Your Future

I have stayed away from politics for a wee while, but as I write the UK Chancellor is talking in Westminster, the unions are about to go out on strike, and the OECD tells us that a second recession is almost certain.  Amid the doom and gloom we have torrents of rain and the floodwaters are rising.  Everywhere it is grey, and Osborne has nothing to offer, at least not in these parts though we are told he could put money into the overnight sleeper service if we do likewise.

Meanwhile the Scottish Government has plans to continue the dualling of the A9, but it will not be complete until 2025.  I’m trying to think when I last heard any government that had the temerity to plan beyond the current parliamentary term, far less than to implement anything that may best be described as a strategy for our children and grandchildren.  It is a plan that could have been much further along the road, if you’ll pardon the pun, by now but for the farce that is the Edinburgh Trams, forced upon it by rampant opposition in 2007.  This proposal strikes me that we have a government of some confidence, and rightly so.

The announcement comes as we hear that the scrapped £1bn investment in carbon capture at Longannet is surprise, surprise, likely to be invested south of the border.  And all the time we hear sniping about the referendum and the timing of same.  Today Peter Robinson adds his tuppence worth from Ireland and guess what, a unionist politician is shouting to preserve the union, going further by playing the Ulster sectarian card in planning to lobby Ulster/West of Scotland connections.  But we have yet to hear from any politician precisely what the case for the union might be.

Some may wonder why they don’t want to let us go, especially when we hear from various sources that the Scots are subsidy junkies enjoying life at the expense of their cousins in the south.  Well it ain’t like that cousins.  Read the McCrone Reprt, remove the blinkers.  Our contributions exceed the amount spent in these parts, by a distance.

I had intended simply providing a link to an excellent article by Peter Curran, but see, you’ve got me started.  However  have a read at his posting of Monday 28 November, The Key Facts.  It says all that I wish I could, and much more besides.

Just arrived in the post is a copy of a booklet, Your Scotland, Your Future.  I intend to read every word, and then to pass it on to others.  For it the future of my children that concerns me.  At last though we will get a chance to express an opinion on our constition.  For too long the unionist parties have sought to deny us that right.  Let the country speak.

Red Kites & White Peacocks

It was one of those days, the marvellous type, the ones that come along rarely.  I had an all day pass, under the guise of football in far off places, with a detour to make that postponed visit up Lochearnhead way, and then the prospect of a party at the end of it.  It was the radio that did it, switched on the magic, and brought it all together, from the castle of Doune to the palace of Scone, from the red kite to the white peacock.

By the time I found myself in Lochearnhead, looking for a familiar tree on an unfamiliar road, I was miles away.  I should have been in Balquhidder, and I blame the radio.  There is something about Radio 4 on a Saturday morning that just grabs you and makes you grind some beans and sit down with a pot of fresh roast.

Saturday Live took me to Eriskay, one of my favourite islands and one that hails me for a return visit for it has been far too long.  I can almost hear the corncrakes just thinking about it.  Seventy years it is since the SS Politician went down, down with quarter of a million bottles of whisky.  We were treated to a narrative from a dive on the wreck.  It is a tale that has its place in folklore, with Compton MacKenzie’s Whisky Galore being captured on-screen as one of the best of the Ealing comedies.  Bottles still turn up today, the ones liberated from the exciseman, hidden in rabbit holes and sundry other orifices.  Despite being now pretty much undrinkable whisky from the Politician remains a real collector’s item, and not just with the whisky fraternity.

By the time I got to the Falls of Leny, in full spate after torrents of rain, I had already spied my first, and only red kite.  It circled high above as I passed through Doune, where there is a feeding station nearby.  At the falls the water was like Granny’s meringue pie, foaming white and peaty brown, all peaks and eddies.  In contrast the waters of Loch Lubnaig were still and moody, as grey as the cloud amid hills stilled in mist and drizzle.  There was once a time when I cycled round the loch, but from the car it looks awful hard work, a trip for a fitter and younger me.  Ah, the memories.

Excess Baggage brought a chat between John McCarthy and Richard Hamilton, taking me to another place and another day.  Richard told tales of his days in Marrakech, ones that I had read just a few weeks ago you may remember, or maybe not; ones that I had heard in situ, captured on the very same programme, not that many years ago.  There was cardamom in the air and spices, and the muezzin’s call just as the sun rumoured the sky.  No chance of any sun today though, and on we went.

The party was the annual ceilidh for the Friends of Loudoun Kirk.  But before then I had a day to enjoy and a book to collect.  The book was a leather bound volume of poetry, from 1841.  It was being repaired and I was overdue collecting the finished work.  It was not my fault that I dragged myself too far along the road, for the Banks and Braes were being aired on the wireless.  We were filling Rabbie Burns’ iPod.  To the sounds of the Bard’s own fiddle, being played at the Bachelor’s Club in Tarbolton.  Liz Lochead, now Scotland’s Makar in succession to the late Edwin Morgan, took me back a few hundred years to the life and times of one who lived it to the full.  It is a dreadfully young age to die, 37, even then.  What would Burns have got up to given more time?

And as the Trossachs echoed to the sounds and the words of Rabbie, so I missed the Balquhidder turn.  But I soon caught up with Eila Ramsay-Clapham, an Islay girl, steeped in peaty malts, surrounded by books.  I had to drag myself away, but if ever you have a volume that needs some TLC and expert hands, send it off to Eila.  She did a fantastic job with the Poems of Lady Flora Hastings, which takes me back to the ceilidh, for Loudoun Kirk was Flora’s family church and there is a memorial to her in the kirkyard, and indeed a headstone for one of Burns young wenches, amongst others.  Flora’s own tale is full of tragedy and like Burns, an early death.  She had been a lady-in-waiting at the palace, to a young Queen Victoria.  Besmirched she was, or traduced as George Galloway may put it today, to such an extent that the Marquis of Hastings and the Earl of Loudoun, and family, would send their mail with the stamps upside down.  The old kirkyard dates back more than 800 years and there’s tales to tell a-plenty, another day.

Still the memories and the connections flooded through, as we passed Loch Earn, on the road to Perth, to Blairgowrie, and the footie.  At Fowlis I dug out a CD for the long trip home, for Julie of that name is a chanteuse of some style.  She sings in the Gaelic, brings air from the islands, and as she sings I could be walking those sands at Luskentyre, resting at the top of Dun I, in another world.  Kinkell took me home again, and the resting place of a wee chestnut Shetland who didn’t deserve our ignorance.  His stable name was Kinkell Starship, to us he was just Kelly, another early death.

Then the radio did it again, with the soft Dublin tones of Feargal Keane.  I remember his address at the RGS in London, talking of his life in the war zones, his own battles.  I had not heard audience silence like it since Diana Krall whispered her own version of #I’ve got You, Under my Skin, at the Wigan Jazz Festival.  That still brings goosebumps what must be close to 15 years later.

The loch rippled and a watery sun threatened to burn of the mist through which the tops of the pines poked.  The hills above had snow in the deeper corries.  Peace rested on the land, surprisingly so after a forecast that brought dread and fear.  The game might be off.

And then there was Perth, the Fair City.  It was there that I saw the 1972 Australians, with young Lillee and Marsh, though they toted golf clubs and left the cricket to the old stagers, the names the crowd had come to see.  Doug Walters and Keith Stackpole were among them and Scotland were skittled out.  Somewhere I’ve a signed scorecard.

The beech hedge at Meikleour, on the road to Blairgowrie, is the world’s tallest, at 120ft.  It runs for 200yds on the roadside, but today the summer foliage had long gone, the winter bronze stripped by the gales and what was left lost in the murk.  It was planted by Jean Mercer the year before her husband was killed at Culloden.  It had been some time since I passed along that way.

I’ll spare you the afternoon entertainment, though the boys in black & white live to fight another day in the cup, new management team at the helm.  I’ll spare you too the long trip home, through the driving rain, the spray and the gales, darkness having descended.

But then that old wireless did it again.  For just as we set out to the ceilidh, to raise funds for Lady Flora, and for Madge’s granny down in the crypt, so the feet started to tap, for it was Robbie Shepherd’s Take the Floor.  Thirty years it is since Robbie’s Doric lilt has taken us through our two-steps and stripped our willows.  And the boys in the band down Hurlford way didn’t let us down.  There was much reeling and a little hooching, exercise for one and all.

Afer all that there was no energy left for hochmagandy or such like.  Rabbie would no doubt have managed it, with a wink of the eye and a verse on his lips, but here was I, with a wheeze in my chest and burst of ellipsis……

Exploring the World

Looking forward to the viewing tonight, on BBC1, of the first in a four-part series tracking the paths and the words of Scottish Explorers.  We start off with David Livingstone; next up is William Speirs Bruce who led the Scottish Antarctic Party in 1902-04, another fantastic read, in The Voyage of the Scotia.  The subject of the final two are not yet known to me and I can find no mention on the BBC website, though I’d be surprised if he omitted John Rae.  I think I’m right in saying that the initial airing will be restricted to Scotland, but I’d recommend searching the iPlayer for this promises to be one of those unmissable hours that the BBC can still produce.  The Last Explorers is the latest venture to be fronted by the lank-haired, squint-toothed historian Neil Oliver,  and it will thus be delivered in a rich Scottish brogue.  You can get a sneak preview right here.

In this first episode Oliver shows us the white water of the Zambesi, bursting through the Kebrabasa Gorge.  Livingstone had insisted this was navigable by boat, a path to the interior.  He lied; it wasn’t then and isn’t now.

This is of interest as coincidentally I am currently working my way through Livingstone’s travels on the Zambesi, and in fact on this very morning, long before sunrise, he ‘discovered’ the shores of Lake Nyassa, amongst other things.  There was of course no discovery.  Whilst the lake may have been unknown to his sponsors at the RGS and the LMS in London, it was the home of many tribes in an area well settled by Portuguese.  The natives even then were growing cotton of quality to rival that of the cousins who had been shipped off to New Orleans and to feed the mills of Manchester.

Two things rankle in my reading, both, I suspect, products of the time.  Livingstone was travelling a century and a half ago, and that was an equal period since the days of the Darien disaster and the parliamentary union.  He continually refers to himself as English and to his home as England.  A century and a half further on we are finally seeing a nation rising from Darien and looking to its own future once again.  I don’t think there are many Scots around today who would own to being English; even British is pretty questionable these days.  Back in the 19th century it did seem to be the generic term, for even Stevenson irks me with that one from time to time.

But Livingstone was on the payroll of the Government in Westminster and thus he sang their song.  Two other bodies with an interest in his travels were the RGS and the Missionaries.  It is the latter that causes me concern, but I am trying to give him the benefit of the times in which he lived.  By the mid 19th century science and exploration had disproved the flat earth.  Darwin had spent five years on the Beagle and been to the Galapagos, but he had yet to publish his findings.  So perhaps back then there was an excuse for accepting the myth of the Creation thing.  That said I still find it hard to accept that traipsing round the world telling the ‘savages’ that the only god was that of the white man who knew best, was the ideal route to our perception of civilised society.  Livingstone though was firmly in the days of the Empire, and he had his duties to perform, rightly or wrongly.

So to keep his funding secure he told London that there was a river to the dark interior, that he was converting the natives as he went and in general making the world a better place.  In many respects he did, slavery being top of the list.  But those natives could even then weave cloth from their plantations; they forged metal for tools; and of course they had alcohol and tobacco, though they may not have had measles and suchlike, which would all come later.  Anyway tune in tonight, I know I will.

Oliver though, by focussing on Scots explorers, leaves many others untouched.  Perhaps if the series can be sold on then there may be a commission to widen the net.  I hope so.

Meanwhile there are plenty to follow through the covers of the book, and not just exploration in bygone days.  One of the finest in modern times has to be Benedict Allen.  He was only in his early 20s when he took himself off to the Amazon jungle.  Allen was the man who pioneered the solitary travel with a little camera at the end of his arm trained on his face.  Not for him the entourage and the glib wit of Palin, Allen went where the danger was, and he went alone.  When he travelled into tribal lands, be it in Indonesia or the Amazon, Namibia or Mongolia, he immersed himself in local culture, taking the hallucinatory drugs and undergoing the initiation rites.  More recently we have Bruce parry in similar mould.  Where Livingstone pictured the pelele, the upper lip ring of bamboo or ivory up to a couple of inches in diameter that saw a smile smack you in the forehead, Allen pierced his skin or whatever was required and he still has all the bumps to prove it.  He faced death countless times.  If you ever get the chance go and hear a Benedict Allen lecture.  Where Redmond O’Hanlon found the palang on his travels in Borneo, Allen may have taken the piercing, even that one.

Tonight though I’ll stick with Oliver’s commentary on Livingstone, then next week Bruce, I presume.

Times Change, or do they?

I have just finished reading a marvellous work, it has taken me all year.  The subject was one of my favourite writers, and the method was, in a sense, the same way that paved his road to fame in the 19th century.  Is this progress?  You decide.

As a nipper I was read extracts from A Child’s Garden of Verse before discovering the world of Treasure Island in a paperback that came free with a few vouchers from the Sugar Puffs packet, or was it Weetabix.  Over time I discovered the words that Robert Louis Stevenson had written a century before, but it was not until much later that I discovered more of the man and his life.  Indeed I was probably older than Stevenson had been when he died in Samoa, before I really began to understand his struggles and to fully appreciate his successes.

Favourite authors are joys of discovery, and in that regard the life of Stevenson is up there with those of Gavin Maxwell and Bruce Chatwin.  They have much in common, other than their early deaths.

My exploration of the world of RLS remains incomplete.  On the shelf still lie the recent publication of a biography by Arthur Ransome, only just published after the notes disappeared for decades, as well as Cummy’s Diary, notes by the great man’s former nurse Alison Cunningham, who accompanied the 13 year old Louis and his family on a trip to the continent in 1863.  That book was published more than 60 years later.

The work I want to discuss now though is Jeremy Hodges’ Lamplit, Vicious Fairy Land.  It is a volume of some depth, and takes us up to the time when Louis makes his final departure from his beloved home city of Edinburgh, never to return.  Hodges spares us no niceties, either of the streets of the capital, or of Stevenson’s comings and goings.  We wend our way from those heady days in France with the artists, through his life and his loves, share his angst and his turmoils, before he eventually settles in the South Seas.

RLS was very much a society man, or his parents would have liked that he was.  His father’s family were of some repute, the engineers who put lighthouses round our coasts.  His mother was a daughter of the manse.  Louis rejected both.  After touring the lights he gave up on engineering, though his writings of those tours round Scotland are well worth a delve.  He tried law as an income source, if only to preserve respectability and secure continued funding from his father.  He rebelled too against his mother’s family and rejected the kirk.

Hodges takes us down the cobbled lanes and into the dens and the whore houses.  Throughout his short life RLS was cursed by ill health, or Bluidy Jack, as he came to know the ravages that saw him close to death on many occasions and exploring the world to find a climate to suit his frailty.  But there is more, and syphillis may have been a factor in much that went on, for the young Loius was no stranger to the seedy side of life, an embarrassment to his parents.  With paternal subsidy withdrawn the times at death’s door in poverty, as he pursued his infatuation with the fallen Fanny,  from Paris, across the States, ship-board and eventually back into the fold of the family and onward to his final home, make for tales of travel, of love and war, that in themselves may be sufficient to hold an interest.

But aside from all that the man wrote, and he struggled to get published.  As he left Edinburgh so did he get word that Treasure Island would finally make the grade, and with an advance of £100 he cleared the slate.

Today Hodges tells us of all of those in the same manner that the young Stevenson peddled his early wares.  For in the late 19th century the best he could then do was serialisations in magazines, poorly paid, uncertain and without security.  But he wrote on.  In the 21st century Hodges has the same problem, and has resolved it in a similar way.  It has taken a year to read because it has been published in fortnightly instalments.  Like Stevenson before him Hodges was unable to find a willing publisher.  As a result I have before me a lever arch file filled and bursting with sheets of A4 paper, printed on one side only.  Now that is my own preference for reading the written word, to have it on paper.  I’d prefer a neatly bound volume with a place in the stacks to a lever arch file, and perhaps one day Hodges will see that happen, depending on the download statistics.  You can get your copy here, and either read on screen, print, or save to one of those gizmos.

So publishing today is perhaps even harder than it was when Louis met Fanny, and tomorrow who knows?  For now many of the works of Robert Louis Stevenson remain in print.  I think Hodges deserves to join them, and I can consign that lever arch file to host the next work of interest that is available to download only.  I’ll leave you with another little ditty from the quill of the maestro:

The Sun’s Travels

The sun is not abed when I

At night upon the pillow lie;

Still round the earth his way he takes,

And morning after morning wakes.

While here at home, in shining day,

We round the sunny garden play,

Each little Indian sleepyhead

Is being kissed and put to bed.

And when at eve I rise from tea,

Day dawns beyond the Atlantic sea,

And all the children in the West

Are getting up and getting dressed.

But there’s so much more to RLS than the odd little ditty for the weans.  And we should be thankful that they were all published, that Collected Works survive today, and that our children and grandchildren can discover the thrill of the treasure map, the shipwreck and the chase, the ways of Catriona and the road to Ballantrae, or even the horrors of Jekyll.  But will they be able to preserve their downloads for their futures?

The Greene, Greene Grass

……..  of Liberia.

I had mentioned earlier this year that I had been reading Chasing the Devil, by Tim Butcher, who had been following in the footsteps of Graham Greene who, back in the 30s, had wandered the jungle of Liberia and then written it up in what famously became his Journey Without Maps.  Greene travelled with his cousin Barbara, and you may recall that I had then gone in search of copies of both their works on that trip.  Graham’s first print had been withdrawn on threat of litigation, and all subsequent versions amended.  I managed to track down that elusive first edition, but for now I’m working my way through Barbara’s version of events, in her Land Benighted.  Later I’ll have a look at Graham’s journey, and compare the litigious first text with the book we know today.

Butcher travelled the modern way, with rucksack and a couple of local guides.  He did so through lands riven by warfare and corruption, from Sierra Leone and Guinea, through the hinterlands of Liberia itself.  It is enthralling stuff, as indeed is his earlier work, Blood River.  Barbara Greene though,  was very much a lady of her times, coerced by her cousin, after champagne at a wedding, into a trip into the unknown.  Back then Europe was in turmoil and we know now that war was not far off.  Liberia was less than stable, recovering yet from the return of slaves from America a century before.

The Cousins Greene hired their local guides, and their cook, but they needed a few more hands, for “Our luggage lay in great heaps on the platform.  Beds, tables, chairs, several wooden cases of food, the water filter, the money-box, two suitcases, and all kinds of odds and ends.  Everything we could think of to keep body and soul together for the next few weeks.”  To help them on their way they had no less than 26 carriers, leaving the cousins with nought but their own bodies, their thoughts, and their fears, to carry on their journey.  Barbara indeed took five or ten minutes in the hammock every hour or so, but could manage no more as the movement gave her a bit of nausea, and no doubt her bearers a few more aches and pains.  But it is proving a bit of a delightful read, and on I go to journey’s end.

On the way we pass through villages,  as they found huts to sleep in after turfing out the natives so that their guides could set up beds and so forth.  Duogobmai was sordid and degenerate; Nocoboozu happy and charming; but in Zigiter was a bad devil, of the type that Butcher was chasing.

They eased their discomforts with whisky, pouring the chief in Duogobmai a measure.  “The chief tossed it off, and in less than second he was blind drunk.  He got up unsteadily, and muttering and dribbling he tottered round the village.”  At this point I imagine the two white travellers, with their entourage, a long line of native bearers carrying their ‘essentials’ through the impenetrable jungle, along dirt tracks and into clearings surrounded by mud huts and filth, bringing civilisation to the savages.  And I think of Livingstone, a century before, with even more bearers as he explored and discovered and righted the wrongs as he spread The Word.

David Livingstone’s family came from Mull you know, well Ulva to be precise, a tiny island sheltered on Mull’s west coast.  The Great Man himself was born not far from here, in Blantyre, Station Road to be exact, and there is a fine museum and memorial to his exploits, under threat of closure these days but well worth a visit.  It is a place we used to go on school trips, and a place to visit today.

My own paternal grandfather also spent some time in Station Road, Blantyre, the very street of Livingstone’s birth, though I know little of his time there.  That was when his father died, following a crush on the stairs in Glasgow Central station.  From then he claimed to have been alone in the world, talked little of the time, and eventually let on that he had got himself a position on service to the Astor family, at the time when the Lady of the house was leading the suffrage and being elected to parliament.  What times they must have been, and what regrets we now have for not talking to him, for Pop died 15 years or so ago, in his 90s, and the chance is long gone.  Take that chance, and talk to the family, make the notes and the memories, before it is too late.

It was only this week that I discovered that Pop had a younger brother, an uncle unbeknownst to my father and his sisters, for we all believed that he had been alone since his father died.  He was never known to speak of his mother, who we assumed had fled the scene after his birth, young as she was at the time.  But she was still there, and became widowed with two sons, the younger brother just shy of his seventh birthday when the accident happened.  I had delved into my ancestry ten years or so ago, my great-grandmother unfound since giving birth though her ancestry duly plotted.  I have new leads now for she seems to have headed south with Pop’s brother, which explains why I could never find a death in Scotland, and I have a possible marriage and a death to investigate as I put young James’ branch on the family tree.

This may be one for The Genealogist for trawling English records is not easy, is time-consuming and expensive.  We are spoilt with the Scottish Records Office, with digitising and search facilities.  In England it is all hit and miss stuff, of references and ordering certificates, at a price and hoping for the right one, before being able to move on to the next stage.  But it has sparked my interest once again, a new trail to follow, and, you never know, perhaps some distant cousins waiting at the end of it, possibly unaware that they too have more relations out there.

So Blantyre and Livingstone, brought to mind from reading Butcher and Greene, are no strangers to me.  I’ll continue with Barbara, then next up will be a volume I picked up when last I visited that museum, a first introduction then for The Urchins, Expedition to the Zambesi, by David & Charles Livingstone.  I may even suggest that local schools should still be having trips to the park and museum in Blantyre, before these dire financial times see the doors closed on our past.  And in time I’ll have a look at Graham Greene’s version of events, before it was cleaned up.  Interesting times indeed, then and now.

Farrago

Yes it is a strange word, but forgive me for I’m having difficulty spelling missilain……, well you get the message.  ‘Tis a word that appears at the bottom left for I have spent a bit of time trying to bring order to this chaos, adding Archives and Categories to file the various postings made, and I hope these are helpful.  Today it is a hotch potch, a real miscellany, so farrago it is.

I had a real low point earlier, as I headed out in the car.  You see I was delayed on the road, by a herd of coos.  It was not the delay that troubled me, for I was in no great rush, but the thought that the milking herd was being taken along the road to the farm, to winter quarters, never to be seen again, at least not for six months or so.  We are at that time of the year when the grazing rents expire and fields lie fallow through the harsh winter month, the beasts sheltered indoors.  But I was ahead of myself for they were only moving to a different field, for now.  It will not be long though, for the traditional rental is Whitsun to Martinmas, and we’ll be missing their mottled hides in a week or two.  Meanwhile there remains plenty grass for, as you know, the growing season has been extended this autumn.  More likely it is that the fields are about to fertilised, the summer slurry from the milking shed spread to enhance the growth in the spring, and that means that rain is not far away.  Once done I suspect that the herd will be back on pasture, extending their stay until the eviction notice comes, for that extra growth these past weeks, is too good to pass up, and money’s tight for winter feed.

And in the depths of the coming season, when the fields are empty of life and of colour, bleached and frozen, there is little to bring cheer to passing motorists or cyclists; other that is than the bird life and whatever is crawling among the hedgerows.

Bird life was duly noted today, and indeed yesterday.  I had done something unusual then, and long missed.  I had taken a long walk, for some exercise was needed and The Grasshopper remains in the workshop.  Walking muscles are different and there are some residual aches and pains today, but it was worth it.  As I walked so the buzzard soared, and plummeted, fed and soared again, often chased by hoodies and the occasional magpie.

The buzzard is growing in numbers in these parts and I see a report that the red kite too is thriving.  Not much more than 20 years ago the red kite did not exist in Scotland.  Reports today confirm 314 fledgings this year, despite the gales and storms in the breeding season, and 186 breeding pairs, up by 22 in a year.

Whilst I’ve spotted the odd red kite above the roads, in Doune, Aviemore and way up by Lochinver, it was in Wales earlier this year that I became a real fan.  We visited the RSPB feeding station at Bwlch Nant yr Arian, down by Aberystwyth.  Amongst the hordes descending twice daily there is an albino.  They are fed with buckets of lamb, beef and pork, swooping to the ground, circling overhead, and waiting in the pines for their opportunity.  It is indeed a fine sight.

But I prefer an even bigger wingspan, and thus long for a return to Mull, and the chance to catch some sea eagles and golden eagles in the lens.  It has been too long since we visited the islands and took the magic of their medicine.  Winter visiting is unlikely for ferry times are restrictive, but come the spring…….

And I will have some new reading to take with me for, as expected, my dip into that compendium of remarkable Muslims, did indeed highlight new authors to have a more detailed look at.  On the agenda, or perhaps the Christmas list, are works from Peregrine Hodson and Sabiha al Khemir.  It’s tempting to just place the orders, especially after sourcing a fine first edition from dealer whose door I pass regularly, but the lip is bitten for nagging will commence as the festive draws ever closer.  I can feel my bug beginning to hum already.

The political scene doesn’t escape this hotch potch either, but my ire is reserved, for the moment, once again for our wonderful state-funded broadcaster.  The latest move from the BBC, from their Pathetic Quay HQ in these parts, is to remove comments facilities from their two Scottish blogs, Brian Taylor’s political blog and the business blog of his colleague Douglas Fraser.  So debate is stifled and it seems to be purely a Scottish thing for all other blogs across the empire remain open.  There was a time in the recent past when Scotland resorted to commenting with Betsan Powys in Wales and that may happen again.  The conspiracy theorists may be forgiven for thinking the censoring, nay embargo, of debate could perhaps be because over 90% of posted comments are invariably in favour of the Scottish Government and its policies, and thus by definition contradictory to the whims, needs  and desires of the BBC.  It’s shameful really but we shouldn’t be surprised.

But calling louder is Mull.  Did I mention that it holds a special place in these parts?  Without the magic of Mull there may have been no Urchins.  Now where’s that school bus?

An Eclipse

In the back seat The Urchins were bouyant.  #’money, money, money’, they chorused, ‘it’s a rich man’s wuuu’.  ‘Daddy, your singing’s rubbish.’  News just in cherubs…….They had discovered Abba, and there was nothing else worth listening to, especially in the car.  But I had to make a call.

‘Mummy,’ chirped Urchin the Younger, ‘I can go my bike without stabilisers!’  Pride burst from the little voice in the back, at last, excitement even.  We were on our way back from the park, and they had been all the way round the loch, many wobbles, few mishaps.  It was a loch that was no stranger to mishap, as I mused on that day, many years back, when I had overturned a Canadian canoe, subjecting all three occupants to a swimming lesson, for the whole five yards back to the jetty.  These days we stay firmly on dry land, even when they get a bit keen on duck-feeding duty.

#’ as ah called you last night from Glaazgooo’, and so we meandered on, under skies of gathering gloom, air still.  There was plenty of noise in the car, but outside it was quiet.  The road was one of those little ones, with passing places, and twists and bends, ups and downs.  We knew it well, passed the crossroads and down the hill before climbing up again.

In the dip was a little bridge, in cast iron, more meccano than parapet.  Underneath the burn burbled away, waters not high today.  Horses grazed, and dozed; the bay slept, in that way they have of looking dead, stretched out, head flat on the ground.  Then it happened, the eclipse, and it went dark, just for a second or two.

The heron is ungainly in flight, un-reminiscent of that monument to anglers everywhere, still and silent, patient, eyes only for a flash in the waters swirling round those lanky legs.  I caught a beady eye on the way past, the legs flailed, and then the light returned.

I had not seen the bird on the side of the bridge; he may have emerged from beneath.  Why he chose to make his escape across our path, at windscreen height, was beyond me.  Perhaps we had disturbed a post-lunch nap.  In the still air, with no other apparent noise around, one may have expected him to hear two litres of turbo diesel before we were upon him.  But perhaps not for engines are quiter now, and few sound like London cabbies any more.

‘Da-aad, put the bikes away, can I put the wii on?’ and little footsteps took the well-worn path to the telly.  As the garage door raised, so a little white fur ball escaped, miaowing heavily.  That’ll be more cat pee on the office ceiling then.  But it was a day to remember, as I noticed the stabilisers in the corner.

Links

It is one of those days when The Urchins are off school, for the teachers are doing their in-service thing, playing cards or whatever.  The sun is up, the washing out, but the postie has yet to arrive dictating what other chores may be required or possible for the rest of the day.  We may even get to the park with the bikes, their bikes that is, for me to limp behind keeping them from crashing into the loch.

Meantime I’ll take the chance to have one or two lessons on this blogging lark, something neglected for far too long.  The first one is ‘links’, so here goes:

I mentioned recently Views from the Bike Shed – let’s see how this one works, then perhaps there may be more……

That one seemed to work, though the instructions I have here suggest that it should appear in blue type, so more lessons may be needed.

I’ve left politics aside for some time, despite the urge to discuss the blue tories new leader in Scotland; the spin put on Salmond finally securing release of some of Scotland’s Fossil Fuel Levy, after year’s of refusal by successive chancellors; and the ongoing and incessant demand from London parties to the Independence questions, to have the referendum that they all spent years denying us the right to have.  I may just manage a link to an article or two within these notes.  Bear with me for it is a steep learning curve.

One to raise a smile:  Victory over the Medda.  Interestingly that one is in blue, but I know not why……

Nurturing Nature

I had cause the other day to call to mind the written works of John Lister-Kaye, or to give him his full title Sir John Lister-Kaye OBE.  I first came across Lister-Kaye as a huge fan of the life and works of Gavin Maxwell, for this budding naturalist, then entrenched in a steelworks in Swansea, had been invited by Maxwell to head north to Kyleakin and help him rise from the ashes of Camusfearna, to expand from his days with otters.  He took that road north and although his time with Maxwell was short as Gavin succumbed to the cancer that took him all too soon, Lister-Kaye remains in the Highlands to this day.  His Aigas Field Centre remains on my visiting list on my northern excursions, and one day I’ll manage to get there.

To date Lister-Kaye has eight books to his credit and I was surprised to find that we have five of them on the shelves, for The Genealogist was first to discover his writings with his Song of the Rolling Earth.  His first book though, published in 1972, was of his time with Maxwell, The White Island, and that was were I joined in.  More recently he published At the Water’s Edge last year and it proves, very simply, that his writing improves as the years pass.  I recall reading Nature’s Child a few years ago, an enchanting memoir to the delights he had in introducing his daughter to the wonders that are all around us, and to his routine in his highland idyll.  It is a book I need to read again, conscious as I am that The Urchins are getting to that stage.

I know they are getting to that stage, for today Urchin the Younger finally just about managed to rid himself of his fears and take to his bike with a degree of confidence and bit less whimpering.  Several hundred yards he managed, in a couple of bursts, at the end of it managing to keep any hint of a smile or sense of pride well and truly hidden.  Urchin the Elder meanwhile, had bombed on ahead, even managing to pedal most of the way up the hill and home.  It was all only jealousy on my part, for sadly I am Grasshopper-Free.  The bike remains in the workshop, for a winter service and some minor repairs, held up longer than expected by some stubbornly-seized brakes and a mechanic intent on freeing them rather that taking the more profitable option of replacement.  Carry on Ben, for I know she is in good hands.

But I missed her today, for it was fine outside and having dealt with work related issues yesterday to free up cycling time today, I had everything going, except of course the bike itself.  It is a 60 mile or so round trip to the bike shop but I was half way there yesterday, on football business.  In good form was I, for we managed to inflict on the Medda XI a first league defeat of the season, a real confidence booster for a side desperately short of belief.  So good was my humour, and some may find that in itself a difficult one to accept, that I left Ben and the bike, knowing that my cycle today was not going to happen, with a smile on my face.

So the law of sod decided to grace this day with weather that would have gone down well in the summer, a day wholly unexpected mid-November, and one that suggests that the lawnmower’s hibernation may yet be premature.  And I cursed that lawn.  In a rare moment of sensitivity on a day varnished by the unseasonal sun, I cajoled said Urchins to cavort in the garden.  Collectively we worked on hand-to-eye co-ordination with baseball bat and ball, foam covered ones.  Even the Elder did eventually manage to put bat to ball.  But the lawn was cursed.  I use the word ‘lawn’ somewhat loosely, for there is little of that and plenty of moss.  And it was the latter into which my foot sunk as I swung for that final home run, the ball intended for the field across the road, only for my swing to be accompanied by an audible crack from a rather dodgy knee, one that was subjected to a less than successful operation ten years or so ago.  The Grasshopper could have an extended rest, and that will leave me very grumpy indeed.

I watched the sun retire gracefully and my attention was caught by activity on the bird-feeders.  Usually we have a chaffinches outnumbering greenfinches, occasional gold ones, and more great tits than blue ones.  Today though it was the blue tits that caught the eye, half a dozen of them together, where usually we just have the odd one.  What sign is this I wonder, a harsh winter ahead, mild one perhaps, even a sharp increase in the local blue tit population?  Is it more widespread; have they fought back against the last two winters and put in surplus for what may lie ahead?  It was an inordinate number we had today, and I must keep an eye on the garden in the coming weeks.

I had my hands full with wildlife earlier.  A rogue cat managed to find it’s way in through the window and set to devouring a fresh-baked loaf resting on the kitchen table.  It was the same cat that had been locked in the shed for a three nights a few weeks ago, clearly out for revenge.  Our own moggie remained curled and snoring, ignoring the intruder.

But that was not all, and I have the scratches to prove it.  We usually have a few hens pecking around and I had brought in a new stock of speckledys a couple of months ago.  They should have come on to lay by now, but there was little evidence of even the urge.  I suspected impacted crops, possibly brought on by my parsimony in using shredded paper for bedding rather than shelling out for woodshavings.  Stupid beasts had, I think, being eating the paper, and thereby ensuring that the food that is needed to form the shells fails to get down.  So there I was spooning olive oil into chicken’s beaks, hanging them upside down and massaging their scrawny necks, whilst thinking of Sunday dinner.  They had been stuck in their run for some time as I was intent on not letting them range freely until such time as they were laying where they were meant to lay.  Thinking fodder may be part of the answer I let them loose to graze; but they are stupid birds for there is little room for a brain up there, and they barely left their run at all.  Give them a few days and they’ll have found their way along the road and back again, but will we start to get eggs?

And at the end of all that I remember now what it was that brought Lister-Kaye to mind.  I had been reading Views from the Bike Shed, where Mark is on a mission to write about nature every day this month, and does so with such style that Lister-Kaye was a name on my lips.  At this point I see that I have failed my next lesson.  The words ‘Views from the Bike Shed’ above, should be highlighted with a link behind the scenes to take you direct to Mark’s blog.  In the absence of that you’ll find a link in the blogroll at the side – go on have a read, and I’ll get working on those link skills for the next time.

Taste & Notes

My first reading last night was delightful; just a few lines, but it left me salivating.  I shall repeat it in full here, for your pleasure:

Colour – Rich mahogany gold

Nose – Powerful and full bodied with vibrant notes of spicy cinnamon, followed with dark roasted coffee and chocolate

Taste – Enticing flavours of tangy orange peel, ginger, liquorice and walnuts, followed by ripe plums and wild berries

Now you don’t have to put on the Jilly Golden tones, or wax like Oz Clarke, just do as I do, lick your lips and say, yummy.  Then I opened the carton, broke the seal on the bottle, and poured a measure into a tasting glass.  My needs, of course, were purely medicinal, but it is a fine hobby and a rare craft.  It is an art that needs a lot of practice and I may have to return soon, just to see if I can find that trace of chocolate, or the warming ginger.

There’s a large dram waiting for anyone who can identify the source, from the description above.  We can share notes, indeed explore and compare.  Perhaps you could even plot the distillery on the map.  It is a lifelong quest, the search for the dram of choice, and one that continually changes with each new discovery, a rare bottling, or ageing taste buds.  Sacrilege I know, but I still favour the Irish, though I’m working on it.

And so I moved on from Seville in the 30s, venturing through ages and across divides.  My fancy was tickled by Andalusian heritage and so I veered off, following the trail of zellij and tadilakt.  Islamic Art and the world of the head-dress and veil awaited.  I plucked from the shelf Meetings With Remarkable Muslims, a collection of writings from almost 40 writers, some well know to me, others unheard of.  It is part of the fantastic catalogue of travel writing published by Eland, and promises to be a real gem.  I suspect it will lead me into seeking out books from  several of the contributors, and, after just the opning chapters, I have already earmarked Fraser Harrison for further review.  Ahead lie old favourites, including Jason Elliot, Willie Dalrymple, Andalusian resident Michael Jacobs, along with Tahir Shah and more.  But it is the unknowns that I look forward to, each telling of a meeting with one who left an impression from another world.  Harrison told of an Afghan refugee, bereft of family after a bombing, denuded of coin and business to the bribery and protection racket, and with no language other than Dari.  Robin Hanbury-Tenison took me into the Sahara, with the Tuareg and the veils and the camels.  It might be torchlight under the duvet with this one.

It was not lost on me that there I sat, the right hand warming a glass of nectar, whilst the left turned the pages into the world of the Mussulman.  If only I had the same opposite-handed skills at the piano keys, but thus far I have just managed to do that rub-the-tummy and pat-the-head thing.

The contributors to this volume have all agreed to donate their royalty entitlement to the purchase of schoolbooks for children in the Islamic world.  Some are established authors, others are not writers at all, but other professionals who have put some notes together to record an experience.  They are brought together under the expert editing of Barnaby Rogerson and Rose Baring, who together keep old works in print at Eland, and they have some real classics in their list. Well worth a look at http://www.travelbooks.co.uk/.

Eland is one of those small independent publishing houses, the type that are threatened from all around.  Print-on-demand is on the increase, and e-books are outselling hard copy.  Our favourite on-line retailer is squeezing publisher’s margins so tight that some now are refusing to supply.  So now, where I am looking at a volume from Eland, or Haus, or Tauris, my preference these days is to buy direct from the publisher, in the hope that my little bit may just help ensure that these publishers are still around when my children start to do their own buying, and are reading tales to their children.  And if the publishers survive then there is always hope that a budding writer can find an outlet, other than going down the self-publishing, POD, or electronic routes.