We have to talk

….. about Syria.

But as this is going to be a fast-moving situation let’s start with a very quick summary of where we think we are.

Firstly it looked as though the PM was intent on a similar path to that abhorrent one taken, against the will of the people, a decade ago.  But on the other side of the Atlantic the Americans, having drawn a thick red line in the sand, seemed to hesitate about crossing it.  Obama’s alternative may be humble pie.

And humble seems to be the mood this morning after Cameron was forced to accept that he could not start a bombardment, or send the troops in; that and anger if some his cabinet colleagues behaviour is anything to go by.

But let’s go back a day or two.  I was heartened by the statement from the Scottish Government – issued the day before Westminster gathered – broadly to allow the UN and  to do its job, the weapons inspectors to report, before any decisions could be taken.  The mood of the people seemed to agree.

Craig Murray penned an excellent viewpoint, and being a former ambassador during those horrific days of Iraq his experience should not be overlooked.

And there’s Hans Blix who had a central role a decade ago, but one that was steamrollered in the indecent haste to war based on lies.  And of course we all know what happened next, and wait yet for the apology or the trials.

Now in the nadir of 2003 we watched as our elected members ignored the wishes of the electorate that put them in place, and rubber-stamped the route to catastrophe.  Those same members, typically Labour ministers at the time, are now vocal in their opposition to the current PM from treading the same path that they deemed right then.

But that is simply the rampant oppositionism that festers in the political bubble.  It is nothing to do with right and wrong, morals or scruples.  Interestingly though it kind of puts the Westminster Opposition in line with the Scottish Government, up to a point, and that goes against the very rough grain that festers in these parts.  For we know that whatever policy is put forward by the Nationalist government, the Labour party will simply oppose it on principle, or lack of them.

So where to from here?  All we know is that the bombardment and inevitable obliteration of Syrian citizens will not start yet.  But the flotilla is gathering in the eastern Med; sights are being trained.  And Obama is in a corner.  He may strike out alone.

Just a few days Barack, let the inspectors complete the job we asked them to do.  Then let the discussions begin.  For if you decide that the Syrian government is at fault, based on nothing other than gut instinct, then you’ll find yourself on the same side as Al Qaeda, and that wouldn’t do at all.  More importantly the insanity of war will wage once more, and people and governments will make millions from armaments at huge cost to the innocents.

Then again Blair has shown the path to legend status, the one lined with riches beyond ability or morals.  And no one would want to join that club, would they?

And so we wake to a media in uproar, the government defeated.  But we know where the BBC’s loyalty lies so we’ll tone down the euphoria.  And Craig Murray has an early response; one worth reading; Rev Stu too.  Where is it all going to end?

PS  – Interesting to see the name of Rory Stewart among the Tory rebels, after his role in Iraq before becoming a parliamentarian.

Life Begins at….

So middle age is now something that recognisably afflicts us from 53 – it  used to be 41 and, as I’ve been known to state my time on the planet as a dyslexic 35 – the age that I always feel – I guess I may have been aware of the inevitability of a new title.

Now as it happens the final few days of my being a mere 53 are rattling through very quickly.  Indeed this coming Monday the clock turns again.  I guess that takes me well into middle age, staring down the slippery slope.  So whilst I lie down in a darkened room, a glass of Auchentoshan warming in my grasp, let’s just have a look at what we are told are the current signs of middle age.  It’s in the papers, and being blethered about on the phone-ins, so it must all be true.

The good news is the gap between young and old is much smaller, as more and more is done online and through social media, by all age groups.  But frustration with said technology, and the need for a nap, are clear signs of that middle age badge applying.

Getting worried are we?  How about the songs in the current top ten.  Go on, tell me you know the tunes, assuming they are actually tuneful, and their titles.  Artists?  OK I’ll forgive you the artists.

Apparently half of us don’t feel there is such a thing as middle age any more.  I think we call that denial.  How young you feel is more important than the numbers on the cards.  Illness and memory loss though are increasingly feared.  Uh-huh.

Nearly half of the over 50s claim not to have experienced middle age, though we’re not told if they’re below the magic 53, or heading fast towards the 60s.  We claim turning 50 to be a new stage, whereas it used to be 30, then 40.  Now I disagree with that one, denial again I think.  But for me 40 was not good, 50 a breeze.  Perhaps it’s just an acceptance.

So here are the top ten:

Out of touch with technology – tablets and tellys – and what about passwords and PINs?

No idea what the yoof are talking about – nothing new there I suspect

Feeling stiff – don’t titter at the back

Afternoon nap – it would be nice to have the time, but I have been known to rest the feet on the desk for 10 minutes, OK half an hour, back in my younger days, 30s I think.  Too busy now though.

Groaning when you bend down – nah, it’s getting back up again

Forgetting the names of modern bands – who are these Beatles chaps, as someone once said

Talking a lot of joints/ailments – my lips are sealed, and you don’t want to know about joints in the world of The Ghamellawallah

Hating noisy pubs – it’s when you can’t hear the person next to you for the noise from the corner – damn, it happens in the café at the swimming pool too….

Getting more hairy – we are talking ears, nose, palms of hands etc – so have you got your trimmer yet?

And the old policeman/teachers/doctors looking young thing – so nothing new there either

Anyone admitting to Middle Age?  I’m away for trundle on the bike.  Then I might just have that nap, assuming my joints don’t seize up.  And music on the iPad thingy when cycling- oh probably Doris Day, just until FMQs returns you understand.  Actually I don’t do earbuds when cycling – that would be dangerous, not hearing the traffic.  Is that a sign of age, or just a wish to keep on living?

Whoosh

It was a rare occasion.  There were more balloons in the sky than on the roads.  The air was calm, and I cycled slowly round the parish under the full glare of the sun, the sky bereft of cloud.  To the west the moon remained high, waxing as I waned.

Even the hedgerows were quiet; the fields too, sheep seeming to slumber as starlings pecked away on the fleece.  Horses too were unusually still, only one, a large chestnut mare ambling over to investigate the mean machine down by the fence.  But The Grasshopper passed slowly on, heading by then into the sun, uphill still.

Aloft I watched not the usual display of buzzards escaping pestering rooks, and I listened not to squeals as they circled ever higher before plummeting down in a frenzy of feathers and outstretched talons.  Not this time, for the skies were alive with something else.

And the air was still, so the rush of the burner drifted across the hillsides.  And higher still rose the modern day Passepartouts, as the gas whooshed, the air heated and envelopes lifted baskets ever higher.  Now it wasn’t quite up, up and away, for they didn’t travel far from the park, but it was a sight to behold.

The Balloon Festival has been a feature locally for nigh on 15 years now.  But it is a rare occasion when the wind leaves the skies to the pilots, or the rain stays away.  This year we had both; perfect conditions indeed.  And did they revel in it.

From the kitchen window balloons drifted into view, sunrise and sunset, not once but thrice.  At best we managed only three in view from The Towers, but out on the trails it was a different story and from the hills approaching town there were up to nine in view, in the air together.

Full details of the event can be found here, with pictures of the balloons, and aerial shots of our little market town.  The Festival is just another initiative in the efforts to keep trade in the local community, another reason not to head to the retail parks elsewhere.  Long may it continue.

And, believe it or not, it’s another reminder of that gap weekend down Morocco way that I mentioned the other day – any excuse is a good one for that.  But I remember clearly having a blether on the roof of the riad with a glass of mint tea as the call to prayer rose all around, about our local balloon activities.  And the sight of the Cameron Balloons colours in the sky again, took me straight back to Tessa and mint tea and brilliant times.  For it was in Marrakech that we met.  She had worked for Cameron Balloons and knew our weekend well.

It’s amazing what comes to mind when out for a cycle.  And in two or three hours on the roads I was accompanied by more balloons than cars.  If only it were ever thus.

Preparing for the final push home I rested with banana – one of my five-a-month –  and water, an excuse to stop on yet another climb, engaged by a couple of bright young things from our wee school.  They had been sent out early, armed with binoculars, as mother rested after a night on the fruit.  But the cocktails wore off later and I’m indebted to The Milkmaid who was out later with her camera, and was happy to pass on the shots above.

Let the train

…… take the strain, they once used to say.
Now I enjoy the occasional journey on the rails, indeed I have a couple coming up soon, to York and to Edinburgh, two days running as it happens which may suggest that trains are indeed like buses, after waiting all year.

And trains have been in the news of late, HS2 specifically.  Now in these parts there’s not a great deal spoken of this mega-project.  For it will not ravage our green and pleasant land, not even cut swathes through our rugged ones.  And it will not impact on our transport links; not with Europe, nor Manchester, nor Newcastle or even London.

So there are no protests, and the chattering media seems to have more to address, such as the odd hundred quid paid for a newspaper article, which seems much more important than the apparently trivial matter of hacking.  One day we’ll find out who was behind that little episode, but doesn’t it strike you as just a tad strange that in these days of Leveson and media practises, an episode of hacking merits a mere shrug of the press shoulders as they devote reams and hours to the trivia obtained by said criminal act?

Anyway trains it was supposed to be, HS2 in particular.  So whilst we get into all sorts of angst about a hundred quid our beloved media turn a deaf ear to nearly five thousand million of them.  For that is the cost to Scotland’s public purse of running a new rail line between London and Manchester or Leeds – or The North of England as they like to call this place 200 miles from here, 400 from Inverness.  It’s only going 200 miles north of the centre of the universe – there’s a whole lot more to these isles than lies between London and Manchester.

The point is though that this project is not being funded by those that benefit.  It is paid for by us all.  And there are no Barnett consequentials to compensate or give Scotland a similar share to spend wisely.  So on a pro-rata share we are going to have to cough up a staggering £4,771,000,000.  Now are you happy with that?  Did you even know?

Well don’t just take my word for it.  It’s all explained in much more detail, and more eloquently, by Gordon MacIntyre-Kemp over at Business for Scotland.  Go on, find out more.  And while we take the strain of the train, just another case of Scotland subsidising the rest, I see the A9 was closed in both directions after yet another accident on Thursday.  Fortunately there was no loss of life this time.

And bear in mind that £4.8bn was the price before the project was ramped up so that even Darling – the Better Together man, who started it all – had his pips squeak so much that he would back out now.  Not like the former Chancellor to change his mind, blame others, is it?

PS a timely update from Gordon MacIntyre-Kemp, over at Business for Scotland

It lands on the floor

…. with a substantial thump.  After removing the plastic wrapper I scan the editorial, then the contents list.  A few words prise an involuntary smile.  A rare thing indeed, some may say.  I’m going to enjoy this one.

First up is a list.  It contains six books, of which I’ve read four, so far, and indeed commented on them in these pages.  This is the shortlist for the 2013 Dolman Travel Book of the Year.  I may read the other two, but not yet.  The subjects are America and Nigeria; neither topping my list of places of particular interest.

But the other four, let me tell you.  Michael Jacobs; Jeremy Seal; and they are joined by none other than Robert Macfarlane and Kathleen Jamie, the sorceress that she is.  It might be a tough one for the judging panel; and for the collector a prize might just make a first edition even more collectible.  But it’s a great start to a quarterly magazine.   Of the four I’ve read, despite the joys that Macfarlane and Jamie bring us, I’d plump for Jacobs’ The Robber of Memories.  But remember the other two are unknown quantities, so far, and I could change my mind, in time.

And Macfarlane has his own piece too, an interview about words and walks which I’ll keep for another day.  Seal too gets a couple of pages; a rich harvest of fresh pistachios, and a pastiche of mosaics from the Roman times.  Fergal Keane is there; and instantly I hear his rich brogue in a hushed theatre at the RGS, every word precious.

There’s book reviews, which I’m sure to read aren’t I?  PLF’s final work comes out next month, the unfinished one, the last leg of that journey.  His draft has been polished by none other than Colin Thubron, and Paddy’s biographer Artemis Cooper.  It takes us from the Danube to Mount Athos, both subjects well represented on The Book Shelf.  That’s a must for The Bedside Table even if it is too late to add The Broken Road to the birthday wish list.

We have the winning entry from this year’s writing competition.  It’s an atmospheric piece of an unsuccessful attempt on Kilimanjaro.  And I realise very quickly why my own effort failed to secure entry to the awards bash this year.  I can’t even remember what I wrote.  But I know it was gibberish in comparison to Rob Tye’s tale.  I’ve always got the memories of last year.  And there’s another chance next year.

Patagonia.  There’s a place I’m always keen to read; ever since Chatwin gave the world a snippet or two of what Lucas Bridges found earlier; what Darwin and Fitzroy fought their way round.  But hold on a minute; I know that author.  For Pete Mathers was on a certain weekend in Marrakech, the baby of the group.  Not only did he survive the short straw so far as room-mates go but he’s been honing his craft ever since, and widening his travels, deservedly so.  I’ll read every word of that one too.  Remember that name.

Then I find Svalbard, PBs, again.  And a Russian mining station, long since fallen out of use.  Goodness.  What Next?

Well Next means there’s heaps more beyond.  90 pages packed with pleasures.  Reviews of books that need to be read; pictures of places from dreams; and words, what words.

Then, just at the end there’s the crossword.  It’s usually my only hope of seeing my name in print after a prize arrives in the post.  16 down: Gateway to the Isles.  I know that one.

It always seems a long wait for Traveller to arrive.  For Amy Sohanpaul keeps us on tenterhooks, with four issues each year.  Then she comes up with this.  Thank you Amy.

If you only read one travel magazine, have a look at the best of them all.

Words of Nature

A buzzard was hanging in the morning breeze, using the air like a toy, fondling it with its great wings, shaping patterns with its finger-like flight feathers, falling, soaring, turning, air-dancing for nothing but sheer joy.  It was joined by another, slicing effortlessly through the blue sky, and the pair followed each other in a slow mating dance.

Now I’d love to be able to say that was what I wrote after cycling under circling buzzards the other day; listening to their squealing overhead as I wheezed slowly up the hill.  It’s one of these great things about riding a ‘bent – you can see the buzzards overhead.  But you know those words could not possibly be mine.  The reference to blue sky gives it away for a start.  You may have noticed other variances.  It’s a beautiful little passage, one of many from the current work on The Bedside Table.

And it comes from a new author to me, though written in the post-war years.  The Shining Levels is deservedly re-published, enhanced with an introduction from Melvin Bragg, and with etchings by Norman Ackroyd.  The Lake District’s the place, hence Bragg on home turf.

And its not just a new author, but a new publisher in this library too, Little Toller Books.  Their catalogue includes a score of works in the nature category; boasting the names of Gavin Maxwell, Henry Williamson, Hudson, Lockley, Fraser Darling and others –  a whole new literary world to explore.

But first I’m off to see what else John Wyatt may have to his credit, for their is joy in his words.  And I haven’t even told you of the hand-reared roe fawn that lived in his hut in the woods of Cartmell Fell yet.  Or the moonlight on the lake; hunting for moths; or the stove of hot buried stones, and apple pie.

Off the Grid he may have been, but switched right on to everything around him.

Commonwealth Games

Or more rather Games of Commonwealth.  One day we’re buzzing about tickets going on sale, websites over-loaded, and the next being told You’re Out.  So this article over at Bella caught my eye, and as time is short for anything remotely creative I offer it up as reading material:

Commonwealth Games.

I have to say I do tend to agree.  It is not a bad club from which to be excluded, though it has to be noted that it is made up of nations becoming independent of London rule, and that’s not a bad body to aspire to join.

But I’ll not lose sleep over it either way, nor will I lose sleep over ticketing ballots or offer to pay £10 per second for a fleeting glimpse of Mr Bolt, should he decide to appear.

Oh no, for I’m more concerned with trivial matters; such as this one.  So why does it cost more to fill my oil tank than yours?  And I see The Genealogist’s finger twitching nervously over the On Switch now that Summer’s Over and The Urchins are being over-heated in the classroom.

So researches over heat pumps, solar panels and whatnots are on the burner once again.  You can keep your Commonwealth; I’ll have some Common Weal, please.

We are grateful

to an alert reader, indeed one who occasionally suggests topics for discussion, directly or otherwise.  Today though it is more demand than suggestion.  For the a message arrives in the inbox, a picture:

 

and a request for words.

Now the picture is very special, for it is the final piece of Christmas Cake, 2012 version.  And it was served up last week when said alert reader dropped by.  It was a bit on the yummy side, it has to be said, notwithstanding the clear evidence that it was needing eaten up as the marzipan fled the sanctuary of the still-soaking fruit.

And it is indeed time, for the 2013 version really needs to be in the oven within a month or so.  Fruit has to be gathered, the flavouring for soaking and feeding carefully selected.

I have used the same base for said annual delicacy for some years.  It is a recipe from Tamasin Day-Lewis who I think credits it to Jane Grigson.  But I tinker with it, and I do so in different ways each year.

The fruit may change, adding cranberries or blueberries or whatever else takes my fancy.  And I do add, rather than substitute, so that it ends up with nearer 3lb of fruit than the required 2.5lb.

But one change that I do make is a permanent one.  I use molasses sugar rather than soft, dark brown.  In discussions with said guest last week I couldn’t remember where it was that I first came across that plan.  Early cakes followed a Delia recipe, and I remember adding black treacle, producing a cake with rich darkness and flavour.  It may have stemmed from that.  There was another recipe for a few years, before Tamasin imposed herself, and that may have been the start of the molasses sugar.  It matters not, but niggles away.  Where did that idea come from?

But molasses sugar it has to be, and if someone happens to have used my supply and the cupboard is bare on baking day, then I may get just a tad grumpy.  It does happen.

The soaking medium is also flexible.  Traditionally I’ve used brandy, for some years kept only for baking purposes.  It ran out, but there was a bottle of plum brandy, a souvenir from Croatia.  We managed a couple of cakes from that.

But the 2012 version was experimental.  Framboise was used, heady alcohol, supposedly raspberry, but as clear as a dry Shetland gin, from Luxembourg’s Little Switzerland of schlosses and chateaus and hills and greenery.  And it was good; there’s plenty more for this year, so likely to be repeated.

So for the next few weeks my forays around the shelves of Mr Aldi and Mr Lidl, perhaps even a  scary visit visit to see if those good people down at the megalith known as Asda have anything different in the dried fruit line this year, will be done with a festive cake at the back of the mind.

The marzipan is home made, loads of almonds which I prefer to grind myself, and mix with icing sugar, unrefined, and lemon juice.  But the icing is a cheat.  I like the finish of the ready-rolled and have neither the patience nor the skill to achieve it from scratch.  And if anyone knows of a source of unrefined ready-rolled icing  do please let me know.  Yellow snow; might be an interesting finish.

So while I’m working up to another Tamasin version this year, anxious to see again those pages that are scribbled on, and smeared with sticky goodness, I’m always willing to experiment.  Happy to review any recommended festive cake recipes.

And I’m expecting another special from Ms Day-Lewis soon.  For her latest work, Smart Tart, is in production, from our friends at Unbound.  And having been supporting the project from the start it might just have my name on it, in tiny print.  I’ve spoken of Unbound before; a superb project in these difficult days for publishing and authors.  Go on, browse away.

And if you’ve a special Queen of Hearts down your way, you’ll know when it’s time to offer that last slice of cake.

Time for another song, and a cracking tale

Now there may be few occasions when you are likely to find a picture of David Cameron on these pages, but read on.

For while that excellent song gets you in the mood let’s just look again at the Business Case.  The Prime Minister, no less, is told, in person, by one of his own voters, indeed a significant donor to the party which is why he was invited to meet, just why he’ll be voting Yes.  It’s an excellent and positive case, and a prime riposte to those who think the referendum is all about ‘voting for Salmond’.  It’s all about making a better Scotland, no matter your party preference.

And it’s a brilliant example of the fine work that Gordon MacIntyre-Kemp and his colleagues at Business for Scotland are doing.  They have a huge role to play in the next year or so.

Best Foot Forward

The alert reader may recall the time I spent with Linda Cracknell a little while back.  Since reading her collection of essays by others, I’ve now dipped into a couple of her own.

The sub-title of Following Our Fathers is Two Journeys Among Mountains, but there are at least five journeys in this short work.  It is indeed a little gem; packaged to fit in the pocket, or the rucksack, but big in so many ways.  Delight in maps and sketches.  Pick up the rhythm of the walker on the move, in two-time, then three-time; and watch for the pattern of the crampon.

Linda undertakes a walking trip in Norway, a tribute to a friend’s late father.  Sven-Pappa had taken to the hills after escaping from the Germans during the war, and walked to Sweden, and safety.  A small group of friends and family had set out, unwrapping the very shoes in which Pappa had set off.  There was joy in a family remembering; and sadness in the dawning that there would be no one in her own footsteps in the years to come.  Only two of the group made it to the end.  Linda was one who had to drop out.

That was another journey, down from the heights to find medical assistance, a flight to hospital, and another home.

But it was the start of another quest; the inner journey, and the physical one in her own father’s footsteps.  Richard Cracknell had died of cancer when Linda was barely walking at all, far less tackling the Alps with ice axe and crampons.  But that is where he led her, to a peak he had attempted at half her age.

The summit was unreachable for Linda and her two pals, roped together on ice the rising sun would turn dangerous, and down they went, back to the mountain hut and respectful nods to others that had been out on the mountain.  The slopes had been marked by death in 1952, one of Richard’s companions hit by a falling boulder.

Then there was Richard’s own death, brought to mind with the rustle of plastic bags in the hut; the same plastic that may have given rise to the carcinogens that took a young scientist’s life, at the cutting edge of developing today’s indispensable, and left a toddler bereft of her father.

And there was a puzzle, for Linda could not quite tie in records of her father’s climb with the crags and crevasses from which she had returned.  It turned out to have been the wrong summit, but very much the right journey.

The climbers descended to Grindelwald, and I am immediately taken back 40 years, to hear the sound of the snow-melt enhanced burn gushing under the bridge by the church.  And I had my own quest in sourcing the book, for the usual search engines may not be successful.  It is published by Best Foot Books, an imprint set up by the author herself, intent on a series related to walking.  But I knew it would be stocked in Biggar, and I was not disappointed.  Far from it.

Best Foot Books – watch out for more, from the author and the publisher.