Jacquetta

I didn't buy Scotland on Sunday yesterday because I didn't think my Bergen piece was in (no trace of its presence online). However, the whole Spectrum magazine turned up by post today, complete with Fay Weldon ("What women want") on the front cover and there it was: pages 34 and 35 devoted to Bergen, but sadly supported only by three agency photos. My own Bergen images had been ignored, though for me they had acquired special value after I'd mysteriously lost them from the SD card, then recovered them using PhotoRescue: think prodigal son.

Anyway, since there is still no sign of its online availability, I'll just upload the text here so it can easily be found.

Meanwhile, thanks to a specialist photographic forum, I have just discovered how the mysterious loss almost certainly occurred: on planes in general, especially at high altitude and latitude, memory cards of all kinds (solid-state memory) are vulnerable to high-energy particles, cosmic rays and the like. The solution, it seems, is not to take photos on a plane or, if you must, use a separate and spare card for that purpose. That way the images you have just captured while away are not at risk, because the card is much less vulnerable when not powered up. An even better solution is to store the precious memory cards in a shielded case: a couple of mm of lead is apparently ideal. But there must be an opportunity for somebody to market a neater solution?

In my wildest dreams I never thought that I'd ever get my name in big letters on a billboard, and if I had, I'd have expected it to be for some really daring adventure. Yet outside our local newsagent, here was the billboard for my flying visit to Arctic Norway.

It had been featured on page 2 of the Observer's June 11 issue, complete with five photographs. If you read my previous entry, you'll know how nearly these photos came to oblivion. Yet thanks to PhotoRescue, they were recovered and printed in the Stirling Observer feature.

The weird thing is that I now look back on that temporary loss of images as having been a good thing. Many of the people who have read that entry have told me that they never used to carry a spare card (but will now); or that they didn't know how to change their card (!) but will find out now; or that they had nearly lost photos like that in the past and had no idea what do do (but know now). I've come to the conclusion that my narrow escape may, through blogging, have had the good effect of alerting a few folk to an accident waiting to happen. And if so, that is a blessing.

Anyway, if you fancy a trip to the midnight sun, Widerøe's twice-weekly flights to Bergen direct from Edinburgh start on Saturday 26 June. But take a spare card for your camera, just in case.

Today didn't start well. We were due to leave the Bergen hotel for our Aberdeen flight at 07.55, but I was still deep asleep when the phone rang to say the taxi was waiting. Adrenalin rush, rapid scramble for belongings, clothes and passport, and within 5 minutes I was at the front door, unwashed and apologetic. The silver lining was that my companions were forgiving and we were still in plenty of time for the flight. Mind you, two of them had similarly overslept on Saturday, so only two out of five had been on time every morning. This was an action-packed itinerary, and the mixture of midnight daylight, thousands of air miles and near-midnight meals had disrupted our sleep patterns. But I'm still feeling deeply mortified: I knew I was sleep-starved and should not have relied on a single alarm (its battery failed so it lost time). Lesson learned: if it matters, have a backup.

The homeward flight was lovely: Widerøe fly Dash 8s with twin props, and their flights always seemed prompt with fast turnarounds. They are efficient, modern and fly relatively low, so you get great views:

After a smooth, rapid drive home from Aberdeen, I was keenly looking forward to the morning's missed bath and picking up the threads of life at Landrick. Delighted to find my iPad waiting, but rather than let it distract me, I thought I'd download my 200+ digital photos (Lumix G1) from the trip. Total dismay/disbelief when I found that all but a dozen were missing from the SD card, although I had seen them clearly in camera where I had already done some weeding (strictly one image at a time). (Have always known that SD images are vulnerable, indeed one reason for wanting the iPad is a lightweight backup for images while travelling. So its arrival just after my first-ever photo loss felt deeply ironic.)

I'm still utterly baffled by this: I can't think of any accidental sequence of key-presses on the camera that could have deleted hundreds of pix without deleting them all. Bafflement gave way to panic: this had been a press trip and at least a dozen images would be needed for various publications. Panic gave way to the idea of searching for photo recovery software online and I found the simply wonderful PhotoRescue. I had always thought such software would be for hardcore techies, and couldn't imagine I could succeed, let alone as easily as I did. After all, a state of urgency, panic and sleep debt isn't the best combo for learning a new skill. However, this software works like a dream: you download the demo for free, preview exactly which images it will recover, then it asks you for money only if you want to proceed (and offers a full refund if recovery then fails). At this point, I'd have been ready to pay serious money to recover not only my images but also some shreds of self-respect. In fact it cost a mere £25: terrific value.

PhotoRescue has a superb user interface: no need to read instructions. "Quick recover" saved all I needed, really fast. (It even offered me all the images that had been on the card before I had deliberately formatted it at the start of the trip.) The photos are the ones I had intended, i.e. minus the ones that I had weeded selectively. (I guess those might be rescued too via Advanced, but once I had all I needed, it was time for huge relief and at last a bath.) I am still mystified as to how this selective disaster can have occurred, but am now feeling that I've got off incredibly lightly. (And have a rescue option up my sleeve for the future.)

We were due to celebrate our anniversary with dinner at the Kailyard, the only restaurant we can easily walk to. But before setting off, I burned a CD just to make sure: another lesson learned.

Sunday began with a long drive from Tromsø to the boat that took us deep-sea fishing on the Lyngsfjord with Lyngsfjord Adventure. Never havng fished before, I was 100% confident of failure, but within minutes had landed a small cod which we promptly threw back overboard. Here is the boat that took us:

Mark McLaughlin (of the Edinburgh Evening News) put my codling to shame with his prime catch of a 5-kg wolf-fish (aka Atlantic catfish), famously good for eating. However, it has strong teeth and jaws that can crunch sea urchins, and a post-mortem bite reflex that can take off your hand, so we kept our distance:

After the fishing trip, we visited the Tromsø Museum, with some fascinating cultural exhibits including a sensitive treatment of the Sami people who have established a nation without borders, have their own flag and parliament. That evening, we were heading south by Widerøe back to Bergen. Time to spare at Tromsø airport is an unexpected pleasure. Normally I hate airports, but you can walk around outside this one, taking in the snow-covered mountain views. Here is the stainless steel fish sculpture that stands outside the terminal:

I had always though of the Arctic as impossibly remote, but this press trip has cured me. I had driven to Aberdeen for the Bergen flight, but after 26 June I could have flown direct from Edinburgh in a couple of hours. And from Bergen to Tromsø takes less than 2.5 hours, although it's over 750 miles and the planes are not jets, but twin props.

On Saturday morning, we left Bergen dead on time by Widerøe Dash 8 at 09.00. The pilot kindly pointed out the towns and features we were overflying, but failed to mention the Arctic Circle, which we must have crossed before 11. Anyway, we were in Tromsø airport, baggage collected, by 11.30 and the SAS bus whisked us to the city centre within 10-15 minutes. One of the joys of air travel in Norway is the short transfers from airport to city centre. Another is the quality of the scenery. Flying feels like fun again.

After a cablecar trip to a fine lunch at the Fjellheisen restaurant, we enjoyed the panorama over Tromsø with its elegant bridge. Most of the city, including the airport, is on the island, but its "Arctic Cathedral" is on the mainland, here at lower right:

After lunch we visited the Polar Museum, the Norwegian Polar Institute and Polaria. The latter is a fine interactive museum full of portholes at knee height for toddlers. Although I enjoyed most of the exhibits, my heart was stolen by the delightful bearded seals:

And after a fairly long day, it was fabulous to walk across a Tromsø bridge to the "Arctic Cathedral" for a Midnight Concert. This superb building hosts well-judged short concerts at 11.30 pm through the season. Ours was performed by four young musicians on trumpet, cello, organ/piano and soprano. The programme embraced not only Grieg but also Bach (cello solo), Nielsen and a traditional Sami joik. It concluded with Fields of Gold sung in English. IMO the late Eva Cassidy sang it better than Sting, but this young soprano's performance was something else. The surroundings were sublime, the musicians talented and committed, and I was choking back the tears before we left.

On a press trip to Norway, I left Landrick today at 05.30 and was relieved to reach Aberdeen airport (Dyce) by 07.30, well ahead of our 08.15 rendez-vous: thank goodness for satnav. The rest of the group was three journalists plus organiser Stan, none of whom I'd met before.

We went straight from Bergen airport to Edvard and Nina Grieg's house at Troldhaugen. Grieg's Scottish connections are rich: his great-grandfather, Alexander Greig, came from Cairnbulg (near Fraserburgh) and his godmother lived near Stirling. Greig was a Jacobite supporter who travelled widely post-Culloden, finally settling in Norway about 1770, and changing his surname to Grieg. Edvard Grieg lived at Troldhaugen from 1885 until his death in 1907, aged 64, but Nina stayed on here until 1919. We also visited the wonderfully situated hut where he retreated from company in the house to compose in peace, overlooking the fjord.

The house is fascinating, full of personal belongings, photographs and presents. Nina was Edvard's first cousin, and a hard-working lyric soprano. Edvard considered her the finest performer of his songs, and they often shared a platform at concerts. Among its contents is his piano, still played regularly in concerts:

After a short drive, we reached Bergen, a city that grew from the Hanseatic port of Bryggen. Its carefully conserved waterfront has barely changed since the last great fire of 1702 (except for the prudent addition of sprinklers). We wandered around the wharf, now a Unesco World Heritage Site, among timber buildings and overhanging galleries of great character. This wonderful image from Bergen Tourist Board/Willy Haraldsen gives you an idea of its timeless beauty:

An odd side-effect of Keir's late-onset acceptability to the Scottish educational establishment was the arrival last week of an invitation to the garden party at the Palace of Holyroodhouse on 13 July. For years, of course, he dished these out to people at Clackmannanshire Council but would never have thought of taking one for himself. This one, however, is different: it is a personal invitation to him. And it includes me: and there lies the rub.

The last time I had such an invitation I was a teenager. I declined, not just because I was rebellious, but also because I had a prior commitment that I valued more: my mother never forgave me. This time, I'm rather tempted to accept, and am guessing that Keir is too. But am I prepared to conform to the dress code? Straightforward for men, the verbatim wording for "Ladies", complete with arcane punctuation and capitalisation reads thus:

Day Dress with Hat or Uniform (No medals). Trouser Suit may be worn.

I am struggling to disentangle what this means. I don't wear hats except at extreme altitude, while ski-ing or sailing. I doubt if my scarlet Paramo ski hat would complement an otherwise respectable summery outfit. Does the separate "Trouser Suit" sentence mean that I can dodge the hat by wearing Trouser Suit instead? Or does it merely mean that you may wear a Trouser Suit instead of Day Dress, or even as well, if it's cold? (And could I wear my medals if wearing Trouser Suit instead of Day Dress, or indeed both?)

I searched for fashion advice from Google: my search for "trouser suit hat" returned this wonderful eBay item as top hit. Would Her Majesty find this acceptable?

Let's try some analysis of the text. "No medals" appears to qualify "Uniform" but the "or" after Hat provides limited grounds for hope. "Day Dress with Uniform" is therefore OK, isn't it, or is that only if the uniform in question includes a hat? Or did they mean either "Day Dress with Hat" or "Uniform (No medals)"? Could somebody please introduce conjunctions, and perhaps commas, into these abstruse instructions? Do they, like the Building the Curriculum series, need to be rewritten in clearer language?

A later sentence states that "National Dress may be worn" (apparently by either gender), but doesn't say which nation. This makes it tempting to find some deeply unsuitable national dress (with or without headgear) thus dodging the hat problem? Or a fascinator??

Gentlemen are clearly not expected to wear hats. Considering that ladies don't go bald, I don't understand why such discrimination is thought necessary. But in a 21st century invitation package that explains clearly about the two forms of ID required, no cameras or mobiles to be used, DVD order form (£16 to BCA Ltd: that must be a nice little earner) why can't they say what they mean about dress code?

About 750 people crowded into the Albert Halls on Friday evening for Mark Beaumont's talk. Stirling was the first of the Scottish venues for his UK tour and he certainly got a terrific reception. The recent BBC TV series The man who cycled the Americas combined with his strong online presence, blogging, tweets and facebook, meant that it was completely sold out, with long queues for the book signings.

He is, of course, the guy who knocked 81 days off the official Guinness World Record for circumnavigation by bike in 2008. And in telling the story of his trip through the Americas, he not only covered the length of the Rockies and Andes, but also climbed McKinley/Denali and Aconcagua, the summits of North and South America. In addition, he carried all his own kit, including video cameras and sound kit, and self-filmed. He spoke about both trips, illustrated with stills and video clips, for 3 hours, with enthusiasm, energy and honesty. Most impressive of all, he spoke afresh, not from notes or a script.

Here he is signing books and engaging with his public: the queue after his talk ended at 10.30 would have taken another hour to clear, but he still made time to talk to some youngsters about his bike before he even started the signings:

We may live in an era of the cult of celebrity, but at 27 this young man has a wise head on young shoulders, and seemed unfazed by all the attention. I'm guessing that the reason he seems so grounded has to do with his mother Una, to whom he pays charming tribute (in his book as well as in his talks). She was clearly not only key to his support team, but she also home-educated Mark with his two sisters Heather and Hannah, until he went to Dundee High School. On his first trip, she also wrote his blog and parts of his book, which I've just started to read. I've alway thought that early years play an enormous role in building self-belief.

I met Una before the talk, when I went to buy Mark's book and also to donate two of our guidebooks. I knew that Mark had met our author Harry Kikstra. Harry has not only climbed Aconcagua, Denali and Everest (!), he has also written guidebooks for us, and he too is cycling the Americas from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina. Unlike Mark, who cycled alone and under pressure, Harry is taking his time along with his lovely partner Ivana, in a sort of protracted pre-wedding "honeymoon". In this photo from Harry's website, taken in Guatemala, Harry's the guy in the middle:

Now it was at Nido de Condores (about 18,000ft on Aconcagua) back in 2003 that I had mentally redesigned the format of our guidebooks to suit high altitude, and later commissioned Harry to write three of our Rucksack Pocket Summits. So I took both Aconcagua and Denali along as a small tribute to give to Mark. I was delighted to find that the resourceful Una had long since researched what would be the best guidebook to help Mark on his Aconcagua climb, and sent him Harry's book to take along!

Last night we went to Dunblane Cathedral for the first time since the Roseneathe Singers' powerful, agonising performance of Britten's War Requiem. The prompt was, once again, daughter Helen getting us tickets. Unlike the War Requiem which is difficult in parts to listen to, difficult sometimes to deal with Wilfred Owen's devastating poetry, this turned out to be really easy listening. We had Vivaldi (topically Spring from the Four Seasons), Albinoni (trumpet concerto) and Mozart (Divertimento) followed by Bach, Purcell (trumpet sonata) and Grieg. It was lively, professional and uplifting, performed in the intimate setting of the choir stalls of the cathedral.

The orchestra was unusual: the Chamber Philharmonic Europe is very cosmopolitan, with the trumpet soloist Russian, the lead violinist Hungarian and no two other players of the same nationality. With only nine players they achieved a tremendous orchestral voulme in the Grieg (Holberg Suite). The charming young violinist who did the announcements also played (but she didn't identify) a haunting encore. It was so hauntingly familiar that I had to look it up later on YouTube and found that Keir was spot on in his suggestion of Massenet's Meditation from Thäis. You can choose from dozens of performances; I liked Itzhak Perlman (but not the naff visuals) and (amazingly, from 1928) Fritz Kreisler.

How useful to be able to track down unannounced encores while still fresh in the mind's ear ... and how generous of Helen to send us to this concert which we would otherwise never have known about.

I finally redeemed my birthday voucher for a flight with East of Scotland Microlights where Sandy is training as a pilot. He also had provided the voucher through his company Gift Experience Scotland. The arrangement had been postponed three times because of weather (high winds, blizzards and deep snow) but fourth time was lucky yesterday. Gordon Douglas flew me north-west high, high above the Forth, west over Castle Campbell and along the spine of the Ochils, past Dumyat to circle over Landrick.

House and garden look very different from the air, in fact its dark colours and treelined setting meant that at first I was afraid I'd struggle to locate it from above. But here it is:

Gordon had told me that we weren't allowed within 500 feet of inhabited buildings, but I pointed out that our house stands on its own and the only occupants (Keir and his visitor) wouldn't mind. Clearly we swooped low enough to attract their attention, because they came outside and are standing by the curved path, with Bramble barking vigorously at this aerial intruder:

Gordon then suggested we buzz them, which seemed a terrific idea to me, so we climbed and swooped, skimming the tree tops at about 120 mph. The G forces were so extreme that there was no question of using the camera, but it was very exciting. Almost incredibly, within 90 minutes of leaving East Fortune airfield we were back there on the ground. At this point, Sandy was waiting for the microlight (a Quik-R) to do some more solo work, so I took a few pictures of him taking off and landing: