profile looking at his new Guide Dog in training called Sully)

My blog this week, is one that some of you, perhaps most of you, might find interesting.

As you know, Major retired last year and then, sadly, died only a week before his 10th birthday. Since then, I’ve been getting around with my white cane and by hanging on to the elbows of various friends, family members and colleagues.

But that might be coming to an end.

When I was filming in St Andrews for My Kind Of Town, I received a phone call. We were sitting in the car at the West Sands, waiting for our director to ring and command us to spring into action. We were also enjoying a nice iced coffee in the sunshine, so don’t feel too sorry for us being bossed about.

Instead of the dulcet tones of Duncan, our producer-director, I heard a woman’s voice. At first, I didn’t quite catch her name, but it soon became clear that she was a guide dog mobility instructor. Her name, I now know, is Kirsty.

She had a dog they felt might be suitable for me.

He’s a German shepherd called Sully.

I didn’t think I would get another guide dog this year. I’d made peace with that and had begun planning around it. I hoped there might be an outside chance of getting one before Christmas, but my expectations were pretty low.

So the call caught me properly on the hop.

I’ve been keeping it quiet, with only a few people close to me knowing there was a possibility of a new dog.

Let me tell you about Sully.

For those who remember Renton, a giant of the breed, Sully isn’t quite as big. Not many dogs are.

He weighs around 36kg. That makes him about 14kg lighter than Renton and roughly 1kg heavier than Major. For those of you who know, or knew, both dogs, that should give you some idea of his size.

Once filming was over and I was home again, arrangements were made for Sully to come and meet me.

When Kirsty’s vehicle pulled into our driveway with Sully on board, I would be lying if I said it wasn’t an exciting moment.

I knew his name, size and weight, but until you get your hands on a dog, it’s difficult to picture what he might be like.

(Picture of Guide dog instructor opening the boot of her car and Ian waiting at the side)

Once Kirsty had parked, she opened the back of the car. Sully was sitting inside a safety cage. She opened it and, with one bound, he was out and standing there in front of me.

What a lovely dog. He was in great condition and had enormous ears.

(Picture of Ian and Guide Dog Instructor Kirsty walking over to the opened boot of the car to meet Sully for the first time)

Is this a guide dog or a guide donkey? I asked myself.

He said hello the way the best of them do, a quick investigative sniff, a nudge of the hand, and then on with the important business of inspecting his new surroundings.

( picture of Sully sitting upright behind his blue toy from monsters Inc. )

As for the name, I’ve no idea who he’s named after. It could be Captain Sully Sullenberger, the pilot who landed his stricken airliner on the Hudson River in 2009 and saved everyone on board. Or it could be Sulley from Monsters, Inc, the enormous, hairy blue monster with a soft heart. Given the size of him, I know where my money is.

He seemed very relaxed, a little like Major in nature. However, you don’t really know what a guide dog is like until you take that first walk with the harness on.

That was what I was about to do.

The walk was partly about getting my feet back into the right positions and finding my balance again. Following a new dog, with a different height and stride, feels strange after nine months without one.

There was also the big question: would Sully feel right in the harness?

You might imagine that, after more than 40 years as a guide dog owner, the muscle memory would kick in and everything would drop straight back into place.

Well, it’s not really like that.

Every dog feels different. Some training methods have also changed since I trained with Major, so I’ll be learning those as well.

My street isn’t the easiest place for a first walk. The pavements are bad. Full of Crater like holes and rough and broken surfaces. there are bins to navigate and some of the hedges are so overgrown that I’m constantly being hit in the face by branches.

I’m pleased to say the walk went well, despite the Craters and the wandering branches.

On the subject of those branches, people don’t always realise that they have a responsibility to keep pavements clear of overhanging hedges, bushes and trees.

So, if you have one, please cut it back. If you won’t do it for me, do it for the dog.

I remember a former instructor telling me: “If you can get out of your street, the world is your oyster.”

How true that was then, and still is now.

I start training with Sully this week, and I’m thoroughly looking forward to it. The good news is that there’s no hotel this time. I’ll be trained from home, which should be good for both of us.

I can feel my mobility skills and confidence slipping a little with each month that passes without a dog, but I think I’m ready.

Ready to get back onto the streets with a harness handle in my hand.

I’ll post regular updates here in the form of a journal, letting you know how Sully and I are getting on.

With a bit of luck, by the autumn, the two of us will be out on the streets of Scotland.

The world had better start getting its oyster ready.

(Picture of Sully looking coy down the camera lens!)

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(Video of Filming on small plane)

The second half of my filming week in St Andrews: taking to the sky, the sea and, finally, the fairway.

Day five

Tom Petty’s Learning to Fly gets the nod today, and for once it’s literal. Breakfast was better this morning, the full works. Too much of it, in fact, and I couldn’t finish, but it was tasty, nevertheless.

The morning was all about getting airborne with Archie Liggat, a former fighter pilot and squadron leader. After leaving the RAF, he became an airline pilot with British Airways, and now he flies purely for fun in his small single-prop, two-seater aircraft out of Kingsmuir Airfield. We had plenty of cameras on board to capture every moment, and I even got the chance to fly it myself for ten seconds. Tiny, tiny movements to adjust the elevation and the banking. I thought I would be more nervous than I was. It truly felt like flying, because for those ten seconds it was.

James, our cameraman, went back up afterwards to catch the pictures our fixed cameras had missed. I think he got as big a thrill out of it as I did. An amazing experience.

Today Chris Vermeulen was my chauffeur, taking me from place to place, another way to plug the gap left by not having a dog. Chris is a former Church of Scotland minister, a job he did for 33 years. Now he ferries people around in his fancy electric BMW. Very nice, and something I could get very used to.

The afternoon was just pick-up shots here and there, and the evening ended with a curry back at our accommodation. Tomorrow we take to the water with the St Andrews coastal rowers.

Day six

Today’s song is Sloop John B by the Beach Boys, for reasons that will become embarrassingly clear. It’s an old Bahamian folk song which the band released in 1966, telling the tale of a boat trip gone badly wrong, with a drunken crew and a narrator who simply wants to go home. Hold that thought. Breakfast was eggs and toast. Okay, but no better than okay. I’ll be glad to get home, as my food intake this week has been bad. Really bad.

The first interview of the day was with Clayton Hardisty, a trustee of St Andrews Harbour and the founder of the town’s coastal rowing club. His day job is as a physiotherapist. He explained how they were trying to repair the harbour after storms in 2023 caused extensive damage.

When I caught up with him again two hours later, he was like a different person, because at half past twelve he was the cox of a St Ayles skiff, a four-oared rowing boat belonging to the club he founded. Clayton and I were joined by three women: Rosie Steven, Sarah and Nina. Nina is a geography lecturer at the university, yet hilariously didn’t appear to know where she was in the harbour. It made me laugh, and it gave me plenty of opportunities to take the mickey.

We had cameras all over the boat and a drone in the air, following my progress as we rowed up and down the harbour. All good fun. I did, however, bring disgrace upon myself by crabbing my oar. The shame of it. For the uninitiated, that’s when the blade hits the water at the wrong angle and the sea grabs hold of it, stopping your stroke dead and doing its best to shove you off your seat. No actual crabs are involved, though my dignity went overboard. My feet got wet into the bargain, so Tanya had to go back to the digs for my dry shoes, something I should have anticipated.

Afterwards, we were invited up to the clubhouse for tea and cake, an invitation accepted with great enthusiasm.

Tomorrow is our penultimate day. Just some pick-up shots, and filming with an elf. Yes, an elf. On a scooter. The rest of the crew don’t get it either, apart from Duncan and me.

You can see some more snippets of the programme on You Tube My Kind of Town Scotland For some behind the scenes snippets

Day seven

Today’s song is Bridge over Troubled Water, and by the end of this entry you’ll understand why, though the water itself behaved impeccably. A good Sunday breakfast this morning: bacon, sausage and potato scone, all washed down with some watery coffee. To be honest, I was like a half-shut knife. I woke at 5.55am and stayed awake until eight and breakfast.

Our location was down at the Old Course, where I was to deliver my PTCs, pieces to camera, two of them to be precise. There’s a famous bridge at the 18th called the Swilcan Bridge, a small stone crossing over the Swilcan Burn that has stood for around 700 years. It’s where many of the greats of golf have posed, including some saying farewell to the Old Course. Duncan gave us our instructions, and James, Daniel and I were sent off to get the picture.

Unbelievably, people were queuing to stand on this wee bridge and have their photo taken, most of them, I suspect, not entirely sure what they were standing on. Mainly Americans, it must be said. Probably the dullest queue I’ve ever stood in. Not exactly Disney.

The trouble is, when we got back to show Duncan, we hadn’t been facing the right way and didn’t have the right picture. So off we were sent again, this time with Duncan in tow so he could explain exactly what he wanted. And there we were, back in the queue once more. Fortunately, there was nobody around to witness our error apart from the piper, blowing his heart out. This time our great leader got what he wanted.

Afterwards, he had me talk down the lens and give my opinion of St Andrews, which we did in three takes.

Then it was back to our digs for lunch and a catch-up with Steffan and Jain. Who are they, I hear you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. Steffan is the elf. Not a real elf, you understand, only a pretend one. Jain is his business partner, and together they run a charity called At Home At The Theatre. They make live theatre more accessible, including taking variety shows into dementia care settings. They also offer inclusive performance and technical theatre training for adults of all ages. The elf is a character in one of the shows they tour.

After lunch and all the introductions, Steffan got into his costume and we headed down to the front of the town, overlooking the beach and the sea. The idea is that the elf rides his scooter behind me while I deliver a piece to camera about my experiences of getting about the town, and at no point do I refer to the elf. A mad joke, and one that only Duncan and I got when we explained it to the crew. But once they’d filmed it, it all made sense to them. Look out for it when the programme airs.

Now we’re back at our accommodation and I’ve started to pack. Tomorrow I’m filming a young golfer. He’s just turned 15, and by all accounts he’s a fantastic prospect.

Day eight

Today’s song is Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel, and for once no explanation is needed. There was no fry-up this morning; we were back to a continental breakfast. I’ve no idea why one day it’s the full works and the next it’s boiled eggs or pastries. It appears to be entirely random. Probably just as well, though pastries are hardly health food either.

Our first filming on this, our final day, was with a young golfer. A pupil at the school where we’d been staying. More of that later.

It never ceases to amaze me how fast the crew can be when we’re packing up to leave. We are like a travelling circus. As soon as we start wrapping up, the big tent comes down and the animals go back in their pens, ready for the next location. They’re so good at it you’d hardly know we’d been there at all.

James and Tanya are amazing. Not only do they clear their own stuff, everything else is either binned or redistributed among the crew. Food and drink are split up or thrown out. Beds are stripped of their sheets and duvet covers, towels piled up ready for the cleaners. Rooms are swept for anything left behind, and all the kit is packed away in the cars, ready for the off.

I always joke that if you ever wanted an area cleared after a murder, James and Tanya are the folk you’d send in. It’s balletic and surgical in its execution. Even the in-house cleaners were impressed, though I suspect they were slightly nervous about being put out of a job.

Once most of the clear-out was done, it was back to the filming and young Fraser. He has just turned 15 and is, by all accounts, a remarkable golfing prospect, so remarkable that he earned a bursary to attend the school.

As part of the filming, he was to give me some tuition. Keeping your head reasonably steady makes a big difference in this game. If it moves too far, your body can shift with it, changing the path of the club and making it harder to strike the ball cleanly. Sighted players have it easier. They can fix their eyes on the ball, and that gaze helps to hold the head in place without them having to think about it. When you’re blind, there’s nothing to fix on, so your head can drift and take your swing with it, and you’re none the wiser until you hear the club swish through fresh air.

Fraser’s solution was simple and clever. After a few thrashes from me, mostly missing the ball entirely, he stretched his own club out alongside my head, giving me a physical reference where a sighted golfer has a visual one. Suddenly I knew exactly where my head was, and more importantly, where it was staying. From then on I was far more consistent at hitting the ball. Well, it certainly sounded better.

He gave a very good interview afterwards too. I hope he goes on to a successful career as a professional.

So my time in St Andrews has come to an end. I’ve tried it all: flying, rowing, golfing, and even making soup with some young folk at the Cosmos Community Centre. I think soup is a great analogy for this programme in St Andrews. Full of rich flavours and textures. It’s now up to Duncan to work out how to pull the ingredients together to make something tasty. As for me, I’m heading homeward, bound for my own bed.

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(Video of Ian playing darts, he hits the board a few times but also misses it!)

I’ve written this as joirnal entries this time, to help capture the ups and downs of filming the programme.

Day one

As John Denver put it, “My bags are packed and I’m ready to go,” although this time I’m not leaving on a jet plane. Instead I’m meeting my News Producer Daniel somewhere along the M9, where I’ll be handed over from one car to another like a well-travelled parcel. Daniel is my news producer for the rest of the year, but on My Kind Of Town he turns his hand to second camera, the drone and all our social media.

It marks the start of a new episode of My Kind Of Town. It’s Monday, so it’s an easy day. Just travel and settling into our accommodation. Every time we make this programme, the hardest part isn’t the making of it. It’s finding somewhere suitable to stay. We normally go for self-catering. It’s easier than a hotel, with more space to spread out and make it our home for the week.

St Andrews being a big holiday destination, and it being July, this was an issue. In the end we managed to book into a private school. The pupils have all gone home for the holidays, and we’ve moved in for the week. I have a small room with an en-suite. Not all the rooms are like this, but I’m special and pulled rank. It has everything I require: a bed, a toilet, a desk and good Wi-Fi. There’s a shared kitchen, a sitting room and plenty of other facilities to make our stay comfortable. Like a pool table, a dart board and table tennis. All of which I failed at, despite my best efforts.

There are six in the crew, though only four of us so far, with two still to arrive. Tonight we’ll head out and find somewhere to eat. Then the filming starts tomorrow.

You can see some more snippets of the programme on You Tube My Kind of Town Scotland

Day two

If day two had a song, it would be “The Long and Winding Road”, in honour of the pilgrims who once made their way to this town from every corner of Christendom. My own pilgrimage began with breakfast, not a bad way to start any day. It was served in a different part of the school from where we’re staying, and I was half expecting a cooked one, but what was on offer did the trick: cereal, toast and two boiled eggs. Thankfully I wasn’t egg bound all day.

I had a quiet start filming wise, which gave me a chance to prepare information and learn some research as I dont have visual notes, I need to remember a tonne of info. Meanwhile James the cameraman, along with Daniel camera two and drone operator, went off to grab some shots at the cathedral, not far from the school.

After lunch I interviewed Graeme Johncock, a local tour guide, historian and storyteller. He told me all about St Andrews and how it came about. A really nice guy, and one who clearly knows his subject.

Then we headed back to the school to interview Caroline Hirst, a historian who works at St Leonards, who knows all about the pilgrim path and, again, some of the history. To get us there we’d enlisted some local guides. I’m without a guide dog at the moment, so locals are stepping in to get me about town, and it has the added bonus of giving us more people to talk to. One of them was Eileen, a really nice woman who used to be a make-up artist at BBC Scotland. She was good, full of energy and kind, and knew exactly what we wanted. No, I didn’t get her to apply makeup. I’m beyond that now, it’s a plastic surgeon I require.

Tonight Duncan, Dave and I headed out for a curry. James and Daniel didn’t fancy coming out, so they had pizza back at the accommodation. While we were out, Tanya arrived. She’s our road manager. She makes sure that the logistics of six working colleagues being fed, watered and neatly presented ( me) is well organised. Tanya also is a geat ‘lookout’ for over zealous public leaving Duncan and the others free to focus on the filming.

Day three

It began, as all the best days do, with breakfast. And not just any breakfast. “Food, Glorious Food” might as well have been playing as I sat down to a cooked spread with three of everything on the plate. I left the table stuffed and faintly ashamed. I can’t do that again. Another morning like that and I’ll be the size of a small house by Monday.

Filming started at 10am. Duncan the PD, James the cameraman and Dave on sound went ahead of Tanya, Daniel and me, which gave them time to set up. Duncan was very good at directing. Well, it is his job. The morning’s subject was The Eco Hub, a project with a beautifully simple idea: take the pots, pans, bedding and furniture that people no longer need and pass them on to people who really do. I interviewed Gavin Brady the manager and went out in the van with David Angus, the Hub’s environmental projects manager. It’s perfectly good stuff kept out of landfill and put into homes instead. A genuine win for everyone.

The afternoon took us to the Storehouse foodbank, which since 2006 has been getting food to people across north-east Fife who are struggling or facing an emergency, whatever form that emergency takes. I spoke to Maureen, a retired schoolteacher turned volunteer and tremendous value, and then to Jim the pastor. The Storehouse is run by a church, but as Jim was quick to point out, you don’t need any connection to the church to use it. It’s for everyone.

The day ended on the beach with Derek McDonald-Lee and a gang of young people from the Wave Project, a surf therapy charity whose most northerly outpost is in St Andrews. Young people facing everything from anxiety to isolation are referred by schools, GPs and social services, paired with a volunteer surf mentor, and find their confidence somewhere between the beach and the breakers. It was great fun in the sun with a great group of people. If day three needed a song over the closing credits, it could only be “Surfin’ U.S.A.”

Day four

“Walking on Sunshine” could have been written for today, on both counts. There was no need to worry about a big breakfast this morning because we didn’t get one. Just toast and cereal. I didn’t mind too much. It was a hot morning, and it turned into a very hot day.

The morning was all about walking shots. When I had Major, my guide dog, we would do walking shots around town, and they were ideal for covering script. This time Duncan is taking a different approach by cutting down the amount of voiceover, so it will be interesting to see how it works. Because I don’t have a dog at the moment, I’ve enlisted locals to guide me around the town, and we’re hoping this works as a device. In truth we’ll only know in the edit, but Duncan is confident it will, and I agree. Well, I have to. It’s partly my idea.

Our first volunteer guide was Danny Rooney, a guide dog puppy raiser and chair of the St Andrews and East Neuk fundraising branch of Guide Dogs. I know them better as puppy walkers, but apparently that’s not what they’re called these days. He had a lovely German Shepherd and Labrador cross called Sultan. Danny first got involved after meeting an old dog of mine, Renton, who was being raised in St Andrews nearly eighteen years ago. It’s a small world.

Then I walked with Anne Findlay, who does some part-time work with Scotland’s Towns Partnership and is clearly a big fan of the series. We finished with Raphael Uddin, whose parents moved to the area after watching a programme of mine, the one we made in Cupar. He was very good at doing exactly what we asked of him.

Lunch was at the Cheesy Toast Shack overlooking the beach, where I interviewed its owner, Kate Carter-Larg. Kate started the business with her husband Sam in 2015 with little more than a tiny trailer and a lot of nerve. A decade on it’s a St Andrews institution, with queues down to the sand, a mac and cheese toastie of local legend, and even seagull insurance, the proceeds of which go to charity.

Then the afternoon brought a meeting with my namesake. We played the game “I’m Ian Hamilton”, with him insisting, “No, I’m Ian Hamilton.” It made us both laugh.

The other Ian, a tour guide by trade, gave me a touch tour of the town, or as I preferred to call it, a scratch and sniff tour. He showed me a line set into the pavement in South Street, laid down two hundred years before Greenwich got round to separating east from west. It is Gregory’s Meridian, the work of the mathematician James Gregory in 1673, and it is St Andrews’ quiet claim to being the place where time began. Gregory’s line sits almost twelve minutes behind Greenwich Mean Time, which means Scots have arguably been turning up for work twelve minutes early for the past three and a half centuries. From there we headed to the pub to meet three of Ian’s friends, and to hear from them what it’s really like to live in the town. There are worse ways to do journalism than ending up in the pub on day four.

Part two coming next week.

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(Picture of Ian with his head in his hand )

All right, I admit we are drifting into stereotypes here, but who cares? Let’s have a laugh.

So, with that in mind, let’s start with my own country: Scotland.

We would play in kilts, naturally. What else?

Given the debate about what is worn under a Scotsman’s kilt, this would certainly add a bit of jeopardy to an overhead kick or a sliding tackle. Great danger, there. Gran could well see a different kind of tackle while eating her crisps on the sofa. You’d have to wrestle the remote off her before she rewound it for a sixth time.

Would the TV channels show it in slow motion? Or would they choose to pixelate?

England would have Morris dancer bells, which would make man-marking much easier because you could hear Harry Kane coming from thirty yards away. Very useful if the floodlights failed. Also handy if the opposition forgot to put in their contact lenses.

The USA would go for cowboy hats and boots. On a wet evening in Seattle, the Cuban heels could slow them down considerably as they got stuck in the mud.

The Netherlands would attempt ninety minutes in wooden clogs. I suspect that would make very little difference to them.

As for France, they would look irritatingly stylish in Breton stripes and a beret. Let’s lean into the stereotype even more. We should probably throw some onions round their necks as well. It might slow them down a bit.

Germany would be in lederhosen, the traditional leather shorts usually worn with braces and long socks. Practical for a folk festival, perhaps less so for a World Cup group game on a hot night in California. There could be a fair bit of chafing around the thighs by half-time.

Egypt would play in galabeyas. A galabeya is a loose, full-length robe, commonly worn in Egypt and other parts of the region. Elegant, comfortable and airy, yes. Ideal for sprinting down the wing while being chased by a full-back, perhaps not.

And Norway would arrive dressed as Vikings, although preferably without horned helmets. Apart from the fact that the horns are more myth than history, they would burst the ball every time someone went up for a header.

As for the final itself, I would then fancy Scotland’s chances for once. No opposition defender in his right mind would risk a sliding tackle on a man in a kilt and no underwear!!

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That seems fair.

Lots of people are writing and shouting about AI at the moment, so I thought it was probably time I chucked in my tuppence worth.

Let me state my position. I love it.

As someone who is blind, AI has changed my world. Not in a small, “isn’t that handy” sort of way. I mean, it has properly changed it.

Do I know the downsides?

Yes.

Physically the Data buildings are huge and use a lot of environmental energy like water and actual ground space. Countries around the world are having to quickly create policies and laws around how the buildings and the information they hold are actually used.

When humans use it like google ie. One sentence questions, the software can hallucinate making answers up. However, when the applications are used properly, it is an utterly amazing tool.

Many of the tools I use rely on a camera built into a phone or a pair of glasses. I can ask AI what it can see and it will describe in detail in just a few seconds by a voice in my ear, telling me what is in front of me, a shop sign, a bus stop, a house number or something sitting on a shelf in my kitchen, a human young or old, what they are wearing, if they are looking at me when they are talking, are they pointing atbsomething!

I remember being in Glasgow last year when I was still working with Major, my late guide dog. I was meeting a friend in a bar. The problem was that it wasn’t somewhere I visited regularly. There was a long row of shopfronts and doorways, and while Major could find a door perfectly well, getting him to pick out the right one was another matter. Normally, I would have asked a passer-by for help.

The trouble was it was raining, the street was fairly quiet and there wasn’t anybody obvious to ask. Then I remembered I was wearing my Meta glasses. I’d only had them a short time, so talking out loud to myself in the middle of the street wasn’t really second nature yet. “Hey Meta, can you see the entrance to the bar?” I asked.

The reply came back: “No. Can you move your head?”

I did.

A few seconds later the camera spotted the entrance and gave me a clear idea of the direction I needed to go.

Once I knew where the door was, I could give Major a better idea of where we were heading. I asked a couple more questions to narrow it down and within a minute or two we were standing outside the correct entrance.

For most of my life I’ve had to ask passer-by, but there is never a guarantee anyone anyone would stop and help And there is certainly no guarantee they would stop.

Instead, I found the door myself.

For years, blind people have routinely shared bits of their lives with complete strangers because we needed information. Which packet is this? Which door is that? What does that sign say? Can you read this letter to me? Independence and privacy is now available to me as now AI can read and explain my private letters to me. When sighted people enter a room, scanning the faces at a meeting, I can also get this information via AI. I can now start the meeting understanding relationships around the table. AI is changing situations for blind people. It doesn’t replace a guide dog. It doesn’t replace human beings. It does help enormously with offering quick visual communication messages.

AI doesn’t solve every problem, but it does mean I can often get those answers myself.

That’s not just convenience. It’s privacy. It’s independence. It’s the ability to get on with life without always having to rely on somebody else.

Sometimes the information is trivial. Sometimes it is transformative.

That might not sound revolutionary, but when you’ve spent years relying on other people for those answers, it feels remarkably close.

It is useful in other ways too. As a journalist, I do not believe something just because a machine has said it in a calm voice. I check it. I look for independent sources. I treat it like a very keen work experience student.

Useful, yes.

Infallible, no.

I also use AI for research and planning. Recently I’ve used it to help narrow down holiday options. Give it enough information about what you’re looking for, and it can do a lot of legwork. It won’t book the trip, pack the suitcase or remember the passports, but it can save hours of trawling through information.

That is another thing people often misunderstand.

They try AI once, ask a vague question and then decide the whole thing is useless because the answer was poor.

The reality is that AI is a tool. Like any tool, you get better results when you know what you’re asking it to do.

And when it gets things wrong, and it will, you challenge it. You check the facts. You correct it. Blind trust is a bad idea whether the advice comes from a machine, a politician or the bloke at the end of the bar.

So no, I do not think AI is magic.

I do not think it should be trusted without question.

And I certainly do not think it can replace human judgement, creativity or the ability to spot when something smells off in the fridge.

But as a blind person who has spent a lifetime fighting with computers and kidnapping strangers for help, I think it is extraordinary.

My invisible friend may occasionally talk rubbish, drain a reservoir, dim the street lights and threaten the future of civilisation.

But it can describe the world around me in detail, and frankly, some days that feels like a fair exchange.

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Above is a screen shot of the You Tube Channel And here is the link You Tube clips

For the last few weeks, I’ve been putting clips from My Kind of Town (Scotland) on to my YouTube channel. (I added the ‘Scotland’ as on You Tube search it kept coming up with Frank Sinatra!) It’s really a way of putting some behind the scenes stories and snapshots from the programme itself. I hope that it encourages you and other people to head over to iPlayer and watch the full series, there are 6 series and 18 episodes. And this is the link Official My Kind of Town BBC iPlayer

One of the reasons I started uploading the clips is that television can be a bit fleeting. A programme goes out, gets repeated a few times and then moves on. YouTube gives me the chance to dust off some of my favourite moments and share them with a whole new audience. It’s also reminded me just how many interesting people I’ve met and how many unexpected adventures I’ve had over the years.

There’s another reason for doing it too. My Kind of Town is only available on iPlayer in the UK, which means plenty of people elsewhere can’t watch it. Over the years I’ve had messages from people abroad asking where they can see the programmes, particularly Scots living overseas. By putting some of the clips on YouTube, people around the world can get a flavour of the places we’ve visited. After all, there are Scots scattered across the globe who might enjoy seeing the towns they grew up in, worked in, or still think of as home.

I haven’t said much about the YouTube channel up until now because I wanted to build up a decent collection of clips first. There didn’t seem much point in making a song and dance about it if there were only a couple of videos to watch. I think there’s enough there now to keep people busy for a while, and I’ve still got plenty more to come.

As I was rummaging around in my You Tube archive, I also stumbled across a series of short films called Blind Man With... They were never meant to be anything particularly serious. Christine and I made them simply because the idea amused us. We’d take an activity that sounded completely unsuitable for a blind person and see what happened. The titles alone were enough to raise an eyebrow. Blind Man with a Hedge Trimmer. Blind Man with a Wood Splitter. Looking back, I’m surprised nobody reported us to the health and safety authorities.

this photograph is of my channel that really is about challenging assumptions and this link takes you right to it Blind Man with ….

The films weren’t really about taking risks. They were about challenging assumptions, and squeezing some bad jokes . People often have a fixed idea of what blind people can and can’t do. We thought it would be more fun to show rather than tell. More often than not, the biggest challenge wasn’t the activity itself but convincing everyone else that it was possible.

Watching them again reminded me how much I enjoyed making them. More importantly, it reminded me how often people underestimate what blind people can do. So I’m wondering if it’s time to dust off the Blind Man With... idea and make a few new ones.

The question is, what should I try next?

If you’ve got any suggestions, let me know. Just bear in mind I’ll be the one doing it, so anything that risks life, limb, or what’s left of my dignity is unlikely to make the shortlist.

And enjoy.

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It has been just over eight months since my guide dog, Major, retired, and just over six months since he passed away. Since then, I’ve been relying on my white cane, along with my partner Christine, friends and colleagues, to help me get about.

In many ways, I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a strong support network at work, socially and at home. Many visually impaired people don’t have that. I don’t want you reaching for the violin and playing a sad tune on my behalf, but things have changed. My world has become a little smaller.

It hasn’t been a dramatic change. Nothing has happened overnight. Yet I’m very aware that my life is more restricted in terms of what I can do on my own, where I can go and, perhaps most importantly, when I can do it.

Some visually impaired people reading this might be wondering why I don’t just use my white cane. After all, I can still get around. That’s true, but if I’m being honest, it’s never quite that simple. If you have the option of avoiding a street full of wheelie bins, badly parked cars and hedges that haven’t seen a pair of shears in years, you’ll probably take that option. I certainly do.

What I miss most is the spontaneity.

I miss being able to think, “I’ll just pop out and get my hair cut,” or “I’ll just nip to the shop.” Even something as simple as deciding I’d quite fancy a pint and heading down to the pub.

The funny thing is, I probably didn’t do those things as often as I imagine I did when I had a guide dog. But when the option disappears, you become strangely aware of it. You find yourself dwelling on the fact that you can’t just go, or perhaps that you don’t have the energy for the effort involved.

Is it laziness? I’d like to think not. Although, there is probably an element of that too. Sometimes the thought of organizing a trip out, no matter how small, feels exhausting. So, you simply don’t bother.

I was talking about this recently with my friend Mark, who appears regularly in these blogs. We were discussing exactly this issue and how, once you no longer have a guide dog, you gradually stop popping out.

Sadly, it’s true. My life has become narrower. Not dramatically. Not painfully. Just a little bit at a time.

I’m quite happy in the house. I know where everything is. I know where I am. If I don’t need to go out, why would I?

When I had a guide dog, I never thought twice about it. I’d just go. I’d head into town, meet friends, visit the pub or wander off to do whatever I needed doing. Having a dog gave me options.

When those options disappear, they leave a gap.

The trouble is that the gap slowly closes over without you noticing. The circle gets a little tighter. Before long, not going out becomes normal. You tell yourself that’s just how things are now.

One thing I used to enjoy was heading down to the pub on my own with the dog. It was often where I solved problems.

I’m not a particularly big drinker, but as Colin Dexter, author of the Morse books, put it:

“I don’t drink because I like drinking; I drink because it helps me to think.”

I know exactly what he meant. One or two pints can help me untangle a problem, whether it’s a story I’m working on or something that’s been niggling away at the back of my mind. Any more than a couple, you’re not solving problems. You’re usually creating new ones.

At the moment, I don’t really have that option. Going to the pub on my own means taxis there and back, and that soon adds up. Drinking in the house just isn’t the same somehow.

I have wondered whether some of this is less about blindness and more about getting older. Perhaps staying in simply becomes more appealing as the years pass. But I think visual impairment adds another barrier, making the decision to stay at home that bit easier.

So when another dog finally comes along, will I be ready for it?

Physically, I’m trying to prepare. I go to the gym whenever I can and try to get out for a walk at lunchtime with colleagues.

It’s the mental side that interests me.

Will I still have the confidence to pop out whenever I fancy? Will I still see the world as somewhere to head into on a whim?

Or has the rot already started to set in?

I hope not.

Because I do quite fancy being able to pop down the pub whenever the mood takes me.

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Pictures of some of Ians moss Pots

For the last week I’ve been on leave from the newsroom and spending some time in the pottery studio throwing pots. The thing is, I’ve hardly touched my wheel since last year. I’ve had the odd go, but the studio has been freezing over winter, so it hasn’t exactly been a welcoming place to head.

So when I sat down at the wheel, settled onto the stool and pressed the foot pedal, feeling wet clay spinning through my fingers, I wasn’t expecting much.

I started with six balls of clay, each weighing around 600 grams. The question was simple: would I remember what to do? Well, muscle memory kicked in and before long all six pots were sitting there in front of me. Not bad for someone who hadn’t really touched clay for the best part of six months.

The thing is, this has happened to me before. I’ve found that doing something more doesn’t always mean you automatically get better at it. We’re always told the same thing. Practice, practice, practice. Keep at it and eventually you’ll crack it.( not literally in this case)

Another example of this was when I used to play a lot of blind golf and, strangely enough, the more I practiced, the worse I seemed to get. I just couldn’t work out why.

I was really trying. I mean really trying. I’d be thrashing about like a madman in the rough or digging trenches in a bunker with my sand iron while the ball sat there completely unmoved!

Then winter would arrive, I’d take a break, and come back for the first tee of a new season and amazingly play like a pro., everything felt effortless and smooth. Really great , feeling brilliant…then… The following week I’d head out again and I would be abysimal.. may as well put a tree branch in my hand and try to hit the ball for all the good it would do.

It’s when I discovered that my competitiveness outstripped my ability.

I think I know what it is. After a long break, I have no expectations. I don’t have to try quite so hard and somehow everything falls into place. So if there’s something you’re doing and somehow the more you do it, the worse you get, maybe just walk away for a while. You could simply be trying too hard.

Of course, there is another possibility. As I discovered with golf, I might just not be very good.

That is fine too.

Give yourself permission to be bad at something. That’s a strength, not a weakness.

Many years ago I gave up trying to play a musical instrument. I’m hopeless. I definitely break the stereotype that blind people are all somehow musically gifted. Think Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles or Jeff Healey. Not me! I’m lucky if I get a tune out of the radio.

More than 40 years ago I concluded that anything you strum, blow or pluck I should avoid. I walked away and I’ve never been happier not making a terrible noise.

Mind you, not practising probably isn’t the best philosophy if you’re a brain surgeon or a pilot. You should definitely stick in.

Video of one of Ians’ pots turning round and round ready for trimming

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(Picture of a pot ready to come off the wheel)

I have decided to take a week off to concentrate on throwing some new pots. So this is a shorter blog than normal.

We are slowly moving into “My Kind of Town” mode. Filming starts in the second week of July, up in St Andrews in North Fife. In preparation we headed up on a recce last week to have a good rummage around and see what the town has to offer.

It is a busy place. Getting around without a guide dog is going to be tricky. We have, however, come up with a cunning plan. We put out a call to local people asking them if they would like to be a sighted guide for me while we are filming. The idea is to have a small group of people from different ages and backgrounds who are willing to share their experiences of living in the town.

Some of you might be wondering why I need a guide when I am surrounded by a TV crew. Good question. The reason is that we do a lot of walking shots, mainly me going from location to location. The great thing about this idea is I will get to talk to even more locals to find out how the town ticks.

Now….back tomthe pottery!

(Picture of a dark blue glazed mug with cobalt blue drips)

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Picture of Ian sitting in the sunshine drinking a large fruit drink

I’ve had people ask me, in whispered tones, “What should I call you... is it blind?”

I normally say, “No. try Ian. It’s worked so far.”

That usually gets a laugh, followed by audible relief.

And to be fair, I do have sympathy for people who genuinely don’t want to cause offence. Most mean well. The trouble is, they become so worried about saying the wrong thing that they either avoid speaking altogether or stand there in stunned silence. I’ve had people tell me they wanted to speak to me, but didn’t know how to approach me. Imagine that!

What annoys me most is the idea that minorities somehow invented all this. In my lifetime I’ve been described as visually impaired, visually challenged, unsighted, partially sighted and then, after what must have been a lengthy meeting in a committe room somewhere - ‘blind’ again. ( probably with no blind people actually being involved)

At no point did anyone ask me how I would like to be described. I know what I am. I’m blind. It’s hardly breaking news. People can wrap it up in whatever language they fancy, but the basics remain the same.

This fear of saying the wrong thing leads to some daft moments. People panic halfway through ordinary sentences. For example.

“Did you see that on TV last night... oh sorry.” And instantly tie themselves up in knots

“What are you looking for... sorry.” Again, they try to find different words

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my keys... oh sorry.”

Why would I be offended? They’re everyday phrases. I use them myself. I say “see you later” all the time.

Some people tiptoe round blindness as if mentioning it might upset me. Trust me, I’m reminded often enough. Only last week I walked straight into a half-open door with great confidence.

When it comes to jokes, a lot depends on who is saying it. A line from a friend can be funny. The same line from a stranger can feel cheap. It’s the difference between laughing with someone and using them for target practice.

I’m not entirely innocent in all of this either. I’ve had moments where I didn’t know what to do for the best. I was once in a supermarket needing help with the shopping. They assigned me a cheerful young assistant with learning difficulties. Fair enough. Good on them. Then it became clear he couldn’t read the labels. So there we were. A blind man and a lad who couldn’t read, trying to identify soup. It was less a shopping trip and more a public experiment. Every item meant him running off to ask someone else. Beans became a mission. Pasta required support staff. By the time we reached dairy, my guide dog and I had started wandering the aisles for light entertainment. Eventually I asked for someone else to help me, and felt guilty doing it. But there is only so long a man can spend looking for strawberry yoghurt.

Personally, I’d scrap the phrase ‘political correctness’ and replace it with ‘good manners’ and empathy.

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(picture of Ian and his Guide dog Major being carefulngetting off the train. A huge gap at the station)

Last week, I caught up with an old friend, Mark Pemberton. Mark lives down in London and has popped up on this blog a few times to chat about his new guide dog. It actually dawned on me during our conversation that it’s been nearly a year since he last shared an update, so I’ll have to get him back on soon to see how they are getting on.

As we spoke, our conversation drifted towards technology, a favourite topic of ours and the sheer scale of change we’ve seen. We started reminiscing about what it was actually like to travel across the UK back in the early eighties. This is the part where, if we had a house band, you’d hear the gentle strumming of a harp to signal a flashback.

In those days, the digital safety nets we take for granted today simply didn’t exist. There were no mobile phones, no accessible GPS systems for the blind, and no smart glasses. Services like Aira or Be My Eyes were the stuff of science fiction. Back then, travel was an act of “blind faith” if you’ll pardon the pun.

I often wonder if we were just braver back then because we were younger, or if the years have made us more cautious. I used to travel the length and breadth of the country, first with my white cane and later with my guide dog. I’d set off from my village here in Lanarkshire for Newcastle, Birmingham, or London without a second thought. There was no way to call for help if things went wrong unless you collided with a working phone box, yet we headed off perfectly confident that we’d make it.

The coordination was a world away from today’s Digital precision. My journeys usually began with a bus from the village to Hamilton railway station. There was no app to track the bus; in fact, most times I’d mistakenly hail a passing lorry. Eventually, the bus drivers got to know me, but without GPS to announce the stops on route, I had to rely on my senses. I’d count the roundabouts and listen to the sounds of the road, because I could never rely on the drivers remembering to let me know when it was my stop. By the time the bus swung into Hamilton station, I could recognise the specific tilt and turn of the vehicle, which told me exactly when to hop off.

Hamilton Central was a simple affair, just two platforms. I’d take the train into Glasgow, head over the bridge, and catch whatever train was running to Glasgow Central Low Level. The real test of patience, however, was the assistance. You had to book it forty-eight hours in advance, and it felt like you needed to submit the request in triplicate. It was a rigid system; you didn’t always know where you needed to be two days in advance, but you had to play by the rules of the old British Rail.

Despite the bureaucracy Staff were almost always there to meet the Hamilton train. On the rare occasion they weren’t there, I’d turn to the public for assistance. My father always told me that if you’ve got a “good Scots tongue” in your head, you’ll be fine. He was right. I’ve never been shy about asking for help and more often than not, people would volunteer before I even had to ask.

Meeting Mark in London was equally low-tech. I’d tell him I’d be at the Euston booking office at a specific time, and we just hoped for the best. If my train was delayed, I couldn’t text him, and he couldn’t tell me if he was stuck on the Train coming from South London. Yet, somehow, it almost always worked.

Even my trips to college in Hereford followed this pattern of trust. I’d get to Crewe and trust that the Glasgow staff had successfully phoned ahead to their colleagues. There seemed to be more staff on the platforms back then, which certainly took the edge off the worry.

One thing that helped was that, in the early eighties, I still had a tiny bit of vision. It wasn’t much but being able to discern shapes and colours made a world of difference for orientation. I might not have seen what was directly in my path but knowing which way I was facing was a huge help.

It leaves me wondering how the young travellers of today feel with all this technology at their fingertips. Does the tech make you feel more adventurous, and has it replaced the need to rely on the people around you?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

For the older travellers like me, How did you navigate the world back then, and how do you find it now? Please Leave a comment below.

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Photo of Ian, with his guide dog Major( who passed away last year)

Tomorrow we head to St Andrews in North East Fife for a recce ahead of filming a new episode. It feels like the start of something a little different this time around. Different in ways that are exciting, and different in ways that are hard.

Let me explain.

This is our second visit to Fife. We went to Cupar before, about 20 minutes down the road, and I’m genuinely curious to contrast and compare these two communities. But before we even get to St Andrews, there are changes closer to home worth talking about.

On the production side, Annie Cheape, our producer director for a number of years, has moved on to new projects. Annie did a remarkable job over the years and was very much part of the programme’s success.

Our new producer director is Duncan MacDonald. He comes with a wealth of experience, has great ideas, and has already been clear about his approach. ( which we’ll keep under wraps for now)

Then there’s the hard news, that my co-host Major died before Christmas.

For those who have followed the programme, you’ll know what that means. He wasn’t just a guide dog. He was part of the team, part of the journey, and very much part of what made each town come alive on screen. His absence is something I’m still getting used to, and I won’t pretend otherwise.

This time around I’ll be relying on my white cane. I dont know this particular town very well and I’ll be honest, I’m not the best with a white stick. My mobility on screen presents a fresh challenge, not just for me but for Duncan too. He knows it, and he’s already thinking about how we handle it. That gives me confidence.

So. St Andrews.

I haven’t spent much time there. When I have visited it’s always been brief. A former guide dog of mine, Renton, was puppy walked in the town, so there’s a connection of sorts. Beyond the occasional walk along the really long beach, and eating chips my knowledge of the town is limited.

It is very much a town, with historical links to education and golf and that’s territory we don’t usually venture into. Finding a genuine local is going to be the real challenge. We hit exactly the same wall in Fort William. Tracking down someone who actually was born, grew up and carried on living in the town turned out to be our biggest headache. St Andrews could well be the same.

But we like a challenge.

So if you’re a local and you do something interesting, please get in touch. Who should I talk to? Where should I go? What should I get stuck into? I’d genuinely love to hear from you.

if you are a fan of My Kind of Town, I have recently started building a You Tube channel where you can find snippets of past programme. Plus in the future I hope to put up some behind the scenes footage.

You can find me here and subscribe My Kind of Town Scotland

Picture of one of Ian’s pots

A few weeks ago in my blog here, I mentioned my time in Torquay. It was at a centre run by the Royal National Institute of the Blind, set up to help people like me figure out what on earth we were going to do for work. I touched on the fire escape saga at the centre before, which still feels like something from a comedy sketch, but the truth is those three months on the Devon coast were far more important than that one moment of farse.

I was 17 yrs old. And this was where I was going to have to make some life choices, from some very li mited options. And so this was the place where I had to start to grow up.

I had just left school. No grand plan, no clear direction, not much vision and to be honest, not much guidance either. It was 1980, and if you were blind, the options were fairly limited. Not officially written down anywhere, but you just knew it. There was a quiet understanding of what pigeon hole you were expected to fit into

You had telephony, sitting at a switchboard. Audio typing, which meant long hours listening and transcribing using a manual typewriter, as computers were not around, never mind talking ones. Light engineering, usually repetitive factory work. Physiotherapy was a popular route. And then there was piano tuning, which seemed to come up more often than you might expect.

None of it quite worked for me.

I am tone deaf, so piano tuning was out. Physiotherapy did not appeal. The thought of handling damaged flesh horrified me. Audio typing required a level of concentration I simply didn’t possess. Light engineering was an option, but the industry in Scotland was already struggling. As for telephony, with my then strong West of Scotland accent, I had my doubts anyone would understand a word I said as I grunted down the phone.

So that left me in a bit of a quandary.

The centre tried to assess what I might be suited to. The first week was a mix of aptitude and IQ tests. Lots of questions and logic problems to solve. I got through those without too much trouble. I have always had a decent brain on me, even if I say so myself.

Then came the psychometric tests. A trainer asked questions, and I had to respond using a buzzer system. It all felt quite experimental and, looking back, a bit vague, but it was their way of working out what I might be capable of.

There was also a dexterity test using bits of Meccano. Tiny screws, bolts, and bits of metal that had to be assembled into a specific shape. That suited me better. I have always been quite dextrous, so that part felt natural. Sadly, there were very few jobs like that to go for.

I spent a few weeks trying light engineering. On paper, I could do it. I worked a lathe, cut threads into metal, and repeated the same process again and again. We were making electric fencing for cattle, which is not something I had ever imagined myself doing. Although, thinking about it, there are a few camera operators I have met over the years who might benefit from being rounded up into an electric pen to stop them wandering off.

There was also a plastic injection moulding machine. Same idea. Repetition. Precision. No real variation.

That was the problem. It was all a bit lifeless. The days blurred together.

My time on the switchboard did not last long. It ended the day I managed to spill a full cup of tea over the equipment. That, understandably, brought my telecommunications career to a sudden conclusion.

Probably for the best.

Behind the main building, there was a pottery workshop. It did not look like much from the outside, but once you got in, it was a different world.

I loved it straight away.

Most of what I did was slab work rather than using the wheel, but that did not matter. It was creative. Each day was different. You could make something from nothing and actually feel part of the process. My pots on Instagram

The tutor running the workshop seemed to understand me. No pressure to fit a mould. No sense that I was being pushed into something unsuitable.

For the first time, I felt like I had found my tribe.

Torquay was also where I started proper mobility training. It was the first time I had really used a long white cane in a meaningful way. At secondary school, we had a mix of disabilities, and mobility training was non-existent.

That changed here.

Learning to move around independently was a turning point. It sounds simple, but it shifts how you see yourself. You are no longer being guided everywhere. You start to take control. It also meant, for the first time, I could just head out when I wanted to, rather than waiting on someone else to take me.

I also had my first experience with a guide dog. They brought one in from the training centre in Exeter for a few of us to try. It was a big golden retriever. The difference was immediate. It felt like stepping up a gear entirely.

Going from a cane to a guide dog felt like trading in roller skates for a Lamborghini.

It took another three years before I got my own dog, but that moment stuck with me.

By the end of the 12 week assessment, the staff reached a conclusion.

None of the standard job routes suited me.

Their suggestion was college. They said I was better suited to something else. I chose to take that as a compliment, although I suspect it was also a polite way of saying I did not fit their system.

Looking back now, that advice mattered.

Because here I am, years later, working as a blind journalist with BBC Scotland. I spend my days telling stories, covering social affairs, and, in my own way, contributing to disability advocacy.

Picture of Ian working with the BBC camera crew

On paper, some things look similar. I still use a keyboard. I still answer phones. But the work itself is completely different.

It is creative. It is unpredictable. It is mine.

And none of that was even on the radar in 1980. If there is a lesson in all this, it is there not a neat clear one size fits all.

There is no step-by-step guide to getting it right. No simple list of best ways to land in the right career. Sometimes the systems in place do not quite know what to do with you, and that is fine.

You figure it out as you go. One thing that did stick was pottery, something I still do and enjoy.

For anyone coming through now, especially those interested in social affairs reporting or disability advocacy, the landscape is different. There are more routes in, more tools, more opportunities to shape your own path.

If you have had a similar experience, or found your way into something unexpected, I would be interested to hear it.

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Picture of 2 Motherwell scarfs claret and amber

After more than three decades away, a return to Fir Park (Motherwell Football Club) brings back the noise, the nerves, and a few unexpected comforts and discomforts along the way.

You could call it good timing, turning up on a mild day with Motherwell playing some of their best football in years. And you’d be right. I’m not daft enough to pick a freezing afternoon when we’re struggling at the bottom of the league table.

I went along with a friend and his son. And luckily my friend Chas is well used to guiding me. In the old days, I had Bob Allen (former commentator for the blind in the 1970s- 90s)beside me, painting the picture of the match as it unfolded. Not just the football, but everything around it. Where the crowd was building and what kind of mood the place was in. That was half the experience.

Bob’s no longer with us, so I had to find another way. After a bit of digging, I discovered you can tune into Motherwell TV commentary through a small receiver. It’s not quite as rich as proper radio commentary, but it did the job. Close enough to feel part of it.

Being blind, I paid for my ticket over the phone about a week in advance, and my guide got in free. We met in a pub about fifteen minutes from the ground for a quick pint before heading up Airbles Road to the stadium.

I’ll be honest, I had a few doubts. Crowds aren’t really my thing. Probably why I picked Motherwell in the first place all those years ago. When you can’t see what’s around you, a few thousand people can feel like a lot more. But I was with people I trust and that makes a difference.

At the stadium, I had to collect the kit. I’d been given instructions by email, and it all felt slightly cloak and dagger. I had to go behind an ambulance and ask for my receiver. I was half expecting to give a password to prove who I was. “The eagles are flying high over Fir Park.” Something like that.

Short video of Ian at the football grounds

Instead, I asked a woman in a reflective tabard, “Could I have my receiver, please?”

After a bit of rummaging through a large case, I was handed a small receiver and a set of headphones. Simple enough. Then came the turnstiles.

The Phil O’Donnell Stand has been there for over sixty years, and I suspect supporters were a different shape back then. I’m six foot and fifteen stone, and getting through was a squeeze. Not quite dignified, but we made it.

The first thing that hit me inside was the sound. That sense of anticipation. A deep, rolling roar you only get in a football ground.

Then the smells kicked in. Fast food and the smell of freshly cut grass. Funny what sticks with you. It’s those small details that bring the place to life.

Finding our seats took a moment. We ended up in the wrong section first, then eventually found these pull-down wooden seats. I’ll not dress it up. They were brutal. Narrow, hard, and clearly not designed with comfort in mind. After a couple of hours, I had a numb bum!

I know there are plans to redevelop the stand, and being a fan-owned club, that takes time and money. But you can feel the strain on the place. It’s showing its age, like the rest of us.

The game itself had a decent edge to it. Hibs brought a strong contingent, and both sets of fans tried to outdo each other with the drums. Listening to football on the radio never quite captures that. Being right in the middle of it, even if you can’t see the game, is something else.

Motherwell seemed to spend a lot of time passing the ball without really troubling the Hibs goal. I’d also assumed I’d hear the ball being kicked a bit more, but the drums pretty much drowned that out.

The commentary came through clearly, and I was able to keep up with what was happening. I even passed on the odd bit of information to the others. Substitutions and the like.

We thought we had a goal in the first half, only for VAR to rule it out. And that was about as exciting as it got on the pitch. Full-time came, and it finished 0–0.

Thirty years of waiting, and not a single goal to mark the occasion.

Still, it didn’t take away from the day.

After the match, we headed for the Davie Cooper Stand behind one of the goals to grab a drink. The queue was long, but we stuck it out. Only to be told, just as we reached the front, that the gas had gone for the draught beer.

Bottles it was.

We’d barely sat down when last orders were called at 5:45. You’d think they might keep it open a bit longer after the game.

Despite the lack of goals and the punishment from those seats, I enjoyed it. More than I expected, if I’m honest.

But I’ve been thinking about next time. For around £79, you can go hospitality, as long as it’s not one of the bigger games like Rangers or Celtic. A proper seat, a three-course meal, and somewhere comfortable to sit before and after the match.

At this stage in life, that sounds less like a luxury and more like necessity.

Would I go back? Yes. Without hesitation. Just maybe with a bit more padding under me.

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Share Blind Reporter on the Move

Daniel and I were sat at the dining room table, tucking into a ready meal and a couple of local Polish beers from the shop across the street, just waiting for James and Chas to arrive. If you remember last week’s post, Chas had been stuck at passport control for over three and a half hours trying to get through. James was a saint and waited on the other side of the barrier the entire time for Chas to be released from “captivity.”

Daniel and I were starting to get a bit concerned they might be there all night, but eventually the doorbell rang and in they came. Chas was only mildly traumatised and seemed to have survived the ordeal mostly unscathed, though both of them were absolutely starving and desperate for a drink. At long last, we were all together in our Kraków apartment, ready to start exploring. We were delayed and a bit shaken, but not stirred.

A Morning Run and the Main Square

The first thing on the agenda was breakfast. At least, that was the plan for James, Chas and me. For some bizarre reason, Daniel decided to get up early and go for a park run in Kraków. Runners are a different species entirely, if you ask me. We’ve got them in the family, and they definitely belong to a different category of human.

We agreed to meet Daniel at the Rynek Główny. Dating back to the 13th century, it is one of the largest medieval town squares in Europe and is absolutely massive. In the centre stands the Cloth Hall, a long, beautiful building that was once a hub for international trade.

The square is always busy, with shops and cafés lining the perimeter and horse-drawn carriages taking tourists around. You have to keep your wits about you though, as electric scooters whizz by and tourists are everywhere.

Kraków is a large university city with a deep history. Unlike many other Polish cities, it escaped major destruction during the Second World War. Because the German forces used it as a major administrative centre, they did not destroy it as they did with Warsaw. This means the city still feels like a living museum, filled with Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque buildings. There is a great energy here, partly thanks to the over 100,000 students across several universities. It was a perfect spring morning, warm in the sunshine and cool in the shadows. Ideal for walking around and exploring.

Breakfast and Navigating the City

We found a nice little café on the square and had just placed our orders when Daniel arrived back from his run. I went for the Polish breakfast: scrambled eggs, cold ham, cheese and tomatoes. The bread was excellent and set us up perfectly for the day.

Navigating a city like Kraków when you can’t see is no small feat. It is a fast, busy place and the layout can feel unpredictable. Between the trams, crowded pavements and the sudden appearance of electric bikes, the “noise” of the city is a lot to process.

The tram lines, kerbs and surfaces change frequently too. If you’re from there and used to it, I’m sure it’s manageable, but it’s definitely a bit daunting. I was fortunate to be guided by three people who have supported me across Europe on different filming trips. They are well used to getting me through places like this.

History, Castles and Popes

After a wander, we met our tour guide, Tomas, who walked us through the Old Town and up to the castle. Wawel Castle looks out over Kraków in much the same way Edinburgh Castle looks over the city.

We also visited more churches that day than I think I’ve managed in the last forty years. Pope John Paul II came from Kraków, and the people are incredibly proud of that. You can feel his influence everywhere. Religion clearly plays a big role in daily life. There’s no shortage of churches.

The Salt Mines of Wieliczka

On Sunday morning, James decided we should visit the salt mines, about 30 minutes outside the city. They date back to the 13th century and were among the first places added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 1978.

For hundreds of years, the salt dug out of there was called “white gold” and helped fund much of Kraków’s development. Industrial mining stopped in the nineties.

Getting there involved a 7:00 am wake up call to catch an 8:08 am train. After a bit of a scramble with Polish timetables and a brief detour to the wrong platform, we made it just before the train departed. We had to move quickly as our tour started at 9:00am sharp.

While most people have to tackle over 800 steps to get down into the mine, we were allowed take the lift. It was a tiny, old-fashioned thing, and they packed nine of us in like sardines. When the gates finally opened at the bottom, we all spilled out into the corridor. The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Not silence exactly, but a kind of flat, controlled sound. You could hear air being pumped in from somewhere, a steady background hum, but nothing echoed. It didn’t feel oppressive at all. In fact, the air felt fresh, which wasn’t what I expected that far underground. It felt more like standing in a long corridor than the inside of a mine.

As we started walking, the ground underfoot was reasonably smooth. Tall, round wooden props held up the roof, with the stone structure of the mine sitting behind them. Some of the wood was clearly new, and you could smell it as we passed. It gave the place a slightly odd mix of old and maintained, like history being quietly held together.

The sound down there was what really stayed with me. Everything felt muted, almost absorbed. Then you’d step into one of the larger chambers and the sense of space changed completely. The sound opened up, but not in a way that made it easy to judge the size. If anything, it made it harder. You knew the space was vast, but it was difficult to pin down just how vast.

Because we were in a small group, we didn’t come across many other people until we reached the chapel, which was busy. That was where the scale really hit. Voices carried differently, and you could tell the space was huge, even if you couldn’t quite map it out in your head.

I wasn’t able to touch the carvings in the chapel as they were roped off, which was a bit frustrating, but you could still sense the care that had gone into making the place safe. There were railings, proper stairs and clear walkways throughout.

What surprised me most was how calm it all felt. At no point did it feel claustrophobic or oppressive. If anything, walking through those underground corridors was strangely relaxing, which is not something I expected to say about a salt mine.

The mine is vast. It is hard to grasp the scale even when you are standing in it. There are underground chapels carved entirely out of salt, and huge open spaces that feel like being inside a cathedral. We passed underground lakes where the salt gathers and, as expected, finished at the gift shop and café for a well earned sit down.

Kraków is a very impressive city. While the airport and passport control left a bit to be desired, the city itself is beautiful, old and well kept, with modern infrastructure alongside it. If you’re blind, I’m not sure I’d tackle it alone, so bring some sighted assistance with you. And if you’re sighted, take a blind person with you. You might get through passport control in less than four hours!

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Picture of James taking a picture of Ian who looks very pleased with himself!

It’s fair to say there aren’t many advantages to being totally blind. In fact, I’m struggling to think of any. But last weekend in Krakow, I discovered a rare exception. It meant I walked straight past a queue that had some of my friends trapped for more than three hours.

I’m not a keen flyer. It’s not the flying itself that I dislike, it’s the airports. I have yet to find one that is anywhere near pleasant. There is nothing about the experience that fills your heart with joy.

When you can’t see, the confusion is amplified. The technology is often inaccessible, and the environments are airless, noisy and disorientating. Because of that, I’ve avoided international travel for the last few years to save myself the distress.

The Journey Begins

Last Friday, after months of planning, I headed off to Krakow with a few friends. James is my regular shoot editor and camera operator, plus the organiser of this adventure. Chas is another camera-editer friend, and Daniel, my producer and by far the youngest of the group, was acting as carer for us all, or so we joked. I called it our “works outing.”

We were a mixed bag when it came to passports. Chas and I have British passports, while Daniel and James both hold Irish passports, making them EU citizens. At the time it seemed like a small detail. Later on, it turned out to matter rather more.

Picture of Ian,James and Daniel, wondering what to do next

Things started smoothly enough at Glasgow Airport. The staff were friendly, security was efficient, and I was taken to the front of the queue. Even though it wasn’t particularly busy, it took a lot of the stress out of the journey. To avoid the usual rush and dash for the air craft, we asked if it would be possible to pre-board. No problem at all. Within minutes we were quietly on our way down to the plane ahead of the crowd.

Having real people you can speak to makes a huge difference. These days, airports seem determined to replace people with machines. Booking your seat, printing boarding passes, scanning documents, it’s all done through screens and self-service kiosks. It might look efficient on paper, but when you can’t see the screen, it’s just a high-tech barrier. I half expect them to ask us to fly the damn thing ourselves one day.

Arrival in Krakow

The problems started the moment we landed. Our party got separated because of where we were sitting on the aircraft. James and I left from the back of the plane while Daniel and Chas exited from the front.

When we stepped off, it was clear the airport was overwhelmed. Several flights had landed at once, and passengers were already queuing on the tarmac just to get inside the terminal. Three of those flights had come from the UK, meaning thousands of non-EU passengers were arriving at passport control together.

For many, it was their first time travelling since the new systems came in. Everyone had to be photographed and fingerprinted. It takes time, and there is no way around it. There is nothing you can do to speed things up; you just have to stand there and wait.

That was when the perk kicked in.

An airport employee spotted my white cane. Suddenly, James and I were being waved past the growing crowd and guided straight to the front of the passport control queue. While we sailed through, we realised we had lost Chas and Daniel somewhere in the mass of people stretching back onto the tarmac.

Picture of Chas, Daniel and Ian sitting on a small wall near the River in Krakow

The New Reality of Travel

While I went through the new procedures having my photograph taken and fingerprints scanned, my friends were still stranded outside.

We waited. Then we waited some more.

Daniel, being an EU citizen and good person, could have passed through much sooner, but he didn’t want to leave Chas behind. Eventually, Chas encouraged him to go on ahead. Our driver, who was waiting to take us to our accommodation, told us that Krakow Airport has been in a state of near gridlock lately. Four and five-hour waits are no longer unusual.

James made the sensible decision to let Daniel and me head to the accommodation to get settled and organise some food, especially since we’d already had to cancel our restaurant reservation. Selflessly, James agreed to stay behind at the airport to wait for Chas. Clearly a better person than me.

I did offer to stay, briefly.

“No James, I’ll stay with you.”

James replied, “No, you go back with Daniel and get some food and drinks in.”

Me: [Sound of running feet]

By the time Chas and James were finally reunited, Chas had been standing in that queue for three and a half hours. In my mind, I pictured Chas throwing himself into James’s arms like a kidnap victim finally released after years in captivity. In reality, it was probably a quiet nod as they trudged towards the taxi rank.

I, on the other hand, was doing just fine. I was back at the apartment, drinking beer and tucking into lasagna bought from the shop across the road.

Wise after the event.

Looking back, we probably got the whole arrangement wrong. Chas and I both have British passports, so the sensible move would have been for us to travel together. With my white cane getting us to the front of the queue, we would likely have been through passport control in no time.

Meanwhile James and Daniel, with their Irish passports, could have used the EU channel, which was moving far more quickly.

If we’d thought it through properly, we might all have been out of the airport at roughly the same time, and Chas could have avoided the whole three-and-a-half-hour ordeal.

Sometimes being blind does have its perks. Skipping a three-hour queue is one of them. And no, I’m not even slightly guilty.

I’d love to hear about your own experiences. Have you had any recent airport nightmares or unexpected “silver lining” moments while travelling with a disability?