Yesteryear

We’re wallowing in nostalgia again, the music in the car, on those rare occasions when I get to control it, taking me back to those heady days of the 70s; the ones when it was warmer and drier, and the music was better.

And it’s all because I heard a terrific interview on the wireless the other day.  Though I’d seen Graham Gouldman on stage on a number of occasions I don’t think I ever appreciated the extent of his songwriting, especially those for major bands through the 60s.  The interview was peppered with Yardbirds and Eric Clapton, The Hollies and Herman’s Hermits, and lots of I didn’t know he wrote thats.

The 70s though was the time when Lol was immediately followed by Creme, not some politico wondering if it was cool to be laughing-out-loud or sending lots-of-love and not knowing whether it was his arse or his elbow.

And Creme was invariably joined by Godley, who as Gouldman said had the best vocal range of them all.  Eric Stewart made it four, and he was the one who always seemed to break a guitar string in the first number at the Glasgow Apollo.

Oh we’re really wallowing now; the Glasgow Apollo, long since gone, a mythical beast for younger ones who can’t believe the tales.

So you’ve caught me singing along, about minestrone, and nights in Paris, and cricket; about balls & chains and balls & brains.  I might even get the vinyl out, for it’s not the same without the scratches and the jumps & bumps; a bit too perfect and nostalgia isn’t like that.

But for all his tales he didn’t debunk the myth of those days, the naming of the band.  Story was it was the average volume of male ejaculate.  Ah 10cc – nothing’s the same as it was in the 70s.

Fancy a Steaming Mug

….. of Scorpion Soup ?

It’s something I recommend highly, for that is the title of the latest offering from Tahir Shah.  And, just as he did last year with Timbuctoo, he’s gone down the private publishing route, focussing on high quality, and producing a work of art fit for the words within.

Not content with just writing beautiful books, or perhaps more likely discontent with publishing deals, Tahir Shah has again done his own thing.  And the result is a masterpiece.  His latest book has the look and feel of a craftsman at work; and then you read it.

He has gone back to his roots, to stories at the knee of his late father, Idries Shah, and his grandfather.  In a number of previous works, notably The Caliph’s House and In Arabian Nights, which follow his move to the Casablancan shanty town and the renovation of a run-down house, he takes us back to the stories told in Moroccan market-places.

The root of it all is The Thousand and One Nights, or the Arabian Nights as it may have been known in our own childhood.  These are stories, yarns, with twists and turns.  And in bringing a small collection together he gives us, as he says, … a small hymn to the Thousand and One Nights…. and to the stories that have made me who I am.

The finished work is a joy to hold, bound in the traditional way, with stitching, and a smooth feel to the paper that you just don’t get with a download.  But he’s gone further, for Scorpion Soup is peppered with maps; maps that fold out, coloured maps of places of old, tied in with the stories.

And being a master teller of tales, he opens with a narrative of a bookbinder, which leads into the one about the story-teller.  Each story leads seemlessly into the next; and each one leaves a lingering warm glow.

I’ve spoken of Tahir Shah and his works before, but this is a man at the top of his game.  He knows his audience, and in publishing in limited editions which are only available from the author, at least intially, he satsisfies the need of the collector of books as well.  Self-publishing and downloading may be the way forward for the first-time author, but I think the man has a niche here, and I hope it is one he develops further.

This latest one is not the mighty tome that was Timbuctoo last year.  It sits comfortably in the hand, ideal for taking along for a dip between the covers whilst The Urchins have a swimming lesson.  Through social networking you can follow the book from concept, to first orders; see the arrival of the first copies in the author’s hands, and then the consignment, shipping, arrival in the country; until finally you can place it on The Bedisde Table.

If you are new to Shah’s works I’d dip into The Sorceror’s Apprentice, and The Caliph’s House; and I’ll be surprised if you do not go on to read them all.  The back catalogue is being re-published.  This latest one is about story-telling, and Shah is a master of that.  Did I ever tell you he has a Scots granny?

Go on, get yourself a space in the circle, squat down in the Djemaa el Fna, unroll your magic carpet, fill your cup from the water-seller’s goatskin, close your eyes, and listen.  Brilliant book, or physical book as it seems they may now be known.

One of Those

Thousand Things to do Before You Die

I was minded of a magical time when I happened across this little item:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/video/2013/mar/26/siena-il-palio-italy-horse-race-video

It took me back a few years; an event that is pretty unique.  The Palio is the world’s oldest horse race, but it is much more than a race.  Enjoy the 10 minute video at The Guardian, then see what else you can find.

And if you happen to be in Tuscany this summer, get down to Siena in the few days before either race, or on race day itself.  Find a space in the throngs and watch it all unfold.  It is magical.

There’s some good reading, with:

Robert Rodi’s Seven Seasons in Siena, and

Marina Fiorato’s Daughter of Siena

And there’s a smashing film, available for a mere penny or two, The Last Victory – The Honour, The Passion, The Glory.  I think I’ll have to watch it again tonight.

And here’s what I had to say way back when:  Siena

Exciting Times

Coming up soon is the annual easter egg hunt.  In recent years it has been in darkest Drongan, where Tractor Jim intended to make his retiral base though retirement never comes.  At first it was interesting for having moved in the autumn they knew not what would grow in the spring and hiding places for little chocolate eggs and bunnies were new to hiders and searching urchins alike.  The party grows for the grandchildren numbers show few signs of reaching an end.  But I don’t think we’ve buried the eggs in snow drifts before, though at least the chocolate won’t melt, at least until clasped tightly in grubby little paws.

So it’s that time of the year; the one where I refuse to spend a fortune on cardboard and plastic packaging; and when the house will be filled with chocolate anyway after the trip to Drongan.  Now The Urchins were reminding me of a promised bookshop trip, dragging me there kicking and screaming, knowing now that easter means a new book instead.  And so it was that we came back with more Horrid Henry and some girlie animal tales whose title, author even, I can’t remember.  For my role is solely to provide.  So I sneaked in a little one for myself, you may be surprised to learn.

There’s some exciting stuff building up on The Bedside Table right now.  Soon I’ll tell you of Scorpion Soup, a work of art in so many ways it draws a smile just to see it there, a warm glow like a big bowl of porridge.  And Syria too, not the ravaged land of today, but a vsist a couple of decades ago and the promised magical words of Robert Tewdwr Moss, a new one on me, who was murdered the day he finished his manuscript.  I’m looking forward to that one.

But first though I’m going to indulge myself in dragons.  When Robin Hobb’s Blood of Dragons arrived recently I was quickly told, Elder Urchin I think it was, that there would be 13 Hobbs on the shelf.  And this is the last in the series.

But she didn’t know there were three more, the first trilogy, in paperback, hidden away elsewhere.  The last time I saw them in first edition hardback it was the price of a dragon’s egg that was being sought.  One day though, for the shelf is not complete without them, and The Farseer Trilogy, where Hobbs first hinted at dragons and liveships, needs read again.

But for now, for the 13th and last time (one of Hobb’s trilogies in the midst of all these dragons and magics and assassins was another subject entirely, but no less enchanting), I’m going to spend a few days immersed in another world.  And I’m going to enjoy every word of it.  A bit of escapism does no one any harm from time to time.

The end of a series is always a mix of emotions.  The last of Stephen Donaldson’s Chronicles is due later, after about 30 years of white gold; and William Horwood’s Hyddenworld should reach a promised end in the Winter.  Long nights, head torches, red eyes – can’t wait.  But it’s dragons first.

Conference Time

It’s been a grand old time.  Finally we have a date in the diary, 18 September 2014.  Mark it down.

And as you do remember all those years when it didn’t seem even the remotest possibility;  recently even, in the euphoria of the first SNP government, in minority, with Alex Salmond as First Minister.  Those were the days when the combined London parties continually blocked the right of the people of Scotland being given their say.  There would be no referendum, said they.

So the people spoke again, and the impossible became a reality, majority government, and eventually the Edinburgh Agreement – consent from Cameron, and now the date when it finally will happen.  Monumental, though you wouldn’t think so if you’d listened to those same London parties in Holyrood last week when the announcement was made, or relied on the BBC for the magnitude of the occasion.  They gave the impression of it being just another day at the office, one deserving of their usual disdain.   Being able to circle the date on the calendar should stir the heart of every Scot, but not so Ms Lamont playing it down, contempt dripping from every sneer.  The woman embarrasses, more so even than Iain Grey hard though that is to believe.

So let’s have a look at what’s been happening:

Well the polls are reacting further, the signs good.  And there’s more from Newsnet, more polling, on Europe this time.

And being a Spring Conference, of the party in government, the state-funded broadcaster has been involved.  I haven’t been to Inverness, and I’ve seen and heard little.  Over at Wings, where else, there’s a fine analysis as to why.  For the BBC have given us waffle and soundbites, from the unionists’ favourite trend-setter, Prof John Curtice.  And Rev Stu exposes bias once again.  We need to get our media coverage sorted, long before 18 September 2014.  This is becoming increasingly of paramount importance.

And finally, here’s the narrative of the speech we didn’t hear, one of them anyway.  And it’s well worth a read, if only for seeing the words Salmond and trendy in the same place.  I’d like to hear Nicola Sturgeon’s address too, or at least read what she had to say.  Next time it may be best just to book a seat in the hall.  Aha, here it is now.  Read it and weep.  There is only one answer on 18 September 2014, and that is to vote positively.  Yes, Yes, Yes.

And just to finish with a smile, here’s some more of those campaign posters from Munguin.

Visitors

Our garden is not alone in being entombed by snow of late.  The chicken hut has been dug free as snow drifts up the hill and over the fence.  For a day they stayed inside, though they really had little choice.  One of the favoured laying sites, in the conifer bed, remains untouched by little arrows, and the trees themselves completely buried – they are miniature conifers, more ground coverage than tree, but….

Fortunately local farmers with ploughs on their big John Deeres have kept the road open.  Along that grey ribbon blow wraiths of white dust.  When driving there are exposed stretches of road, gaps in fences and hedgerows, where the wind howls across and it would be no surprise to find a man-hauling explorer emerge, an Inuit hunter perhaps as you grope blindly in search of the next stretch of tarmac.

And in the garden life goes on.  Seed is devoured by the bucket-load.  Even the blackies take their turn.  The robin snarls at others till sated, giving ground to no bird.

And thanks to Simon Barnes and his bad birdwatcher lessons, I know what else has been around.  One puzzled me yesterday; a finchy-type thing.  In true Barnes mode I knew what it wasn’t.  And I was thrilled to realise I had been watching a bullfinch, female, at the sunflower hearts in the maple hedge.  That’s a new one here.  The brambling has been back too, such is the dearth of food elesewhere.

But last night was the best.  Almost dozing on the settee, as one does, a flurry of activity caught the eye, like a bin bag in a gale.  And there we found an owl on the doorstep, under the glare of the lights.  With movement inside she was off, and I’ll need to consult Barnes to have a guess at what she may have been.  In true bad-birdie style I know what she wasn’t.

We’ll see the owl hunting from time to time, quartering the fields.  But never on the doorstep, where the stray cat is often found.  Perhaps she was after cat for dinner.  I wish.

Heartening

Or so I thought it was when I read the other day of a church in Aberdeen allowing the local Muslim community to use the facilities under its steeple.

And I read the words of the man responsible, the words of loving his neighbour and all the good things he believes his good book to say.  Good on you, thought I, well done.  Now I don’t generally approve of organised religion and I will not attend another service in an Episcopal church such was the lasting impression I had when I had to attend two in consecutive weeks a decade or so back.  But I liked the Episcopal minister’s outlook when the mosque across the road was insufficient for the needs of the community.

So instead of prayer mats in the street for those that cannot get indoors, the minister has allowed the imam to take his flock into the church, to at least pray together under one roof, at times when the episcopal congregation are not themselves in the pews.

But then I came across this article a couple of days later.  My faith in humanity has taken a massive step backwards, despite my reserves over religion.  But then religious differences always have been the source of most troubles the world has ever known so I shouldn’t really be surprised.

And I’ve a wee local problem of that type brewing myself just now.  For the best wee school there is has arranged for the senior class to be taught Creation; just one of the things on offer from a ‘bible-bus’ invited into the community by the local churches.

Now I’m sure we generally scoff at the southern states of the US, clinging onto misconceptions of creation, intelligent design even.  But I’ve just seen the DNA project in action, the one that dates our presence to about 175,000 years before that of any scripture, and I know which story I prefer.

But my dilemma is in telling Elder Urchin that she has to wave her pals off on a wee bus trip, and to try to explain why the visit is inappropriate.  For I cannot accept that filling impressionable minds with nonsensical myths is a vital part in the important work the school do on the RME programme.  The visit is off-curriculum and most certainly not local authority wide, for the bus is to attend only two towns within an hour’s radius.  And the schools should not be giving the churches access to their charges.

So I am distraught.  More so when I learn that the zealots behind the ‘bible-bus’ are intent on missionary work, doing what was done in the 19th century, as if nothing has been learned by those dreadful errors, and I’m happy to talk on that subject another day.

But when I see moves such as that in Aberdeen, religions capable of working together, I am heartened; until despair sets in again at the bile said by others on that same news.  Oh for heaven’s sake.

And Now

for some good news.

Whilst all eyes today are on the Chancellor, all ears on what gloom he has in store for us, I thought I’d bring you a wee snippet of something that brought a much-needed smile.

A little bit of Scotland is heading to London in a couple of months time; and it’s a special bit.  For My Favourite Bookshop, oh yes Atkinson-Pryce on that fabulous high street of Biggar, has won the regional Independent Bookseller of the Year award.  Now the girls head south, on the shortlist for the national title.

There are seven others on the list, and I’ve put them on the radar if ever I’m in Wirral, or Reading, Limerick even.  But it’ll be a mighty fine shop that denies the lassies from Biggar the title, for A-P is a wonderful place to visit.  The shelves are hand-picked, or so it seems, and the coffee good too.  It’s the place The Urchins had to go back to, to collect their Wally award.

And I’m saving up my groats for a return.  Good luck in London.  I look forward to seeing the trophy on the shelf.

Top 10 Unionist Myths – DEBUNKED – BANNED then RE-DEBUNKED

This morning we have a couple of lines from Bella Caledonia, then a video to watch.  Go on, 10 minutes out your life, watch it now.  It is good.

Top 10 Unionist Myths – DEBUNKED – BANNED then RE-DEBUNKED.

As the brief story on Bella Caledonia says this video has been removed from You Tube under pressure from Better Together.  Yes I know this is supposed to be a democracy and the posturing about press freedoms and regulations is just that.  But why do you think censorship of this type happens?

So watch it now, before it disappears.

Oh and whilst we’re talking about Big Brother dictating what you’re allowed to see and read, here’s more on that subject, over at Wings, on the same video and also on that staggering vote by Labour yesterday.  What, you didn’t know about it?  Press censored?

Garden Update

Despite efforts which lasted the entire day that snow failed miserably to turn itself into rain.  Blanketed again we are, crisped up overnight, with a fresh dusting of fluff from this morning’s grey and lowering skies.

So there’s a feeding frenzy going on.  In the field maple a solitary goldfinch has taken on the role of local bully; devouring sunflower hearts, gorging, whilst allowing no other bird close.  So the chaffies flit back and forward to the laburnum, and the greenfinch and assorted tits turn round in circles.

But the laburnum is scattered with sparrows.  I’d just been reading, in Esther Woolfson’s most excellent Field Notes From a Hidden City, of worldwide declines in sparrow numbers.  They seem to be congregating at Grasshopper Towers these days, wee brown jobbies all over the place – sorry but all homes with a hielan’ mistress have to add the ‘ie’ to everything.

There are new visitors too, for I have not noticed coal tits on the feeders before, and a couple of them have joined the flight from laburnum to maple and back, stopping at the nuts for a nibble.  Now the seed feeder on the laburnum is one of these open plates, held fast with cable ties.  At times there may be five or six on the plate at any one time.  The sparrows are selective, and discards fly around.

So under the plate hungry chickens peck away in the snow, kidding on it is their only source of food other than the crusts of toasts from lazy Urchins which they squabble over with that darned stray cat.  The chickens always win.

Meanwhile over at the chicken run the pheasant feeds untroubled, though the snow this morning was trampled by myriads of tiny bird prints waiting patiently on the mesh gate being opened, and the morning refill arriving.  I see he’s brought the hen along for dinner today too. And the woodpecker thumps a reggae beat.  I glance out the kitchen window just as a starling rises from the fat balls, replaced instantly by a puffed-up chaffinch.  Two male blackbirds hop across the grass.

Spring is coming, isn’t it?