Nostalgia

So, there I was, on tenterhooks, fully wakened, when sleep should have preceded it by at least an hour.  I’d been watching the best programme on the box, by some distance at the moment, and Borgen had not let me down.

I lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling and contemplating what had gone before, when on came an old familiar tune and graphic.  The Old Grey Whistle Test, and a 70s special.  Elton was a mere boy, and Bowie had yet to reach his inSane period.  But we had Elkie Brooks and Robert Palmer, in their Vinegar Joe days, Nick Lowe – another wee boy way back when, and much more.  And there was Bob, Marley of that Ilk, with the Wailers.

But I had to stop around 1974, and sleep took over.

It’s been one of those weeks for Nostalgia.  Back on the box again and I dipped into Take the High Road, episode 4 this time.  Still no sign of Mrs Mack and her bunnets, but she does make an appearance this week, down at the Rural Hall.  For she’s judging the Carrot Cake competition.  But it’s wimmin only, and high time we got that Big Red Shed project moving along.  Then the boys could have Mrs Mack all to themselves.

It was a week when a mighty tome arrived from our favourite online retailer, and to hang with the tax consequences.  Even My Favourite Bookshop wouldn’t have this one in stock.  Nostalgia is a German production; photographs from a pre-revulotion Russia; pictures from a century ago.  It is stunning, and they’re all in colour.  Yes colour photography, from the early 20th century, of Russia under the Czar.  I might just drop in a little picture now and again.  Here’s a starter:

That is the quaintly named Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker Church, taken from the west in 1910.  You want more?  Well how about this one:

Mine workers, at Bakalskii, also in 1910.  So if I happen to drop in some other pictures, perhaps related to nothing at all, they’re likely to be colour photographs by Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii, superbly put together by gestolten.

Now, let’s see if I can find the rest of the OGWT on that iPlayer, and see who else is blasting from the past.

It’s Been Quite a Week

on the political front.

We’ve had all the kerfuffle over Dave trying to stop his tory euro-sceptics from giving their support to UKIP that he’s going to give us all a say in Europe, if we give him another five years at the helm.

And we’ve had Ed saying that he’s opposed to a referendum; why we know not though we’re used to Labour opposing in principle and for no reason in these parts.

Now it seems to me that everything the bold Dave has to say on the UK position with the EU is pretty much the polar opposite of everything all the London based parties have to say on Scotland’s position with the UK.  Double standards or double-speak?  Probably more a case that Scotland, and his position thereon, just didn’t come into the reckoning when setting out his policy on Europe.

There’s been much more, and some debates on the usual online sites.  But let me just give you this excellent article from Yes Scotland, a summary of why Westminster doesn’t work hereabouts, of why we can and will do better.

PS  And another very interesting piece from Kevin McKenna

It’s Not All About the Birds

I mentioned discovering Derek Neimann’s Birds in a Cage recently.  Interesting it looked, and it turned out to be much more than that.  There’s a bit of birdwatching, and a lot of history, much biography too.

And they’re not all birds of these shores, different migrating patterns, unfamiliar habitat.  We’re on mainland Europe, under the migratory route of up to 15,000 skylarks a day, and with the antics of wrynecks.  The book is packed with anecdotes, of minute scribblings on salvaged loo paper; and of some wonderful sketches too.  Remember too, these men had no binoculars, no telescopes or cameras, and precious few field guides available to them.

But it’s not all about the birds.  And it is about people and places.

These four people, and a few others, went on to play a major part in the study of birds, which had been a fledgling activity in the first half of the 20th century.  To properly study birds had required first shooting them, but things were changing.  The men had hundreds of hours to spend watching a single goldfinch nest; and to make extensive notes on tiny behavioural aspects.

They had little choice about the place, for they were all prisoners of war, moved from camp to camp across Germany.  Conditions were woeful in the camps, and worse on the transports.  But through it all four men had time, time to stand and stare, and to take notes and to sketch.

The very act of note-taking aroused suspicion, and even earned time in solitary.  That in itself could be a blissful respite from the noise and activity all around, from the regime and the chores.  The watching was eventually recognised as a possible aid to the escape committee, coerced into turning their attention to the goons.

John Barrett was involved in one escape project, and I realised I had watched the film  – of The Wooden Horse – just a few weeks earlier.  It was the same camp that pulled off The Great Escape, though Barrett was not involed, not even aware of that, at the time.

So this is a tale of capture, of connections and of the benefits of having the time to carry out in-depth studies into the daily rituals of redstarts and treesparrows taking up the offer of a nesting box on site, and to note it all down in minute detail.  It is a tale of men missing their wives and children, held together with other men.  The officers likened it to public school, bunked together with only their own sex, except the masters could shoot, and often would.

Then the war came to an end, and the men faced the transports and the marches, they carried the guns of the guards, too starved and exhausted to do it themselves.  Black men were seen driving trucks.

And at home they had to live out their lives with the damage done by five stolen years; wondering what all the cutlery on the table was for, after nothing but a spoon and a bowl; puzzling over how to eat asparagus.  And putting the whole experience into a black whole.

But the protagonists survived their captivity and returned to their families.  Peter Conder became director of the RSPB.  George Waterston established the bird observatory on Fair Isle, having drafted his proposals in the camps.  The Osprey nest watch at Loch Garten is another of his legacies.  John Buxton wrote The Redstart, as well as war poetry.  John Barrett established the modern guided walk, from his beloved Pembrokeshire coast, encouraging thousands.  And it all started from being incarcerated together in the bleakest of times.

This is a gem; of nature writing, history and biography all fused together.  It is well worth a place on my list.

Of Trees

It was a fine day for a walk in the woods, so I was told.  And it was too; crisp, dry and still.  And what woods they were.  Spooky ones.

For The Genealogist wasn’t to know, was she?  Just last week it was that my old chum Ruth the Truth had mentioned the prospect of catching some vibes at the old oaks.  Good idea thought I, a bit concerned that it may be a tad on the strenuous side at the moment.  Then lo and behold did I not hear the name of said psychic being mentioned on the wireless this very day, on a footie programme of all things.  That’s something else The Genealogist wasn’t to know, for anything that involves that fine game, be it radio chat, or worse, footage on the box, is simply a prompt for something akin to a tantrum.  So the radio had to be in the office, safe from sensitive lugs.

But she it was who told The Urchins we would be taking the air, and doing so in Chatelherault.  And she led the walk, down towards the river and along the upper path to Duke’s Bridge.  But she wasn’t finished there, and on we went, stopping finally at those ancient earthworks and older trees – The Cadzow Oaks.  Spooky that.

Nothing would have surprised me less if Ruth had popped out from behind a massive trunk, but it was not be.

Now at this stage I had intended bringing you a picture or two of said trees, for they are more than ancient; gnarled does no justice.  Sadly the camera gave only one unfamiliar tone – the one that says battery dead, and the spare of course was back at the car.

But we may return, soon perhaps.  For back at the car Boy Urchin pipes up from the back that was great, and big sister joined in too, can we come back again next week?  All things are possible I guess, and the battery is on the charger.  Meantime you’ll have to be content with a couple of links.

But the woods looked different today, bare trunks and still branches under a cold winter sky.  And those ancient oaks.  Without summer foliage, stripped to the almost indecent, display character, in abundance.  There was a time, when I was but Urchin age, that being in those same woods was frowned upon, private, not permitted.  The oaks date back centuries, pre-Bannockburn even.  Some reckon them to have been planted by King David I, which would make them close on 900 years old.

The tree huggers in the family tried, but failed.  Eight arms and four bodies, yet still the hug remained incomplete.  Muggins of course got the mossy side, the one with the ferns growing out at head height.  Down below were fresh excavations; evidence of some burrowing creature seeking warmth.  A heap of ground bark and fresh compost, from deep into centuries of living, gave evidence of a warm den inside.  But whose?

I had already been told, as we passed through those winter woods, that the gruffalo wasn’t real – it’s only fiction you know.  But as we crossed an ancient stone culvert, the burn rushing through, a suggestion that we may have to make a sacrifice to the troll did cause some alarm, briefly.

Far below the Duke’s Bridge the river rustled over the stone bed, burbling onwards.  Upstream four ducks, one harlot playing to three suitors, found the water to their liking.  The woods were strangely quiet, birdsong absent.  And at those old oaks, only the sound of the distant river broke the rumble from the motorway yonder.  It had me thinking, wondering.  The motorway had rumbled by for less time than I had been visiting, a mere blip in the time span of ancient oaks; just what else had they eavesdropped on through the centuries?  I’ll need to ask Ruth.

Of Birds

Spurred on by that excellent article in Earthlines Magazine I finally opened the volume of J A Baker’s  The Peregrine. It was Mark Charlton who brought it to my attention; a work from the 60s paid homage today by the upsurge in nature writing and a renewed interest in landscape.

The opening is sublime, drawing you in for more. If a song could smell, this song would would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood.  That was the nightjar, before Baker focussed on all things hawk, on peregrines and tiercels.

Every so often Baker produces phrasing to delight the tongue, especially about mobbing starlings when the hawk is aloft.  I’ll need to read it again.  It’s one to read the writing, as well as the tale.

I am assured there is one nests nearby, on the cliff-face of that big lump of volcanic rock along the road. Very occasionally I catch sight of the peregrine hunting, quartering the field below the house. But I will need to keep my eyes much more open, perhaps carry the camera more often, be patient.

There used to be other birdlife around, in plentiful supply. Another book on the shelf, as yet unread, is The Black Grouse, by Patrick Laurie. It might be time to open that one soon, perhaps even to think about wandering up to the lekking ground one spring sunrise.

The Black Grouse

It is an interesting concept, the smell of a sound.  It has me thinking of tasting notes, and a very nice bottle received the other day, a 12yo, finished in ruby port casks, but that is another subject altogether.  What, I wonder, would be the smell of the call of the grouse, the corncrake even? Cooling charcoal perhaps, or toffee before it burns, vanilla on the nose?  Ach, there I go again, back to the dram.

Whilst the birds may come and go, often because of something we are doing to their habitat, the writing of nature is timeless. It may go through eras of delving into fictional worlds – I am thinking here of Kenneth Grahame a century ago, through to William Horwood  and his moles in more recent decades – but ultimately the landscape, those volcanic plugs and lochs of green corries, those rings of bright water stuffed full with otters or wild hares & hummingbirds or whatever, they all remain.

And they remain for our enjoyment, though it may take master wordsmiths such as Baker, or Robert Macfarlane, to make us open our eyes and see what is around us. It is the words that do it, and there are some cracking descriptive narratives to be discovered.

I found another one yesterday, on a rare visit to My Favourite Bookshop – the footie was frozen off.  That High Street in Biggar never ceases to delight.  While there’s carnage all around, with chain stores and vile shopping experiences, here is living proof of the place for niche retailing.  I would not have found this book with keyboard and search engine, but it promises to be a gem unearthed browsing the stacks of an independent bookshop.

Birds in a Cage

I’m wondering what may have been the smell of birdsong around a POW camp, if any?  Four British birdwatchers in captivity.  This one is published in conjunction with the RSPB.  It could be a terrific read before next weekend’s birdwatch.  I’m twitching already.  I reckon I’ll have more to say on Derek Neimann’s Birds in a Cage shortly.

The Quality of the Debate

It all seems to have plunged to a new low this week.  Both houses at Westminster had set aside parliamentary time to formalise the handing over to Holyrood of the powers to hold the referendum – the S.30 Order, arising from the Edinburgh Agreement.  It should have been a rubber stamp job, the Agreement having been signed by both Prime and First Ministers.

But it was not, and it turned out to be an embarrassing disgrace; a showcase for all that is wrong with the baying hordes on the green benches, and the unelected upper chamber on the red ones.  It was tawdry stuff, filled with bile and hatred.  And you and I are paying these people to act and to do, to impress us with their oratory skills no less.

We have a superb analysis of the time given over to the debate, and to the content of every utterance.  As usual Wings do what the MSM fail to in bringing it to our attention.

Now I don’t expect anyone, other than those with anoraks zipped up to the neck, to look at all the stats in detail.  But here’s a few to ponder over:

194 minutes taken up by Labour; 36 afforded to the SNP

19 Anti-independence speakers; 2 pro

4.30 minutes before intervention for Labour speakers; 1.34 for nationalists

11.5 interventions per nationalist speaker, mainly hostile; 3.6 for Labour

Now it seems to give a prime reason why Independence is essential, and why it will happen.  The problem we have is Westminster, and it’s not a problem that Scotland needs to have.  By all accounts the only sensible contribution in the Lords, came from a Welsh Nationalist, which says it all really.  Scots Nationlists do not take up the ermine robe, no matter how deserving they may seem, and thus have no voice in that chamber of the unelected.

And there may finally be a wee glimmer that the media in these parts are beginning to catch on.  In The Scotsman, of all places, Joyce McMillan, no less, gives an excellent summary of those two woeful days.

She is a unionist to the core, but this is a fine and balanced article – “and to find myself so repelled by the tone and attitudes of those who should be my allies that I am gradually forced to the other camp” – strong stuff indeed.  But there is a certain inevitability that the terminal negativity and squalid tone of the Naysayers will eventually grind down their followers.  And if that is what they can do to their own side, just think of the effect to the important band in the middle – the don’t knows.  Small wonder then of that polling report of a swing to the Ayes the other day, the one spun the other way by our wonderful MSM.

That article by Joyce McMillan is well worth reading, in fact worth buying the paper for, and so I have no hesitation in providing a rare link to The Scotsman, and an increase to the readership.  Go on, you owe it to yourself.  “What,” she asks, “that voice of Unionist Westminster now has to offer me, as a supporter of social justice,democracry and human rights?”  And the answer is in the title to the piece – No Answer came the stern reply.  It’s what a lot of us have known for some time.

PS And now The Guardian’s Kevin McKenna, another dyed-in-the-wool unionist, also begins to move from the negative to the positive.

Grounded

Opening the mail this morning I was delighted to receive a bill, I was, really.

I had been on the point of having another rant about the press in these parts, wailing that horse meat seems to have greater priority than the drivel spouted down Westminster way as the order that gives Scotland the right to hold a referendum is passed. For those interested in such a rant, Wings is the best port of call. Rev Stu says it all, as usual.

Anyway, grounded that was it. The mail item with the accompanying bill was the latest volume of Earthlines Magazine. The bill means that a year has passed, the magazine goes from strength to strength, and I’m delighted to sign up for the next 12 months.

This latest issue, after a very quick glance whilst dealing with mail that others might deem to be more important even if less enjoyable, delights me with articles to read later from both Sir John Lister-Kaye – his Aigas Field Centre is back on our screens with WinterWatch this week – and an interview with Robert Macfarlane, whose name seems to crop up everywhere these days. There’s a delightful editorial on the how daily chores on a working croft fit seamlessly in with the magazine and website. For Earthlines is the quintessential cottage industry.

Now I’m a big fan of both Lister-Kaye and Macfarlane, and will read every word of those articles. But first though my attention was grabbed by a book review. J A Baker’s The Peregrine was first published over 45 years ago. It tells of a year in the life of our fastest falcon, tales gleaned from a decade of observations.

I’ve a volume on the bedside table right now, not the first edition but a pretty old one, purchased after a certain trip to Wales a few months ago. There was a new edition back in 2011; it’s a work that still grabs the interest of much more than birdwatchers. So my dilemma for the moment is whether to read the review before the book, or to delve into the book first. Oh, decisions, decisions

But Earthlines is about much more than satisfying my needs on books and authors – I see the names of Miriam Darlington and Kathleen Jamie in there as well – and some time out taking notice of our landscapes and our nature is just what I need when it all gets a bit stressful. Go on, dip into the Earthlines website, whilst I get on with renewing my subscription.

Swings

There really is no roundabout way to say it. A reduction from 50% to 48% is a swing to the other side.

But the wonderful media we have in these parts manage to spin it differently. “Blow to SNP as Support for Independence Stalls”, shouts the once respected Herald.

The reality is that the Yes camp has been stable in recent polling, whilst the No camp has seen a decline in intentions in its favour. The only one’s that matter, the Don’t Knows, have a larger slice of the pie at the minute, and they’re the ones open to persuasion.

But how that can be presented as anything other than a very poor outlook for the negative campaign defeats me. There is a clear swing away from those in favour of the status quo.

And in that media market that sees two broadsheets in the Scottish market, one from the east and one from the west, chasing the same advertisers, you might think that the other one might just take the opportunity to snatch some market share, highlighting some blatantly incorrect analysis, bias even. But no, what do we see from The Scotsman?

Well, they go with “Poll blow for Yes Campaign as Independence Support Stalls”.

I guess the rag from the east may be ahead on points. But only because they recognise that Yes Scotland is a cross-party campaign group, and absolutely nothing to do with the SNP. But it is poor fare on offer from the apparently quality end of the written media, both of them.

They do of course have an agenda. One is owned by English based Johnston Press, the other by US based Newsquest. Neither has an interest in serving the needs of the people of Scotland, and that of course is reflected in circulation figures which continue to plummet. The Scotsman’s are down month on month, and must be at a critical stage. The Herald don’t even give monthly figures now, having downsized their status and ambitions from National to Regional, thus avoiding the ignominy of giving monthly evidence to The Gardham Effect. But when the regional figures are published, there’s going to be quite a fall reported.

And that downturn in circulation is a swing, or a roundabout. And they’ll spin it as they see fit. But in terms of proposals to advertisers or profits to shareholders it’s simply another disaster.

Whether you birl on the roundabout or hurl on the swing, the numbers don’t lie. There is a swing in favour of the Ayes, and a downturn in the fortunes of the messengers.

And talking of messengers let’s not forget the shambles that is the Labour Party. Are they in favour of universal benefits or not? Lamont said No, but now Miliband says Yes. Scotland voted against the benefit cap, by a substantial margin, but will get it anyway. Strange too to find Labour scuppering a proposed Holyrood debate on universality, the debate they wanted to happen, just at the same time as Miliband confirms his views/instructions on the subject.

Then there’s all that flag-waving down Belfast way. We haven’t seen as many union flags since those heady days of Jubilees and Olympics. And the Bitter Th’gither mob are being daily tarnished with the brush of the Belfats bampots.

Aye, the signs are looking good to me. Oh and there’s a new blogger on the scene. I’ve added Scotland’s Referendum to the blogroll – let’s see how she does.

Of Assynt

It’s a poor title, for I’m not talking about a tale of a place.  It’s much more than that.  Several times in the last couple of years I’ve picked, from the shelves of various bookshops, a copy of Andrew Greig’s At the Loch of the Green Corrie.  I’ve thumbed, and mused,but always put it back again, reserving my purchasing power for something else.

It was a book about fishing, and poetry, or so it seemed.  And although the attraction to me was always the Assynt landscape, it was the poetry and the fishing that put me off.  I’d never fully understood one, and my memory of another was limited, aside from hearing the name of J R Hartley, to one of the best opening lines – “A jerk on one end of the line” – yes, that one, wait for it – “waiting for a jerk on the other.”

But lately I was persuaded, urged even, and I found it again, in that shop in Biggar of course.  And there’s much more than odes and flies in there; in fact it’s barely about them at all, and it is truly sublime.

On his deathbed Norman MacCaig had suggested that the author fish at MacCaig’s favourite lochan – and he’d be watching, from another place, one that he didn’t believe existed.  He gave him a name, someone who might tell him where it was, if he approved.  In due course Greig set off with two childhood pals, in from afar and from days long past, for a few days in the wilderness, with tents and a stove, a dram or three, the orangey one.

I remember that landscape well, for it is big in every sense; the road down to the Summer Isles; the surf softly simmering over the sands at Achmelvich; and those big lumps of rock.  Oh and I remember a bookshop too, a well-stocked one at that.

It is a book packed with memories, of friendships and bonding, and pain and healing.  Of absent friends there are too many, some taken far too early.  There is introspection and examination, and there are walks up the hills and midges and rods, casting and retrieving.

And within it all there is landscape, ancient glaciated heaps of it.  This is more than a journey to the highlands, more than a journey into the past.  It works for me, and Assynt calls me back again, reels me in.  Caught and Released, that’s what Greig’s just done to me, with neither rhyme nor meter.  I might even read a poem or two, though I doubt I’ll be tying any flies.

Oh, and that book that was being read in a tent below the Loch of the Green Corrie, the one that was also being read on a barge in the Columbian jungle – it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera – small world indeed.

Birdwatch

The next RSPB bird counting weekend is coming up soon.  But in response to aggresive behaviour from the local hoodies I haven’t had feeders out since last spring.  However I think I’ve found away to get some food to the wee birds, and so far the big ones haven’t scuppered the plans.

For years we’ve hung assorted feeders on a laburnum tree in front of the house.  From the sitting room we can often see a variety of finches and tits busy nibbling away.  And we get occasional visits from others, sometimes unidentified.  But the hooligan hoodies put an end to it, continuously removing said feeders from tree, to smash them on the path and devour spilled contents.

I might have stumbled on a solution, and there may be birds to count in a couple of weeks.

Rather than hanging traditional feeders I’ve got an open plate-type feeder on the same laburnum tree.  It is held on with a cable tie.  The birds love it and the hoodies ignore it, so far.  There are a lot of sparrows enjoying their meal served on a plate, and a good few chaffies too.

But the tits are elsewhere.  For in the back garden there is a patch of dogwood, bare and bright red at this time of year.  In it sits a robin.  I thought I’d put some food nearby for said little creature.

So on a long disused clothes-pole, standing alone, rusting, in a gusty spot, there is another feeder, and more cable-ties.  And round the prongs of the clothes-pole hangs one of those chains, with alternate fat balls and pockets of nuts.  And that’s where the tits are.  A second robin has come to play too, sitting in the dogwood, ignoring the chickens.

The dogwood is now alive with tits, blue and great, feeding, chasing and generally enjoying themselves.  The numbers are far greater than ever used to take their turn at the laburnum.  And they’ve got the clothes-pole without competition from chaffinches.  So we’ve much to entertain us.  Even the woodpecker seems to like it round there.  And the robin feeds at both spots.

And on the laburnum tree there are far more sparrows than ever appeared when the chaffies and the tits were squabbling about feeding rights.  I can hear them now, chirping away, enjoying some rare sunshine.  It might get interesting when the greenfinches and the goldfinches find their way back.

It’s looking good for the Big Garden Birdwatch, but I better go and buy some more seed, for it doesn’t last long, no matter where it goes.  I might even manage the odd photo or two.  Now if I were to get some nuts back on the laburnum, who would turn up where, I wonder?