Serendipity, Again

I had been idling along with Dan Kieran, you may recall, exploring the world slowly.  Like most good travel related books it was about much more than the physical journey.  Kieran spent as much energy delving into the thought processes and the mindset of slow travel.

Having been taken on the radio waves back to Mull as I began The Idle Traveller, I was delighted to find Kieran taking the sleeper, the train and ferry to the same island, in a quest for eagles.  He did so over that weekend when large swathes of the country were without power for days on end, in the aftermath of storms.  But he went anyway, and despite the gloomy outlook of his local guide, spotted no less than seven eagles, both golden and white-tailed.

Mull is an island that holds a pretty special place for me, reinforced in some style through 2012, taking me down to London, slowly, for an award ceremony, and then back to the island to blether with Mark Stephen of Radio Scotland as part of Book Week Scotland.  So to spend time on the final day of the year reading, unexpectedly, of Mull, would have been a fine way to close a chapter.

But Kieran had much more in store for me.  Although he didn’t take me back to Wales, he did bring back to mind a treasure trove of memories from a few special days down that way; and one very special night in particular.

In looking at the mindset of slow travel, having watched tourists outside Buckingham Palace, and recalled his own underwhelmed response to the pyramids, he set out to explore the workings of the mind, all that left lobe, right lobe stuff.  And all of a sudden I could hear Jay Griffiths, reading from Wild, back in Ty Newydd.  For it was Griffiths’ journeys, her ayahuasca fuelled mental and physical travels, that Kieran explored next.

And that had me reflecting, on this final day, of the year about to end.  There have been high points, and revisiting Mull and listening to Jay Griffiths are intertwined with them.

The lows tend to be consigned to the depths, but as I look back I remember the horrors of the Clothes Moth Saga.  That too is about to resurface, for the carpet is on the point of being put back in place, fed up as I am tripping over it and hauling it from one place to another.  So it’s going back down, and we’ll inspect the damage again, fingers crossed.  That also means the cupboards need to be laid bare, the nooks and crannies explored and powdered and sprayed.  Crwaling larvae are not something I’d wish to see in the year ahead.

And so it is a time too for looking ahead.  But I’ll save that for tomorrow.  Tonight I’ll be tucked up in bed early, good book in hand (yet to be selected), and perhaps a dram and bite of shortie on the bedside table.  For The Urchins will be up early, and we’ll have much to catch up on as they return from their own slow travels.  It won’t be a day to be wasted bemoaning late nights and excesses.  Time is too precious for that.

Slowly Slowly

The day started early, but slowly; for the house was quiet; just me and the cat.  I picked a book off the shelf, at a ridiculous hour; but time passed quickly and eventually the radio sparked into life.  The familiar rich brogue of Mark Stephen – being alone it was a channel of my choice – took me immediately back to a certain favoured isle off the west coast, a day of memories just a few weeks ago, and another of pain and joy years previously.

I had been enjoying the book, thinking of a year ahead with no current plans, no destinations, trips or events yet on the agenda.  It was a travel book, of course, but with a difference.  In the Introduction I found reference to Travels With a Donkey, that sublime work of RLS, and to a description of a fireside loafer, one who prefers to travel through maps and books.  Hmm, thought I, interesting.

Dan Kieran’s The Idle Traveller – The Art of Slow Travel is proving to be insightful and entertaining in equal measure. 

Take the train, my now preferred route south so long as I can avoid the nausea-inducing pendolino coaches – and arrive in a city as a commuter at a thrumming station, rather than a tourist at a sterile airport.  Forget the guidebooks; take instead some real reading – The Day of the Jackal for Paris, say – and immerse yourself slowly.  This is my sort of travel.

But back to the radio, rumbling away in the background.  Mark was telling me of another slow journey, and that Stevenson name cropped up again.  He was on The Stevenson Way, a trail opened up earlier in the year from the Kidnapped isle of Erraid, back to Auld Reekie, in the footsteps of David Balfour and Alan Breck Stewart.  Now there’s a book of adventure.

I put the book down as Mark started describing, mellifluously of course as all Stevenson tales should be, those emerald waters and pink rocks that can only mean he was at Iona.  More precisely he was sailing, down the Sound to Erraid.  From there we hear of lighthouses, and adventures; Findhorn even.

For Erraid today is in the custodianship of the Findhorn Community; and just a few minutes from that haven in the north-east will be waking soon The Urchins and their mother, which is why ’tis unusually quiet down at Grasshopper Towers.  Wonder what adventures they have planned for the day?

Out of Doors on Radio Scotland is a cracking start to the weekend, airing at 6.30.  Today Mark brought me an hour of all things Stevenson, and next week he travels the rest of the route.  Now that might be a slow travel plan for the year ahead.  And Kidnapped might be needing read again.  In fact there’s a modern graphic version on the Junior Bookshelf that perhaps should be read in that time bewtixt bath and bed, with an Urchin on each arm and cocoa warming the hands.

And once I’ve finished learning the art of slow travel, next up might just have to be a delve into the tale of the Appin Murder and the Red Fox, for whilst Davie Balfour was all RLS, the tale behind Kidnapped was all real, and I’ve just the book for that. 

 

And if I am to think about dipping into the route itself then Ian Nimmo’s Walking with Murder: On the Kidnapped Trail, is a must buy.

 

Before then though I’ve Dan Kieran to keep me company.  Interesting chap, for his day job is heading up Unbound, which is a publishing venture with a difference, and a route to get a book to market, both for established authors and the great unwashed.  I’ve been getting regular emails from unbound for some time now, and occasionally make a pledge to support a work I’d like to add to the bedside table.  Worth a look.

But what a great start to a day; and with serendipity like that surely there will be an away win at Rob Roy, and just as surely Drongan will be an asthma-free zone.  Yee-Hah!

Good was it?

I managed to survive the festivities, despite  – ach you don’t want to hear about all the woes.

But you might like to know that I celebrated with a couple of fine additions to the library; apt ones too I thought.

The City of Abraham comes from Edward Platt.  He promises a run through the history, myth and memory that is a journey through Hebron.  This is the city where Abraham – from whom all Christians, Jews and Muslims apparently claim descendancy – was understood to have lived when he first arrived in the Promised Land.  Today though it is one of the most divided cities in the world, where Israelis and Palestinians live together apart.

And to follow that I’ve got A Labyrinth of Kingdoms.  Steve Kemper tells us of a journey, a century and a half ago; one that lasted 10,000 miles, through Islamic Africa.  There’s a whole world out there to explore.

I’ll be sure to tell you about both in due course.  But I’m not the only one to be spoiled completely, austerity seeming forgotten.  Nothing, it seems, can hold a candle to any addition to the Skylander army.

And remember Little Missy and her party frock?  Well it seems we’ve not completely left the Princess Fantasy just yet.  The dilemma yesterday was whether to be Pimpernel or Merida.  In the end it was fairy frocks for the afternoon fun, whilst in the evening Brave took over, thankfully missing the bow & arrow, and the Rebecca Brooks wig – so far.

The chickens and the stray cat are feasting on scraps and leftovers – they know nothing of austerity either.  And there is a promise of some me-time for the Old Grasshopper, for the rest are heading to the northern wastes and more largesse and partying, flooding and landslips permitting.  But I need to find a way to fit in footie at Rob Roy and get from there to sunny Drongan, just to look at Tractor Jim’s new car you understand, nothing at all to do with whisky tasting.

On which subject the Penderyn has sadly come to an end, just as Jim Perrin begins his tramp round Wales with The Flea.  Thankfully the Coatbridge Wench didn’t bring with her the drink of choice for that parish, not even in statutory brown paper wrapping.  Those Benedictine Monks have a lot to answer for; still the minimum unit pricing battle moves a step forward today.

Meantime, it’s back to the 70s, and Subbuteo on the kitchen table; mince pies at half time.

There’s no such thing

as a free lunch, so they tell us.

Oh yes there is, quoth I.

Oh no there isn’t, comes the rejoinder for ’tis panto season is it not?

But there really is you know, for we had one yesterday, all of us, together, en famille; a rare occasion then.  And fantastic it was too.

As I mentioned the other day, we had a treat in store, a free lunch, in the big old kitchen of a stately home.  It was all copper cauldrons and cast iron ranges, big ones, bread ovens and hanging girdles.  You could almost picture a wild boar or a big red deer in days of old , turning slowly on a spit, juices hissing, the air filled with the sounds and smells of good living.

And Mar Lodge venison was on the menu, but I’ll dwell not on the fare, other than to mention how terrific it was.  Even The Urchins managed a full three courses, clean plates all the way.  There really wasn’t room left for the ginger pudding, with hot sticky toffee sauce and Arran ice cream, but I managed it.  Duty you understand; gift horses and mouths and all that.

The day out though was about much more than lunch at Pollok House.  The deluge that greeted us, just as a parking space at the door was vacated, rested for half an hour or so, just as we wanted a walk through the woods, a little post lunch easing.  The park itself looked not it’s best, for the weather was grim, the skies shades of grey gloomy, and the woodland and wildlife generally miserable.  There was a time when the Clydesdales were harnessed up, reversed into the shafts, and urchins from far and wide given santa rides round the park.  But these are austere times and the cuddies remained stabled.

But it was back at the Big Hoose that it was all happening.  Mrs Claus was booked solid for the afternoon, but through that big old house was a quiz trail, hunt the penguins.  And it was all dressed for the festivities.  The penguins had made a fearful mess of the dinner table.  But the bears were better behaved.

The bears gather as the pheasants take to the pot

Dudley Bear had been practising for his musical recital.  The house was dressed, the staff too.  It was a colourful scene, even on the stairs.

Looking down to where the snowman greets his guests

It may get a bit colourful in Grasshopper Towers too.  There might be some water with the dark hint of peat, stained with years in the cask.  The cake is a brilliant white.  And the lamb will be dressed in mint and rosemary.  But it won’t be anything like a free lunch at Pollok House.  So good it was that Mamma has been instructed to make it part of the annual festive ritual.  Five hours out together, and not a shop to see, not a penny spent.

And I trust that the hours are filled with joy and sounds of feasting and laughter wherever you may be.  Have a good one.  I’ll raise a glass to that.

Halliburton

I started the year by ‘discovering’ the works of a new author; or actually an old and long deceased author who just happened to be new to me.  I’ve been gripped by the work sof Richard Halliburton, some of you may have noticed, all year.  And as seems to be the case with favourite writers, I then determined to find a bit more about the man and his life.  I knew Halliburton to have died tragically young, lost aboard a Chinese junk somewhere in the Pacific.

Lately I’ve come across a splending biography, published only five years ago.  Horizon Chasers is the result of in-dpeth research by Gerry Max.  It is subtitled The Lives and Adventures of Richard Halliburton and Paul Mooney.  Intriguing, thought I.  A splendid way to end the year.

Since his death there have been various Halliburton biogs, based mainly on letters to family and friends.  But the output had been controlled by Wesley Halliburton, father and keeper of the legend.  There was heavy editing, swathes of omissions.  Max has removed the redactor’s pen.

Paul Mooney, now that was a name I had not come across.  But it turns out he virtually wrote that dashing and monumental work which hauled me in, The Flying Carpet.  By the time it was in progress Halliburton had achieved best-seller status, had forged his place as a romantic in times of oppression and depression.  The average life expectancy was around 50 back in the 20s, and with a philosophy of living every day to the full, cramming as much in as possible, so Halliburton had set off on his travels, and he wrote about them in some style.

But he bored of the writing, and Mooney expanded his role; from secretary and house-sitter, to publicist and editor, thence to business partner and co-writer.  In essence he took Halliburton’s notebooks and drafts and honed them, in the established style of the man himself, into the work we know today.  He became a ghost-writer.

But he was much more than that, chauffering him to and from the airport, dragging him to the beach to maintain the tanned and honed body that was part of the marketing strategy, and nursing him back to health when sick.  He always remained man-servant and confidante, principal friend and love interest.  But neither remained closer to fidelity and monogomy than they did to single authorship, so Gerry Max tells us.

However if Mooney’s role for The Flying Carpet was to finish the drafts in the style of Halliburton it is one he mastered.  That style was very much in the way of a ‘beautiful woman adding a touch of lipstick’ in adding glamour.  And he included his own cipher:  “Paltry and useless little mosaic ornaments, ostentatious nothings enticing yellow diaroles, idle delights that held infinite surprise.” Interesting little tool, the acrostic.

Hmm, read on.  We haven’t even got to The Sea Dragon and that voyage.  But I’ll be sure to let you know what I find.

Meantime Tauris Parke have just re-published Seven League Boots – a collection of tales including a cracking discourse on the Romanov massacre, and much more.  He’s been to the Hebrides too, which I must do myself again.  This is the man who stood up in the open cockpit of a bi-plane at almost 18,000 ft to photograph the summit of Everest, upsetting the balance of the plane in the light atmosphere to near disaster.  But he got the world’s first aerial shot of that peak.  Go on, treat yourself to some Halliburton.

Out for Dinner

It’s not a phrase you hear often in these parts.  But I thought we’d got away with it the other night.  There was a wee gathering, festive lights to switch on.

For outside the school there now stands a little Christmas tree, and it has tinsel and lights, run off a little solar panel, storing energy until it gets dark when, like magic, on they come.

To mark the occasion the community council sent out invites and waifs and strays gathered.  In the dark Urchins rampaged around the playground, selection boxes from the man in the red suit handed over to adult care, for the most part.  Santa had been given a grotto, and a chair.  It was a horse trailer, spotlessly clean and absent any kicks and other evidence of use for its intended purpose.

Outside there was lingering, and hot soup, mulled wine too.  The trays of sausage rolls and mince pies seemed endless.  Now that’s what I call being Out for Dinner.

But it’s not good enough it seems, for this weekend we’re off to Pollok House, for a proper dinner.  The house sits in one of my favourite parks.  It has over 350 acres of greenery and woodland in the heart of the city, with hielan’ coos and Clydesdale horses.  And it’s home to the Burrell Collection.  Even the bikes might get an outing, but perhaps not after a heavy meal.

We might just make a day of it this Sunday, and it costs not a single penny.  For The Genealogist won a competition, Christmas Dinner for five, free.  So it’s a rare occasion, all out together, and not just for sausage rolls.  And no grumpy old man totting up the prices.  Can’t guarantee party hats though.  Humbug.

Little Missy

Not so fast, patience, –  please.

It was not so much that she was desperate to get to her party, but that there was an old man hirpling along behind, doubled over, back playing up again.  Boy Urchin held his hand.

But the girlies were skipping on ahead, and one of them had a pair of trainers in one hand, a sparkly handbag in the other, empty.

It’s a road we walk every week, from the car park, across at the lights, and up the hill.  Brownies.  But it was Christmas Party Night, and gone were the drab leggings and the sash of badges.

Instead we had party frocks and glitter, sparkly things, and excited voices.  Gone, I realised, were those days of dressing up in princess frocks with some Disney theme or other.  Gone forever it seemed were those little girls.

But it wasn’t the glittery turquoise dress, not even the sparkly handbag, empty.  No, it was the shoes that did it.  I caught a glimpse, through the door of the hall, of girls meeting together, jackets still on.

Some may be familiar with that look over the shoulder and down, a leg stretched out behind.  High heels, look what I’ve got; you’ve got high heels…….

More sparkles.  I say high, in a sort of one inch block sort of a way.  But this is the lassie that can turn her ankle and end up sprawling in nothing more dangerous than a pair of black school plimpsolls, such is her co-ordination and concentration.  Hence the trainers – just in case your feet get sore, or you’re running around.

Back they came, shoes in perfect order, but for the chicken shit on the sole courtesy of the garden path, ankles too thankfully.  I didn’t win pass the parcel.  No, but I bet you got the prize for prettiest girl in the hall?

Don’t be silly, there isn’t a prize for that.

And the trainers were returned, unused.  Here we go, wonder what the next 10 years will bring?  More Talisker and ibuprofen if this back doesn’t clear up, but need to adjust the dosage slightly, perhaps less of the former and more of the latter.  On the other hand the teenage years, when they arrive, may coincide with the need for larger doses, of each.  But let’s not rush there, just enjoy these magical moments.

The Art of the Essay

I’ve become quite a fan of the essay, if they’re on my favoured subjects.  Kathleen Jamie started it, then refreshed it, honing her craft.  Mark Charlton joined in, delightfully.  Then Slightly Foxed added a literary theme.  Now I’ve anotherbook of essays to dip into.

It appeared by accident.  I had to venture into The Big City, to The West End no less; where all the trendy people go.  But it was very cold, and very dark, rain sluiced down.  So I got it in, unseen.  Unusually I had a little time to spare before a meeting.  And being The West End there was shelter a-plenty, in the coffee shops and eat-ooteries.  And there’s a large branch of Oxfam Books.  A-ha thought I, just half an hour.

It was the publishers logo on the spine that caught my attention – InPinn.  Oh yes, that’ll be outdoor Scotland, nature and landscape perhaps.  Thewll-named Inaccessible Pinnacle strikes fear into the hearts of many a Munro Bagger.  It is needed to complete the set, but involves proper climbing, with ropes and things.  I’d hazard a guess that the InPinn is perhaps that last peak picked off on most lists, for it is beyond hillwalking.

So a book published by Glasgow’s InPinn grabbed my attention.  Then I saw the author’s name.  It was one that had been recommended to me, by one of those essayists.  Mark is a long time friend of Jim Perrin, and now Travels With The Flea sits on my shelf.  It promises much.

For it contains a selection of essays gathered over a period of time, all travel related to one degree or another.  People and Places.  I was tempted first by a chapter of discussions with travel writers.  Goodness he’s got Dervla, and Jan Morris, Lopez too in there.  And he’s been to some fantastic places.

The back cover promises a heady mix of Hunter S Thomson and Robert Byron.  This is going to be good methinks, wondering why it took so long to reach my bookshelf.  I’ll let you know, before too long.

It’s a Stramash

I was having a blether with the Gamellawallah and his Mistress the other day.  That’s some mess your nationalists have got themselves into.  Surprisingly they had been following the bulletins, but of course, and unsurprisingly, the ones issued by the state-funded broadcaster and the Main-Stream Media, gave a skewed version.  And here were two eminently sensible citizens hoodwinked by the messengers.

The EU was the subject, and the brouhaha over a non-existent letter, independent states and membership of said union.

Now whilst I am wholly behind the drive to have Scots making their own decisions, shaping their own future, and using their own resources so to do, membership of the EU is not really that important in the debate, for me.  On balance I probably take the view that perhaps we may not want to be excluded, yet still far from convinced that we must be included.  So far as Independence goes the question of EU membership is most certainly not a deal-breaker.  The Nordic States seem better role models.

Yet the London-based parties are stirring up a hornets’ nest at every opportunity, forever telling us that we will be out, have to beg to join, and do so at a much more expensive membership fee.

Those are the same London-based parties that are all agreed that the population (of whatever entity exists in 2016) should be given a say, a first step, in withdrawing from the same union.  But let’s leave that aside, for doing one thing from London and saying another elsewhere is not unusual.

The Deputy First Minister has made a statement in Holyrood; the media have commented on it.  The message continues to be skewed.

There’s an excellent summary on the whole issue over at Wings, exploring the facts and the need for negotiaitions as expressed for five years, and the statements made by the political editors, who put a different spin on it  And at Newsnet we’ve a good article on the differing statements coming out of London on currency, depending on the target audience.

So there will be negotiations, from within the EU, as existing members via the current union, as always intended.  But we need to vote Yes first.

We’ll lose out without The UK AAA rating, warned Alexander some time ago.  Now it seems that prized rating is no longer important, for the entire current UK is about to lose it.  Dig behind the recent Autumn Statement, the stuff that wasn’t mentioned in the speech, and there’s some really horrible facts and figures about to bite us hard.  I’ll spare you those, for it’s nearly the holiday season.  Scotland can’t possibly be any worse that it’s going to be if it sticks with those that got us into this mess.

On a brighter note have I detected, on a couple of occasions in recent weeks, the slightest semblance of a softening in utterances from the BBC, and in particular Scotland’s political correspondent, Brian Taylor?  Perhaps the worm is beginning to turn.  I hope so, for impartiality in our press is essential, particularly the state-funded sector.

But it’s the Gamellawallahs and the Mistresses of this nation that need to be persuaded, and the press bulletins and headlines are much more important than anything I can say, though I’ll try and point them in the right direction.  It’s too important.

Blast

No, not the icy wind from the north that rustles the brittle brown leaves of the beech, but Crater Blast, or the absence of it.

That and flags fluttering in a breeze that shouldn’t exist; cross-hairs on the camera lens behind the subjects in the photos; shadows from lights that weren’t the only known light source.  And a disproportionate number of accidental deaths, weird accidents.

Yes it’s that old moon landing conspiracy, aired again the other night.  And there was the absence of radiation burn from which there would be virtually no protection should the spaceship have passed through that particular band of atmosphere.

Back in 1969 I was looking forward to my 10th birthday.  And like every young lad brought up with heroes from The Victor, The Hotspur and Roy of the Rovers, imagination was a huge part of childhood.  We even read The Nancy Boys and Hardy Drew Mysteries.

But space; rockets and spacemen; that was something else.  We knew nothing about the Cold War and government cover-ups.  But those innocent youngsters get old, and they may get cynical.  More so as we hear with increasing incredulity of the scandals that have been hidden from the voting public.

In those days I remember the school television set being wheeled out, for there were few in our homes back then, so that we could gather and watch major events.  Events such as Churchill’s funeral, the opening of the Forth Road Bridge, the launch of the QE2.  Them and the Moon Landing.

And for a bunch looking forward to reaching double figures that was the most exciting event imaginable, since….. well since Tommy Gemmell scored that goal in Lisbon and Billy McNeill became the first from these shores to lift the European Cup.

There were grainy pictures, and news bulletins, and we stayed up late, trying to make out what was happening.  Would it land safely?  Would it take off again?  Could they possibly get back home?  Were they really walking on the moon?  We rushed to the windows.

But it seems it might have been too good to be true.  The engineers and the scientists keep coming up with more angles and evidence, and NASA keeps insisting they know better.  But we know now that our government was involved in murder in Belfast, amongst other things.  And they’ve even admitted to the McCrone Report and told us what we always knew, what they always denied.

But one thing I know for sure, Tommy did score that goal, and Billy did lift that cup.  Anything else is purely speculation.  Wonder what today’s Urchins will make of the events they see today, and how will they look back when they get old and cycnical?