Time to lighten the atmosphere

It has been very intense of late, I know that more than most.  But I’m not going to apologise.  Instead let’s go down the life goes on cliché for a moment or two.

I’ve added a new article to the Writings page.  It was my entry for this year’s Scottish Book Trust project.  The theme was home, and I was reasonably hopeful.  But they’ve picked a couple of dozen from the 500 or so entries, and my piece won’t be in the book.  Still you might enjoy it.  It’s called Range on the Home, the last article on the list.There’s elements of landscape and history in there, if I remember correctly.  I really must go and read it again, for it’s been a while.

It was that same SBT who launched the recognition for my Iona article a couple of years ago.  Recently the readers of Wanderlust‘s online forum have been enjoying it too.  But I was surprised to find the other day, a link to the article on the front page of the website.  It looks as though it might be printed in full in this month’s magazine; which is thrilling, though The Genealogist’s response was a little less enthusiastic shall we say.

The irony is that my subscription to said marvellous magazine was a victim of a cull on magazine subscriptions a year or so ago.  That decision was nothing to do with the quality of the product, but more a recognition that I was finding less and less time to actually read the various magazines that came through the door, reduced to skimming articles and focussing on the book reviews.

Besides, my attempts at writing had been changing direction, quite consciously, with little travel opportunity as family life gets busier.  I realise that I haven’t been on any Scottish island since that BBC interview on Iona after the SBT project.  Now that is something I do need to remedy, and quickly.

But it won’t be this weekend, for, as it happens, we are off on a wee journey, islands beyond in fact.  I know there are Borgen tours, and ones for The Bridge; The Killing too; I may return with a big woolly jumper.  And I’ll probably have to endure Tivoli.  I may even post a few notes on location.  Yes we’re having a few days in Copenhagen, some time away, all four of us, to mark a certain birthday.

Timed to avoid the vote it kind of scuppers any plans to head to Wigtown for the book festival.  And it means that other ritual at this time of year, the Christmas Cake, is also likely to be delayed a few days.  That said I did manage to pick up some cranberries and blueberries the other day.  Coffee with FirstBorn, after Boy Urchin and I left the afternoon football (four nil home win), took us to the American Whole-Foods outlet on the south-side.  Once I saw the pecan & cranberry sourdough bread I knew we’d need a basket for a few other bits and pieces.  So the cake project has started to rumble.

The garden too is still here.  Despite good intentions the only activity yesterday, I was utterly exhausted, was to feed the chickens and lock them up at night.  Walking round the side of the house in the gloaming, two cats rushed past, the younger ones for old Jake rushes not these days.  I startled something under the kitchen window and what a surprise I got.  I nearly tripped over it.  Snuffling around in some plant pots and fresh mole diggings was none other than a badger.  He scuttled off towards the swings though there’s no exit through the fence in that direction.  Of course I had no torch with me.

The new chicken run is secure, over the fence in the field.  Old Brock will need to be a better tunneller than the mole to get in there, he said hopefully.  Life, as they say goes on, and continues to throw up surprises and delights where least expected.  I’m off out to buy a copy of Wanderlust.  Might even cycle into town.

Your name in print

A package arrived the other day, a book, obviously.  It was that sort of packaging; but it wasn’t emblazoned with the name of our favourite e-tailer.  A mystery then.  And then that light bulb above the head burst into action.  I’d half thought it might make a festive gift.  But I’m a generous sort, have it now, go on.  For it’s not often you see your name in print, published print that is.

Now I know that Book Week Scotland is not far away.  But it’s not that, for my entry for the Treasures project failed to make the final, or indeed any, cut this year.  It was a nice wee tale, or so I thought, and I’ve posted it over on the Writings page, last one of the list, Are You Sitting Comfortably?  And I’m looking forward to more from BWS soon.

Anyway, the package.  Ah yes, Smart Tart;  that’s the title, not the recipient of my largesse.  We are somewhat partial, within these walls,to the recipes and writings of Tamasin Day-Lewis, and this is her latest work.  It looks fabulous too, a rich mixture of recipes and memories.  We go back to Co Mayo, for summer fun; and to London for high tea at F&M with brother Daniel and granny.  And we learn about the festive routines of her late father Cecil.

But it’s the way it is published I really want to talk about; the first volume to arrive here, and certainly not the last, from Unbound, which I’ve mentioned before.  It’s crowd-funding, in these days when publishing is difficult, even for established authors.  And it’s a real book, a physical book, hard bound, full colour, and good to hold.  None of this download for a pound stuff.  It’s a nice one too; one I hope may not end up like most of Tamasin’s other volumes on the kitchen bookshelf, smeared with buttery fingers, scribbled in the margins, spine broken.  It’s too good for that.

Unbound, go on, have a look, a good one.  There’s proposed books on many subjects, by a variety of authors.  Play your cards right and your name can be there, for ever more, every future edition.  More importantly you can help the book make it to the shelf.  It’s a bit of a buzz when you find it coming through the door, encased in cardboard.  And if you see something you fancy reading, best pitch in, for otherwise it may never see the light of day, and you might not get another chance.

I’ve another one to come from Unbound, I hope.  For I’m keen to hear how Mr MacLean and Mr Danziger got on in Transnistria.  It’s making good progress, but needs a bit more help.  Go on, I’d like to see that on The Bedside Table, and to be able to tell you all about it.

Now Smart Tart, let’s just say I expect there to be no more soggy bottoms around Grasshopper Towers; none, that is, fresh out of the Rayburn.

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.

My Favourite Place

You may recall some joy after a couple of unexpected emails, the first arriving in Lloyd George’s library a few weeks ago.  The next stage was another little jolly, fifteen hours away to grab a precious three in My Favourite Place.  And so I found myself on the road to Iona.

A Familiar View

I was approaching Crianlarich before the sky began to lighten.  There had been shades of grey again, but nice ones this time.  For the sky was clouded and the calm waters of Loch Lomond were only slightly darker.  The background was a silhouette of hills and Bens.  Gloaming was invented for days like this.

Then it became apparent that higher up the colours were merging; snow on the higher slopes, cloud reaching down.  As I turned west the hillsides tinged, with splodges of spruce amid autumnal larch.  With Loch Awe behind me it became all ochre and burnt sienna as the bracken and the dying leaves took over.

Then I met my companions for the day, Mark and Helen from Radio Scotland’s Out of Doors team.  Just as were bemoaning the scarce chances of wildlife sightings as drizzle swept across Mull so did we pass a golden eagle, sitting at the roadside not 20 yards away, oblivious to the intruder in her patch.  Not a bad start, thought I.

But it was Iona that beckoned, and suddenly there she lay.  I had a reading to do, but beforehand we wandered and blethered.  Helen will work her magic turning it all into something coherent. Tough job.

Long will I remember Mark, on spotting one of those bays where the Iona light draws shades of green from silver sand through the waters, even on a day of gloom.  Without breaking stride he found descriptive narrative that sang into the mic.  Not for him a chewed pencil and hours of agony searching for the right word.  Years of practise and the words just run together.  Listen in, it’s all real.  Those waters had magic to them; mermaids’ tails must have produced those colours.

But it was all about the Sheela.  Let me bring you a few words from Geoff Holder’s Guide to Mysterious Iona and Staffa:

‘Traditions associated with Sheelas show them to have revered images.  We are meant to see her.  She is badly weathered but you can make out her squatting position and the way her arms reach down to her genitals, displayed between open legs.’

In the Wall of the Nunnery

Now remember Helen, there’s magic on those walls; but you might need the Tobermory.  I played it safe on my return home, a large Penderyn.  Sleep came quickly.

It was so good to be back, and as always so hard to leave again.  There I was, with my Happy Humanist badge pinned to my jacket, trying hopelessly to find the words to explain what it was about Iona.  I know what it isn’t, for me, and I know that I’ll always be drawn back.

Marvellous it was, and much of that is down to Helen and to Mark, for gently coaxing an old man’s tale, dredging up memories.  And there will be more this week, for the Scottish Book Trust launch their publication, and there’s a few of my words there for all to see.  Thrilling that is, and a night in Edinburgh too.  You can find those words here – where they have been since the British Guild of Travel Writers saw some merit in them earlier in the year.  Or pick up a copy of the book, free, on a high street near you, available soon.

Now that’s not a bad way to mark the 300th posting to these pages.