www.moiramcpartlin.com

Writers who holiday

2012-02-14T20:42:00.000Z

- never switch off.

I remember in one early creative writing class a full time writer told me he never wrote on holiday - said he needed a break. I worked in corporate hell at the time and used my holidays to write crafted stories. Now I am a full time writer I look forward to buying a new holiday notebook and filling it with scribbles.

I spent last week on the sunny Island of Madeira. It was planned as a proper unwind from Christmas and a recharge before my book events in March and April. I have no idea what this year will bring in terms of work and events but I am prepared for a busy time.

Since the beginning of the year I have been finishing edits, contacting book festivals, writing publicity articles as well as all the other administrative tasks that find themselves on my to do list in preparation for my book launch.

I needed that holiday.

Madeira has a reputation as a bit of a Saga type holiday destination. I can't deny the demographics were slanted more towards the grave than the cradle, but it is also a place of great mountains and scenery.

Ponta de São Lourenço

While I was there I walked among spectacular rock formations on the blustery Ponta de SãoLourenço, trudged through UNESCO protected laurissilvaforest on the Ribeiro Frio/Portella levada. The highlight of the trip was teetering along a man made path chipped out of a mountainside over precarious drops to reach the ice crusted summit of Pico Ruivo (1862 mtrs), the island's highest mountain. I could not fail to be inspired, only an idiot would tag this a busman's holiday and refuse to write.

Pico Ruivo

Santa in the Sun

Haunted House

Each morning I rose, showered and wrote my journal before starting the day. The writing was not the writing I do at home which is filled with worries about family and my book. These journal pages filled with observations, tastes, sounds, light and wild ideas.

Painted Doors - Funchal

Levada Tunnel, look closely and you might spot a troll!

Even my holiday reading, Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale and The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, provided inspiration for workshops I now need to prepare.

View from my writing chair

I have returned to my home study with a tan, a few extra pounds on the scales, many long sleeps and a notebook filled with ideas.

Aye Write!

2012-01-21T11:59:00.000Z

The 2012 Aye Write Book Festival Programme is out today and I am on page 11. My event will be on Sunday 11th of March 5.30pm - 6.30pm, Mitchell Library, Glasgow.

I will be reading from my new novel The Incomers and introducing a couple of Fifers who will act out part of the story. It should be fun.

Is Glasgow ready for a Fife invasion?

Letters Of Hope To Those Who Will Not Listen

2011-12-21T21:06:00.001Z

I have just finished reading Letters of a Prisoner by Corder Catchpool, a conscientious objector (CO) during World War I. At that time all males of fighting age were conscripted into the forces. Due to high principles, Cordor objected to war, objected to killing another human. He was court marshaled and imprisoned for six months. When his sentence was complete he was sent back to barracks where he refused to fight, was court marshaled again and sent back to prison. This bizarre process went on for the whole war. When the war ended in November 1918 Corder knew he wouldn't be released until after the peace agreement was signed. He was released in April 1919 having served four years in prison for committed no crime other than to refuse to kill a human. The interesting point he makes in the letters is that the Sinn Feiners, imprisoned for what we would now call acts of terrorism, were released months before the peace loving COs.

It could be believed that a book of prison letters might be depressing and boring. These were neither. The letters were to either his mother or sister and contained details of his life in a small dark cell, with inadequate food and often with toothache. But the eloquent style of writing and the humor injected into the trivial made the letters interesting and educational. Here was an cultured man who learned German and read classics whilst in prison; who crammed, in small spidery script, as much information as he could into the one page of paper he was allocated each fortnight. Here was a man who wrote over a series of three letters (due to lack of space) a touching post war Christmas story about a British soldier billeted in a German household. The letters are filled with love and interest for his fellow man and above all a hope for the future. He notes that wars are started by old men and will never stop until people refuse to fight.

It is Corder Catchpools hope that left me depressed. As we enter this Christmas we have writers imprisoned all over the world who, like CC, have committed no crimes. Pen International fight for these writers but the fact that Pen International exists today proves we have not learned from Corder's experience.

This year UK's Christmas number one is set to be The Military Wives Choir Wherever You Are, a heart tugging song for the troops in Afghanistan - a political coup for the war mongers. All week I have been hearing on radio talk shows about our brave troops in the forces. The UK is being manipulated into a nationalistic frenzy, using Christmas as a tool. I do care about the troops but I feel they are being used for political ends.

And now, today, the Falkland dispute is kicking off again - there must be an election coming up somewhere.

I think Corder Catchpool got it wrong, war is not started by old men - it is started by greedy, vain, power hungry men and I believe it will never end until all the power in the world is handed over to mothers.

The Secrets of a Successful Book Launch - V Campbell

2011-12-13T18:32:00.000Z

V.Campbell, author of the sensational young adult novel Viking Gold, overwhelmed the staff at Waterstones, Sauchiehall Street a few weeks ago with the phenomenalsuccess of her book launch. Over onehundred people attended, the store sold out of the book and the friendly Vikings,in attendance for entertainment, were forced to curtail their revelries due tothe size of the crowd.

V Campbell with Vikings and a happy audience

How was itfor the author? V Campbellreveals all.

Howimportant is a book launch to the success of a book?

I don’t know, but the success of my launchcertainly got Viking Gold off to a jogging start.

Your mainlaunch was in Waterstones in Glasgow. Why did you/your publisher choose this venue?

I chose this venue because I’d been to launchesthere before and they’d gone so well. I also live in Glasgow, so the main Glasgow branch ofWaterstone’s seemed logical.

How muchinput did you have in the planning of the event?

I planned it all.

What do youfeel went well?

We had a band of Viking warriors storm theproceedings half-way through. I thought this was great fun and leant a certainlight heartedness to the proceedings – sometimes book events can be so dry. AndViking Gold isn’t a dry sort of book; I wanted to reflect the book’s sense ofmayhem and uncertainty in the launch. They also provided a great photo opp.

If youcould do it all again what would you do differently?

Nothing, actually.

What advicewould you give to first time authors embarking on their first book launch?

Organise it well in advance, especially if thereis a specific date that you want. Tell everyone you know about it!

Read anextract of Viking Gold at www.vcampbellauthor.com

Follow@vcampbellauthor on twitter

Viking Goldis available to buy at Waterstone’s, WHSmith, Amazon and on Kindle.

Imagined Lives

2011-12-06T16:10:00.001Z

Character and back story are basics to a writer, but they might not be interesting to the average art lover. I was intrigued when the National Portrait Gallery invited writers such as Alexander McCall Smith, John Banville and Tracy Chevalier to write back stories for some of the portraits in the gallery where the identity of the sitter is in doubt. The project is called Imagined Lives.

I never need an excuse to visit to the Portrait Gallery, I find both the paintings and the photography there invigorating and inspiring; faces fascinate me, they tell so much about a life. Because I was keen to see how these writers tackled their task, and I had a couple of hours spare in the centre of London, there was only one place to go.

There are fourteen portraits in the collection, most painted around the sixteenth and seventeenth century. They all had identities that were later disputed. One was thought to be Mary Queen of Scots another Queen Elizabeth I. In the book that accompanies the event the Chief Curator, Tarnya Cooper gives a very comprehensive explanation of why these identities became disputed, most were due to improved date detection techniques.

The faces are interesting and varied. I wanted to know more about them and being a biblioholic I bought the book and rushed to the gallery cafe for a coffee with the expectation of being transported into the world of the unknown portrait sitters. Stories from beyond the grave and the imagination.

I don't know what the authors' brief was but I was immediately disappointed. Half of the eight writers simply made up a character and listed lots of facts and dates. Julian Fellow's two pieces were so dull I couldn't finish reading them. It was like reading a text book and showed no real skill. I am pleased to say that some met my expectations. Minette Walters even managed to plant a suspicion in the readers' mind. Tracy Chevalier's two pieces showed the most skill in exposing a character through a story, and Terry Prachett was the only one that put a smile on my face.

I applaud the National Portrait Gallery for commissioning this project. It is always encouraging to see writers being invited to participate in any art form but if I am honest I now wish I had used my two hours to pop next door to the National Gallery and soak up their Leonardo exhibition.

360 narratives

2011-11-21T17:11:00.001Z

Gone are the days when a writer locked themselves in a garret, sharpened their pencils and sat down to write a novel every year or two. There has been reams of reports, commentary and debates about the rise of digital and I suspect, like me, most writers thought that meant just ebooks. A workshop I attended at the weekend revolutionized my thinking on this front and sparked new ideas on how to create my writing in the future.

Narratives on post its and some cheating going on

The workshop was called 360 Narratives and was initiated and run by The Playwrights' Studio Scotland. I knew it was about writing, I knew it was about collaboration. What I didn't appreciate was the significant use of the word narrative in the workshop title.

Narrative was what it was all about and that was made clear from the word go by key speaker Phil Parker, director of NyAC, a multi platform company. Our group of screenwriters, playwrights, children's writers, graphic novelists, novelists and games developers had our eyes opened to the exposure benefits (and monetary benefits) of YouTube. We were drop jawed when we listened to the imaginative things that can be done on-line by individuals who take back control of their literary futures.. The word dinosaur was mentioned many times that day.

Five invited guests explained how they work in collaboration with other forms of narrative. Tom Knights, developer of Celtic Heros, told us how narrative and plot work in games; Andrea Gibb, film and TV writer, recounted funny anecdotes of using Twitter to discover stories to adapt for film; Rona Munro, scriptwriter, told us of her time she had to take over as director of a film; Rodge Glass, novelist and graphic novelist shared with us his diverse and sometimes chaotic schedule and Vivian French, actor, storyteller, playwright, children's writer, illustrator, and tutor on how to juggle lots of irons without dropping any in the fire.

Sunday was all about networking and collaboration and culminated in a massive speed dateing session which resulted in everyone meeting everyone else for two minutes and exchanging business cards.

There is a good reason why I am looking the other way - it was my turn to sort post its

The networking opportunity was immense. I walked from the workshop with; two offers to read my stage play; several screenwriters interested in my novel for adaption; the offer of help with my children's novels; the heads up on a new literary festival; the offer of collaboration from a couple of games developers; my brain bursting with new ideas on working practices; a new network of fun, creative and artistic people from all over Scotland and a great big grin on my face.

Thank you Playwrights' Studio and thanks also to advisors Jenny Brown, David Griffith, Mark Grindle, Fiona Sturgeon Shea, and facilitators Grant Keir and Claire Dow.

Inbound Marketing for Writers

2011-11-14T18:35:00.001Z

I changed my phone at the weekend; from a small cyber shoot, which made phone calls and took photos, to an Andriod which, apart from having a little R2D2 emblem, can apparently solve all my marketing problems.

And so can this blog - apparently.

As a writer I now don't have to depend on others to sell my books, or to sell me. I can do it myself. Most writers already know this but they probably don't know the extent of the power at their keyboards

We live in a world where we update our social media pages about everything from rant to rave. What I failed to realize was the spiderweb effect you can create if you use these tools effectively. Used correctly, every time you blog, tweet, or use any other type of social media, the tendrils of the webs can be far reaching and unlike conventional marketing, are permanent.

How do I know this? I have been reading a book called Inbound Marketing by Brain Halligan and Dharmesh Shah. In the book these new-style management gurus use Google, social media and blogs to get found. They share with their readers case studies of phenomenal successes and easy to understand advice on how to apply their principles to our own business.

Their buzz phrase is 'remarkable content'. Create 'remarkable content' and every time someone remarks on-line about you or your product, it creates a chain reaction. Tools are available to check how many time your pages are viewed and how many links are made to your site. And for busy people the Andriod phone can check in on what's happening and can use social media management systems like Hootsuite.com to help you track mentions and allow you to respond before fickle brains fry.

The downside is that all this goods stuff takes awhile to set up and use and the addiction to these sites can mean that more time is spent on the marketing that on the productions. But at least I have a little friend to help me now.

A Flock of Words

2011-11-07T19:56:00.001Z

The stunning Art-deco Midland Hotel

The owl and the pigeon

A recent trip to Morecambe, Lancashire, provide me with an unexpected encounter with a Flock of Words. I left the newly refurbished, Art-deco Midland Hotel on the promenade and prepared myself for a dreary walk to the library in the rain. But when I crossed the road from the hotel I stepped onto a pavement of poems. A Flock of Words, by why not associates is a 300 meter pavement of poems that stretches from the promenade to the town center. I delighted in stepping through The Owl and The Pussycat, tiptoeing around Three women and a goose a market makes. From Chaucer, to Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Roger Mcgough, the poems flew. The theme of birds may have been overlooked by locals hurrying to work but the pigeons and I had a word fest.

Pigeons with artistic taste

Book Launch Success

2011-10-31T16:21:00.001Z

I am proud to be part of this fantastic anthology, published by Doghorn Publishing. This collection of top class writing from all over the world would make a great present for anyone who likes literature with a seasoning of the bizarre.

Fellow Scottish contributor, Wendy Jane Muzlanova, and I held a book launch for this publication in the A.K. Bell Library Cafe Bar, Perth, Scotland on Saturday night. The event took place at the same time as sister launches in Indianapolis and San Diego but I bet they didn't have as much fun as we did in Perth.

Local band Day of Days opened the event and provided music in between the open mic slots. MC, Lachlan Renwick did a fine job rounding up the willing and not so willing for the open mic. The writers were all very talented and a wonderful mix. It was great for me to perform and attend outside Glasgow and to be back in my beloved East. A huge thanks to Wendy for finding such a fabulous venue and organising the band, MC and everthing else. The anthology can be purchased from Doghorn Publishing, Amazon and from the authors

Shetland

2011-09-29T20:19:00.000+01:00

Next Stop The North Pole

Is the Island of:

Friendly folk, little free streets, flocks of oilmen, aggressive birds, teddy bear sheep, tasty lamb, irresistible knitting wool, even more irresistible fudge, delicious seafood, interesting hostelries, fine ale, discreet windfarms, impressive bus service, silky smooth A roads, efficient ferries, a wonderful library, precarious sea stacks, big skies, soft air, sparkling seas, breathtaking cliffs

and more history than I can deal with on a four days visit.

Shetland, you have seduced me and I will be back soon.

Big Skies

Lerwick Harbour

Precarious Sea Stack - but who put the cairn up there?

Labelling can be Harmful

2011-09-12T20:47:00.000+01:00

I recently read some of my teenage writings. They were a collection of school essays and stories plus some poems that had (thankfully) never been aired. I had stored them in my loft and erased their existence from memory. My son unearthed them and, unlike his usual practice of binning everything, he handed them over to me, unread.

It took about two months to summon the courage to read them myself. I was scared they would be embarrassing and terrible and confirm something I had always been led to believe when I was a child; I was good at Maths – not English.

The pages were yellow and scrawled with my large backward slanting handwriting. Some were torn. What I read was a revelation. At the age of fourteen, not only could I write but I had a very clear social conscience. I found stories about drug addiction, intellectual snobbery (a subject I am still particularly passionate on) and the treatment of the elderly.

This discovery changed the way I look at my writing now. Since I began writing seriously ten year ago I have been intimidated by author interviews.

Q. ‘When did you start writing?’

A. ‘I can’t remember when I didn’t write. I always created a world of my own.’

You know the sort of thing. This depressed me because I was good at Maths.

The Math mantra caused me to carve a career for myself in finance. No one during my school years encouraged me to write and yet the comments and marks from the teachers were all good. I also had the impression that I was not well read and yet re-examining my school years I remembered the classics I read and enjoyed - George Orwell, Graham Greene, Shakespeare.

This form of labelling was applied early in my life. It is something I have always tried to avoid and yet the Math one is deep rooted. I was recently accused of having a working class chip on my shoulder even though I was brought up in a white collar household. I was astounded at first because I never thought of myself as having any sort of class never mind a chip on my shoulder - but I do have a lovely Fife accent which I am proud of. Maybe I have been so successfully at shaking off labels some people are left guessing.

I am really interested to discover what label will be placed against my debut novel The Incomers.

I learned a lot from those early readings but the most important lesson was that you can be good at maths and still write a reasonable essay.

Fahrenheit 451

2011-08-30T20:18:00.000+01:00

Last week I read this article by writer Ewan Morrison about the death of books. He predicted that printed books would be dead and buried in twenty five years time due to the increase in ebook. Quality will suffer because of the ease with which ebooks can be produced. Writers are missing out the middle man and DIYing their own ebooks. Unfortunately the middle man also happens to be the quality control man. It is a depressing read a month after I signed my first contract to have a novel published. I need to hope that sense will prevail and that the world will not be turned into a swirling slush pile of mediocre fiction.

It is perhaps a spooky coincidence, or it is synchronicity, that around the same time as I read the article I found the next book on my to-read pile was Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury. This dystopian novel was first published in 1951. The novel is set in a future world where firemen are used to burn books and anyone possessing a book is hunted down. The temperature book paper burns is 451 Fahrenheit.

This is a pretty horrific world but what is more terrible are the reasons for the book burning. The inhabitants of this world wanted escapism that was easy, titillating and real for them. They didn’t want to feel inferior to anyone, the more minorities there were the harder this was to achieve. So everything was reduced to what Bradbury calls ‘Vanilla Tapioca’. In this world leisure is plentiful. Living rooms have wall to wall 3D TV. These walls are called the ‘Parlour’ and the people who live within the ‘Parlour’ are like the relatives; so real they are part of the family. What Bradbury described first in 1951 is not so far away today.

Today’s newspapers contain hardly any news, mostly celebrity gossip. TVs the size of football pitches crowd out many living rooms and soap operas are so common place and familiar that even thought I never watch them I could probably name some of their main characters.

Ray Bradbury’s world may be gruesome, but it is believable. The books in that world make people feel inferior and have no place in a Vanilla Tapioca World, therefore they must go. I could probably live with the demise of new printed books because we have a wonderful back catalogue of classics that would take me several lifetimes to read. What terrifies me is living in a world where ‘The Parlour’ is the norm. That is the real horror of the Fahrenheit 451 because it is just around the corner.

Read the book and judge for yourself.

I bought my copy from the wonderful Plan B Book in Glasgow. One of the few bookseller left standing, but that's another story.

When the fizz dies the work begins

2011-08-10T19:42:00.001+01:00

My time in my writing cave is almost over. I have one more day and then on Friday I am travelling up north, with illustrator Mandy Sinclair. We will travel through Rannoch Moor, Glen Coe to Eilean Donan Castle in search of rowan trees and castles. In search of inspiration for one of the projects we are collaborating on.
My last post bubbled with the news of my publishing contract. There is a lot of work to do before the book hits the shelf. My publisher is small but even the large publishing houses have limited budgets for promotion. More and more authors are expected to publicize their own books.
The editing process does not start until September, after the Edinburgh Book Festival. That means a few weeks where I can sit diddling my thumbs. Except I don’t do sitting doing nothing.

I began reading Guerrilla Marketing for Writers last week. I have owned this book since 2002 (ever the optimist). It is a little out of date and it is aimed at the American market. I weary with the gung ho hype, but it does dole out some pretty good dollops of advice. The layout is easy to absorb and there are text boxes containing lists of weapons to use which I can go back over once I have tired of throwing the book into the corner after each chapter.
I never need an excuse to begin a new notebook. My publication notebook is an A5 soft cover so I can take it everywhere with me, to jot down ideas on the move (does that sound American?).
The most significant thing I have done this week is to contact the Cultural Enterprise Office. They give free advice to businesses and individuals in the creative arts. I am hoping to set up sessions with them soon.
My social networking sites are seeing more of me than usual and I have joined a couple of new ones. During my business years I discovered the benefits of networking. It is something I have always believed in and continue to treat with professionalism. I now realise how important it is going to be for me in the future so I am glad that the friends I have made across the globe continue to support me even though we no longer work together.
The writing, of course has to continue. After a stall of a few months I picked up my latest novel, working title The Mongrel. What a joy it was this morning to print off 170 pages and begin to re read the words I first started to write in January. I can’t wait to finish it now.

At Last

2011-08-03T20:08:00.002+01:00

Last week corks popped, fizz fizzed. I signed a publishing contract with Fledgling Press. My debut novel The Incomers, will be published in April/May 2012. I have been submitting the manuscript for the past fifteen months and even though I never lost the belief that I would find a publisher I always sighed when a rejection came through the post or popped into my inbox.

All the writing articles I read said that perseverance is the key and I had to believe them. Every time I heard Christopher Brookmyre, Iain Banks, and all the other big names say they had written three, four, five books before they got a break my resolve strengthened.

I finished The Incomers in April 2010. The job of writing a novel is an arduous task in itself, the feeling of achievement on completion is immense. The job had only just begun. There was still months of submissions ahead and in the mean time the writing must continue.

At first I tried writing another novel, but I was creatively drained. I wrote a couple of short stories and resurrected a few more. I set about trying to get all my short stories published. This meant more submissions, more rejections but it also meant more successes. While I waited for the big one, I used these small kernels of success to keep me motivated.

I attended a short summer course where I began to write a stage play. This is a craft I had no experience of, so the learning was exciting and boosted me on the mega rejections days.

I took a poetry class which I believed would help hone my editing and language skills. It was an enjoyable experience but taught me I lacked the meditative skills great poets require. I do not know how to sit and do nothing for long stretches of time (unless I am sitting by the Atlantic).

I began to write a children’s series and developed a proposal which only highlighted the amount of bite I still had to chew.

And eventually I began that other novel and then stuck fifty thousand words in.
Now I have a publishing contract it would be easy to sit back and bask, maybe daydream a poet’s day away. But that is not me. I have had my week of glory and fizz.

On Monday I entered my self appointed writing cave. The place I go to write. I do not allow myself to procrastinate; I restrict access to Facebook and email. My To Do list is crumpled and tossed in the bin. My house is left to rot, the washing basket to over flow and the garden to fill with weeds. My car lies dormant, no trips to Glasgow or Fife. I am in the cave for the duration. This I can endure because I know it is only for two weeks.

This week I will progress my children’s series, next week I will polish the play to send to the Playwrights Studio for assessment and then reread the fifty thousand word work in progress. (Oops is that a To Do list?)

My excitement of publication is still with me and each day I do a couple of hours towards making The Incomers a success. The baby was born, has been accepted and now I have to prepare her for the world.
It may sound like hell but my writing time is limited and I always have extra time in the day to read, research , play guitar and nap. I have read interviews with writers who say they do this every day, but I can’t see how that is possible. I know by the end of this fortnight I will have cave fever, but I will have a bulk of work behind me and a good platform on which to return to my normal piddling about on a diet of a couple of hours writing a day and my beloved To Do list.

My writing cave? No, but it is a lovely memory of Ronda to keep me on track

The Beauty of Poetry

2011-05-23T20:11:00.000+01:00

I don't claim to be a good poet but I appreciate poetry and find it thrilling to write it if I have the inspiration to do so. Last year I took a masterclass with a mixed group of poets, some published, some talented and original, some, like me, were just there to learn. Each week we were given an assignment and a poem hopefully emerged. To a novelist to write one poem a week didn't sound much but the task demanded all my energy which meant other writing projects fell away. My results were interesting.

A poem I wrote for my grandson germinated in that class and I worked hard to complete it for his second birthday last week.

I didn't realise that writing a poem for a loved one could be so difficult and yet so satisfying. I transcribed it onto an ornamental scroll and handed it over to his mother. She read it with a tear in her eye before carefully storing it in his memory box for later.

A New Kind of Love

(for James)

This new kind of love takes me

by surprise. An ageing fear melts

in the rush of your embrace,

the innocence of your breath,

the words of trust in your eyes.

This new kind of love permits us

to giggle a lullaby by Brahms,

stumble-waltz in time to Strauss,

build blocks in towers to tumble,

eat soup from the same spoon.

This grandmother’s love scares me,

to know you will cry when I must go.

Until then let’s blow dandelion clocks to the wind,

and count memory seeds for you to catch and hold.

moira mcpartlin – May 2011

How to have the perfect holiday

2011-03-30T18:23:00.042+01:00

How to have a perfect holiday Book a cheap flight to Malaga, hire a car and head for the hills. Book only one or two nights accommodation in advance. Once there buy a detailed map with guide to the area and take it from there. We had two nights in Ronda, two nights in Zahara and three nights in Grazalema because we found a fantastic hostel there. Climb as many high mountains as you can, see as many sights as you can fit in but still make time for siestas and reading - I still read two books.

This is part of the Abode of the Moorish King which sits above the Mira Stairway,
365 steps leading into a mine and gorge.
In the 14th Century slaves were used to
carry water up the stairs for the villager
- their life expectancy in the mine was eight weeks.

Things I love about Andalucia: Every premises has energy saving bulbs. They have different shapes and sizes for every fitting. Everyone speaks to you, young and old - greetings of hola, buenos dias, buenas tardes, buenas noches are universal and a delight. Hardly any English speaking tourists.
The houses are painted sparkling white with fabulous tiles. Clean streets, no litter, no dogs or cats. The chickens, dogs and vegetable gardens are situated on the village fringes. I took great pleasure in seeking them out.

Just painted -

the house painters of Zahara are a band of women

who will never be out of work.

A well tended vegetable patch in Grazalema.

The villages seem to be self sufficient. There are hens, bread making, oranges, cheese making and large communal vegetable gardens.

Where the dogs and chickens live in Zahara.

All the streets are beautifully cobbled and there are no potholes! Shops are unobtrusive. They look like houses, no advertising or Tescos or other big supermarkets. No boy racers, no neds. There are loads of old men, as well as old women; not something we see so much of in Scotland. And most walked everywhere with the use of only a stick. I saw no zimmers or tri walkers. It must be all that olive oil. Real chips made from real potatoes. Small beers not whopping great pints. Fabulous vino de casa at an average price of €8.

A tattie plot in Rhonda.

Cactus graffiti in Zahara.

Things I didn't like about Andalusia: The mountain roads are narrow with super high verges that could seriously damage the hire car. TV Channel Toro. Ronda is the home of bull fighting and this channel was on in every bar. It is horrible to see but also compulsive to watch.

The view from Sierra de Grazalema's highest mountain - El Torreon (1654mtrs)

After the hill walk

Got to Keep Going

2011-03-02T19:02:00.009Z

For the past ten months I have been trying to get my novel The Incomers published. This is a demoralising and frustrating process and the amount of effort and motivation to keep going can not be underestimated.

Writing a novel is hard work - but it is fun. Every morning for a year or two you wake up and know you will spend the rest of the day in the company of good friends. OK maybe you created these friends yourself but they are still your friends.

The main character in The Incomers is a young black African mother, Ellie, who comes to live in Fife. I love Ellie. She is a wonderful person. I didn't ask for Ellie to be the main character, that role should have gone to a small girl called Mary. But the moment Ellie entered the story she took over and made it her own. When I finished the novel I tried to treat the process of submitting to publishers as an administration task to be fitted around my writing. I wanted to write something that was under the bed - a short story called The Mongrel that screamed to be a novel.

I tried to write the second novel but I couldn't. I couldn't let go of Ellie. I sent out submissions to publishers and agents. The responses I got back were positive. "A great idea, very interesting but not for us." Quite a number of publishers wanted to see more, but many admitted they were scared by certain aspects of the book, it didn't fit in with what the public were buying.

Each time I thought I was getting close, a rejection came back. My early readers loved the book. One impartial expert told me it ticked lots of boxes and I shouldn't give up on Ellie - she needed to be heard. And yet the rejection slips kept coming in and I still couldn't write the second novel.

Then on Boxing Day while my family were all around, I got a phone call on my mobile. It was a London number I didn't recognise so I ignored it. Then the land line rang, the same number, someone really wanted to speak to me. My heart was pounding when a voice announced she was from XXX publishing. No one phones you on Boxing Day unless it is good news. Unfortunately this particular lady must have had a bad Christmas. She began by telling me how much she loved the book and then why she was rejecting it. Meanwhile my family thought this was the phone call.

My disappointment didn't last as long as theirs. I was furious. Furious that I had let soemone spoil my family's Christmas, furious that I couldn't find a home for Ellie and furious with myself for letting eight months go by without starting novel number two. I told myself that I still had many options open to me, but I had to put Ellie behind me. I will continue to try to find a publisher, but I may have to write a book that is more commercial and The Mongrel might just be that beast.

It is a horrible lesson to learn especially when I know that The Incomers is a great book and that when it does get published the public will want to read it.

In the mean time I am now forty thousand words into my second novel and am loving it. I haven't abandoned Ellie, I still think about her every day and I still do something for her every day, but I am falling in love with my new character now and that is what is keeping me going.

Traditional Music in Safe Hands

2011-01-31T16:13:00.004Z

Congratulations to Orcadian Fiddler, Kristan Harvey, on winning the BBC Young Traditional Musician of the Year.This competition has been running for a number of years and the quality of the contestants proves that the future of Scottish traditional music is, at last, safe in the hands of this country's youth.

For years Scottish traditional music has suffered at the hands of Tartanism. Shows like The White Heather Club was spoon fed to us as children because it was what the broadcasters believed we needed to see. It was uncool to be seen walking to school with a fiddle under your arm. It was taboo to admit to liking pipe music. Thankfully that has changed.

The Celtic Connections Festival closes today. At the five concerts I attending during the festival I was delighted to witness the huge volume of youngsters in the audience and on the stage. On Saturday I went to the Festival Club in Glasgow Art's School. There, impromptu sessions were springing up in every corner with the majority of the players being below the age of twenty.

And on an early morning journey into Glasgow last week I was stunned to see a group of about twenty school children walking along the road, all carrying traditional instrument cases.

I believe the change in attitude is mostly due to Fèisean nan Gàidheal, an organisation set up to support community based Gaelic arts development with a strong emphasis on music. But it is also the influence of unique artists like Martyn Bennett and Gordon Duncan. These two, sadly missed, pipers have led many young Scots back to their roots.

Choice – What Choice?

2010-12-07T16:32:00.004Z

When I was small there was one type of crisp – Ready Salted; two types of bread – pan or plain; a few types of chocolate - Cadburys or Rowantree, Nestle.

Then things changed and we had so many choices we didn’t know what to choose. But it seems that the trend is reversing and we aren’t even noticing. There seems to be thousands of products in the shops but are consumers given the choices they want or are they given the choices retailers want us to have?

Two examples are the two As – Apple and Amazon.

I have resisted buying an iAnything because I hate being tied into one product. I also try to avoid Amazon for the same reasons. I don’t buy stuff at Tesco; I don’t like bullies who tell me what to buy and who use their size to push small independents out of the race. And this avoidance has not been easy because Amazon do make it very easy to buy, too easy. It is most people’s dream to have everything one click away.

And it depresses me. The music and books offered to us by Amazon, supermarkets, TV and Radio are a tiny percentage of what is produced by artists each year. If we continue to accept this our culture will be devalued.

But I hadn’t realized how bad things were until I went shopping for an ebook reader. The market is saturated with Kindles, the Amazon’s ebook readers that uses their own format, forcing you to always purchase books from them.

All reviews I have heard start by describing the Kindle and go on to mention, in passing, that others ebook readers are available.

I was disappointed to find that in both John Lewis and Selfridges, Oxford Street, London, I had to search hard for something other than a Kindle. The Sony and Samsung readers demonstrators were either out of batteries or not connected – there were no others to try.

It was while looking for ebooks that the Apple thing caught my eye. It seems that if you are looking for a smart phone or music player this Christmas, you are going to have to search through the hundreds of models of iPods and iPhones to find any other choice.

Good Luck!

Latest Successes

2010-11-13T15:30:00.011Z

The worst part of a writer's life is learning to deal with rejection letters. But to achieve success it is necessary to submit work for publication. The risk is rejection, the reward is publication.

Earlier this year I read an inspiring essay by writer Linda Cracknell. In this essay she described how she set about systematically submitting her work. She was determined and it paid off. I took her lead and began a submissions frenzy, I studied markets, I bought my envelopes, stamps and International Reply Coupons. Every time I received a rejection I would send the story out again. Here are some of the results.

Winning

A memoir piece Winning was commended in the Leaf Memoir Competition and published in the anthology Foresight with Hindsight. You can read Winning here.

Highland Clearance

Earlier this year I was inspired by Anne Redpath's painting The Mantelpiece. I wrote a wee story called Highland Clearance. Northwords Now. a fine Scottish literary paper published the story in its summer issue. You can now read it online here.

The Girl in the Burgundy Boots

Many years ago, when I worked for Shell Oil, I spend the very cold months of February and March in Budapest. Every day I walked from my five star hotel to the Shell Office. On the way I passed a concrete building with covered cloisters. In one of these cloisters lived a tramp who huddled against below-freezing temperatures under mounds of blankets. This story was inspired by him.

The story was published in the Autumn issue of Crannog.

Twenty Five Feet Behind

Woman, even strong women, can too easily fall a few steps behind their partners without realising it. I entered Twenty Five Feet Behind in the Mountaineering Council of Scotland Mountain Story competition and was awarded third prize. It is featured on their website here.

Two fingers to the ash cloud No 3 and No 4

2010-09-06T20:00:00.011+01:00

Poolewe in Wester Ross in August
In my Munro bagging days Poolewe was the place you drove through on the way to the mountains. What a treat it was to stop and spend some time there. This was a holiday of deserted beaches, long walks, sore cycles, unproductive fishing, ceilidhs, gardens and sea eagles. I had no idea one place could offer so much. It was a privilege to stop a while and explore.

Writers’ Retreat - Muchalls

I visited this writers’ retreat last year and edited my novel. My visit this year was very different. I embarked on a new project, a new skill, writing a stage play. It was daunting but the solitude and the space to sit and stare at the sea were the perfect tutors for my new craft work. The fact that on two occasions a large school of dolphins danced past only feet from the shoreline made the experience all the more special.

Two fingers to the ash cloud No2

2010-08-31T14:58:00.004+01:00

Bute in June

Lighthouse just south of Kilchattan Bay

A weekend is all you need as an introduction to this little gem. I had always been a little sniffy about Bute because of all the 'goan doon the watter fur the fair' history. What I found was an island of many faces.
Bute has a short/long distance route - The West Island Way - This meanders round coast land, through forests and roadside paths for thirty miles, giving the feeling of a long tramp but never far from the main town of Rothesay. The views are towards the mainland and Cumbrae on one side and Arran on the other. Good fish and chips too.

Two fingers to the ash cloud No1

2010-08-30T20:20:00.014+01:00

You don't need an ash cloud threat to enjoy what your home country has to offer. Here is one from a selection of trips I have made in Scotland in the past few months.

The Kintyre Way in May

This is a 87 mile long footpath that crisscrosses through the Kintyre Peninsula. We completed it, south to north, in six days but did cheat on two of the road sections because we felt they were too dangerous. It was a unique experience, sore on the feet, kind on the mind. With hardly any other walkers on the route we felt we had the world to ourselves.

Blog Reunited

2010-05-10T14:07:00.008+01:00

The remnants of a cleared community on Mull

This is the first post on my blog for many months. There are many reasons for my neglect but the main ones are:

1. Nuisance Comments and Spam

I know many people read my blog because they tell me they do, but being shy types they never leave comments. The blog has never attracted many comments so when I do get one posted I am delighted and normally publish it. In the past few months I have been deeved with comments, some blatant spams but others seem genuine. A few months ago I was naive enough to publish what looked like a genuine comment from an anonymous poster and caught a rather nasty virus. I now refuse to post any comments from Anonymous.

Why do people do this? What benefit does it give them? It is sick and evil. I raged at the time and inadvertently took it out on my blog.

2. A Novel to finish

After my return from The Gambia I shut myself in my own personal writing cave and edited my novel The Incomers to the final draft. I passed it out to my early readers and went to Mull to sleep and try to forget it. On my return, after receiving some feedback, I edited again. It is now time to face the horrible task of sending The Incomers into the world, to agents and publishers and anyone who is prepared to look at it. I know rejections are inevitable, I will just have to keep positive until someone, somewhere, likes my story enough to take it on.

Balsalt Columns with snow moving in behind from Ben More - Ulva, Mull

3. Start new Writing Project

One aim of the Mull trip was to put me in the mood to start another writing project. Last November I took part in Write a Novel in the Month of November. I wrote roughly thirty thousand words of a young adult story called The Mongrel. The idea came from a dream I had a few years back and like Robert Louis Stevenson I reckoned it was too good to waste. I picked up the reins of the plot a couple of weeks ago but things are on a slow trickle, the pace must pick up if I want to have a first draft finished by the end of August.

4. The Garden

It's gardening time again and with variable temperatures that confuses the plants plus six new vegetable beds to tend, I spend more time in the garden than ever before.

5. Dentist visits

Note the new profile photo with creamy crown to the fore.

I broke my front tooth at the age of six and ended up with a fang that would not look out of place in a Twilight movie. My smile closed and I suffered this indignity until the dentist agreed to crown the tooth when I turned sixteen. That first crown, although NHS, was a pretty good match and I learned to open my smile again. But these things never last and I have had to bear the treatment of three subsequent crowns, some better than others. The last one, carried out six years ago, was the worst yet. It was cream coloured and solid block. But by this stage I couldn't turn my smile off and each time I was handed a photo of me beaming at the camera the only thing I saw was a great big horrible cream crown sparkling in my mouth.

Now, I am at the age where things are beginning to rust in and around my body. The elasticity in my skin has gone like weak knicker elastic, my visits to the hairdresser are more frequent and last longer and additional hair is appearing in unwanted places. The one thing that hasn’t changed is my smile. My teeth are still strong and relatively white despite being coated on a regular basis with coffee and red wine. I decided to splash out and get a new crown, a proper crown, one that I would pay lots of money for.

My dentist agreed and after my first visit she sent me to the lab (many miles away) for a tooth colour match. Imagine my horror when, at the final fit, just before she sealed the deal, my dentist sighed and showed me the mirror. The new tooth was a worse match than creamy crown.

I returned to the lab today to be greeted by a very contrite technician. She called in her colleague for a second opinion and asked me to return (the many miles) next Monday to ensure they don’t make the same mistake again. I hope to have a new profile photo soon that I can look at without seeing a creamy crown - I just pray I don’t spot something I have missed all these year.

The Great Gambia Conundrum

2010-02-15T18:41:00.016Z

Kololi Beach

There were two reasons why The Gambia won the winter holiday decision. The first was to put some heat into my frozen bones. The second was to pick up some valuable grass roots research for my work in progress - novel ‘The Incomers’. Thomas Cook offers reasonable package holidays, flying from Manchester, so the logistics were pretty straight forward.

Once the holiday was booked I began to hear horror stories but also some complimentary tales about the Gambia. I chose to ignore all stories, read the advice given in the guidebooks and take what comes our way.

Colin's and my first experience of how the country works happened at the Airport. Porters asked everyone on the flight if they had a UK newspaper. These are later sold on to tourists in the resorts. Illegal money changing was taking place by the waiting buses, something the guide book tells you not to do but some greedy tourists seemed happy they were getting a good exchange rate, to hell with the country’s economy.

Serrekunda, the largest town in Gambia

Next the bus broke down within sight of the airport and we had to wait in the searing afternoon heat for two minibuses to arrive. When we did arrive at the hotel our room was not ready, the trusted (British) guest who occupied the room had promised the manager he would return from a meeting by two thirty and hadn’t. We were taken to the bar to wait. We were immediately hassled by the bar man who wanted to take us around on his day off. I had only been in the country an hour and was beginning to regret my choice of destination. After a free meal and many apologies we eventually got into the room at eight o’clock in the evening. Things could only get better, but the water pressure was low and my much anticipated shower was a trickle of cold water, but I didn’t mind because water is a scarce resource in Gambia and I was just grateful to get a wash.

Colin manages to get six feet from the sun lounger before the bumster welcomes him with open arms

The next day we decide to walk along the beach to the main resort Senegambia. Easier said than done. One of the biggest problems the Gambian Government has with its tourist industry is Bumsters. The guidebooks describe these young school drop-out boys as touts, fixers, chancers, gigolos, wheeler-dealers and informal guides. They have a highly developed sense of self worth and believe they have a right to interrupt your holiday with their agenda driven chat. As soon as we walk onto the beach we were approached by bumsters. They want to shake your hand, they want to be your friend. The advice is that they are harmless and the best way to deal with them is to be friendly but firm. This is all very well and most people try that but it is so intrusive that by the time we had walked the length of one stretch of beach we had shaken the hands of more than thirty boys and had no time to ourselves. It was like going into combat the moment you walked out the hotel and far from enjoyable, which is a shame because our beach, Kololi Beach, has stunning white sands and huge Atlantic rollers crashing into shore.

There are plenty people who do take advantage of the services offered by the bumsters. The streets are filled with young boys proudly accompanying much older women (and sometimes older men) around the resorts. At first I thought this was a form of exploitation but I couldn’t work out who was being exploited. Unlike the blatant child abuse in Thailand at least these Gambian boys seemed willing and over the age of consent, and the tourists were old enough to know better.

A baobab tree

It wasn’t long before we longed to escape the bumsters and fat blob tourists and see some of the country so we booked onto a tour with a local company ARCH (African Real Cultural and Historical) Tours. The tour was called 4 Tours in One Day Trip. I was a bit worried it would be hard going especially as I woke that morning with a dose of the runs but it was the highlight of the holiday. We were picked up by guides, Mohamed Ali, Angelica (the first female tour guide in Gambia) and Landrover driver Solomon, before eight in the morning and were soon joined by three Edinburgh University students Marianne, Lisa and Sarah. Ali said we would be like one happy family and by the end of the day it felt that way.

Serrekunda Market, this lady was selling cassava leaves for cooking

The first stop was Serrekunda Market. Serrakunda is the largest town in Gambia and the market is where the farmers and women vegetable growers bring their surplus crops and the locals go to buy their provisions. Many of the goods sold are made from recycled material and in an area were resources are scarce I was impressed the whole time I was in the country with the way everything is used – no wasteful westerners here!. Ali had warned us only to take panorama photos because some Gambians believe the camera will take their soul. The market was hustling with activity, my senses were overwhelmed. I expected it to be colourful but my camera could not do justice to the profusion of colour and for fear of offending anyone or missing a sight I took very few photos. One lady seller said we could take her photo. I showed her the photo on the digital screen, she was delighted and her friend also wanted one taken. I promised to send them the photos which I will post to the Arch Tours to pass on.

Wee boys run miles for a sweetie

We went to many cultural tourist sights on the tour but another highlight was the ride through the many bush villages. The children here have very little. From one village they ran barefoot for two miles to our next stopping point. These little boys were hardly even out of breath when they caught us. They were given a sweet each and a slug from a bottle of Fanta. I was humbled to see how quiet and well behaved they were and considered how privileged our children are.

A water cooler

We also visited a village where we were welcomed and shown round the sparse living conditions. They have no electricity and the water comes from a well. Ali explained the life of the women began at six in the morning pounding rice for the meals before cooking, cleaning and going out to work on the vegetable fields. The men work on the land in the dry season only and spend six months sitting around talking and thinking with other men. Not much of a difference from Scotland then.

Women unload the catches from fishing vessels

We visited the fishing village of Tanji where the women waded out to deep waters to relieve the fishing boats of their catch. The fishing vessels looked precarious and dangerous but the woman’s job seemed more so.

Ali and Angelica supplied us with information the whole day and every question I asked was answered with great knowledge and humour. Solomon did a fantastic job of driving us over very rough dust tracks and in keeping the children, who begged for sweets, in check; he was firm but fair.

I think if I hadn’t gone on this tour I may have left the Gambia thinking that every citizen is a greedy chancer, out to get our money because that is the impression you are left with in the resorts. But we met genuine people not far from the resorts and even some in the resort. One young bush taxi driver gave us clear instruction on how to work the taxi system and in the Bijilo Forest Park a Ranger chatted and gave us loads of information about places we could visit the next time we came to Gambia.

A shy colobus monkey in the Bijilo Forest Park

Of course the Gambians are just looking out for themselves and who can blame them. I overheard a conversation between a British do-gooder family and a Gambian charity worker. The family set up the meeting and wanted to discuss sponsoring a Gambian child. Very noble one would think but as the conversation progressed the chat turned to the sites and sounds of their holiday. The bottom line was the family wanted an unofficial guide to take them around, probably for next to nothing. They asked the over worked, under paid charity worker if he would do it. Thankfully he said no.

The Gambia has everything a country needs to turn it into a fantastic tourist destination; sun, sea, beaches and interesting trips, but the bumsters spoil it. If the government continues their efforts to control this then they may succeed. But tourism will still change the country. The simple life of the bush villagers will change. They may become unhappy with their lot. We saw children who were great runners and happy with nothing but without careful handling they could become the bumsters of tomorrow. Lets hope that role models like Mohamed Ali, Angelica and Solomon will have a greater impact and the people who work in the tourist industry turn the country into a happy equitable nation. Others nations have managed this and they can too.

Other Highlights

Chilli Willi (aka Amadou Sarr) played one night at our hotel. Not only is he a lovely guy he is a fine musician too.

Lamin (meaning first born), the young boy who cleaned our room, came to wave us goodbye and bid us a safe flight even after he had received his tip - I can’t see that happening in the UK.

On a boat trip we stopped off on a sand bank, already occupied by four local women digging in the hot sun for mussels, to let the tourists swim in the creek. To escape the inane tourist gibbering I walked the length of a football pitch to the end of the sandbank. Here, where the soft warm breeze brushed my face, I listen to oystercatchers, whimbrels and the chatting of the local women. On the way back to the boat I noticed one of the women watching me. I gave her a wee wave and she mirrored my wave in return, it was a very serene moment.

Women dig for mussels on a sand bank

The Best Show of the Year

2010-01-11T17:29:00.010Z

On Friday night after a warming meal of Cullen Skink and New Season Lamb at The Piping Centre I braved the icy streets of Glasgow and teetered across the road to the Theatre Royal to a performance of Off Kilter.

Off Kilter is advertised as a "Dance and Music spectacular with a Scottish spin", but it is more than that. It is collaboration of Scottish music and choreography but also of art, poetry, song, costume, lighting and sound.

At last The Scottish Government and The Scottish Art Council are putting money into something with international appeal. Does this mean we are starting to take our Artists seriously and rid ourselves of the Tartan Tat image? I hope so.

The show covers all aspects of Scottish culture whether we are proud of it or not and the production is not afraid to take chances. I tried to spot how many cultures were exposed and lost count.

The opening number Seann Triubhas is typically Scottish with piper and highland dancer but if the audience thought this was going to be just another White Heather Club they were in for a shock. The next number Halflight! featured three dancers including Jennifer Patterson, Artistic Director of All or Nothing Dance and Aerial Theatre. The opening finds her suspended in a hammock thirty feet above the stage and her aerobatic performance is heart stopping.

Scotland's multiculturalism is celebrated in the dance work of Ihayami, an Indian Dance school based in Scotland. They had me mesmerized with their fusion of Indian and Scottish dance, a mix I had never considered but find they complement each other in rhythm and vitality.

Paisley Patter uses the music of Ivor Cutler to show life among the tenements in the fifties and sixties. The projected images by Oscar Marzaroli add the finishing touch.

The nostalgia of Paisley Patter is brought up to date when we are confronted by gritty graffiti art by Nico Major as a backdrop to the a burst of breakdancing energy, that is the stirring and often disturbing Innit...Innat - no?. This fast moving urban piece, reflecting Scotland's drug abuse and gang culture, stomps to the unique sounds of Scotland greatest modern musician, the sadly missed Martyn Bennett.

The second half opens with Cease Your Funning. The dance, a mix of modern ballet and jazz, is performed by guests, The Mark Morris Dance Group. They dance to Scottish songs sung by Mhairi Lawson and accompanied by chamber musicians including the Korean cellist, Su-a-Lee, who seems to appear at every concert I attend . This ensemble celebrate opera, ballet, song, love, drinking and our highland heritage - and probably our self deprecations because at times the piece is far from complimentary.

No festival of Scottish culture would be complete with out football and Gemmill’s Goal fitted the bill. Of all the pieces in the show the Scottish press picked up most on this one but I liked it the least. I never thought I would live to see the day when We're on the march with Ally’s Army would be danced to by real professionals.

The highlight of the show for me was Small Street, a solo performance danced by Amy Park to the second piece by Martyn Bennett - Nae Regrets. The dance depicts the Scottish tendency to stick two fingers to the world but has the poignant message of child abuse and homelessness. The performance is powerful and moving enough to bring me to tears.

We tend to forget the changing face of Scotland’s music and dance, but the house band remind us by supplying the sounds for the penultimate showcase Scots Wi Hay.

The audience is brought right up to date with the Finale where the music of Calvin Harris, Franz Ferdinand, The Rezillos and Hugh McDairmid are mixed by the talented DJ Dolphin Boy. The projected images for this piece are by celebrated Scottish artist John Byrne.

So the music stops the bows are taken and the audience clap, but that’s not the end. The house band return to the stage, the dancers drop into the aisles and drag the audience onto their feet. What follows is a mini ceilidh with a full set of The Dashing White Sergeant and a couple of sets of the Gay Gordons. What a fantastic way to finish a show.

I later discovered that Off Kilter pulled resources from a wealth of outstanding Scottish dance companies, many of whom have involvement in youth initiatives and community programmes, among them YDance and the National Centre for Dance, Dance Base.

I was also surprised to learn that most of the music was performed live and many of the diverese tunes were composed and arranged by House Band drummer Tom Bancroft.

Off Kilter's tour dates are;

His Majesty's Theatre, Aberdeen Thu 14 - Sat 16 January

Perth Concert Hall, Perth Thu 21 & Fri 22 January

Eden Court Theatre, Inverness Tue 26th & Wed 27th January

This is a show that is going to be hard to beat.

The Multi Talented Martyn Bennett plays with Scotland's Jazzman Tommy Smith

101 breakable resolutions

2010-01-05T16:42:00.009Z

Jenn Butterworth and Nuala Kennedy

Cheer Up

Why does everyone have to be so gloomy at this time of year? Many of the New year posts I have read this festive have lamented the passing of a decade with regrets and blame ladled out in the bucketful (or snow shovelful). The banks have failed us, the government don't know what they're doing, our planet is doomed, child poverty is rife in Scotland, our livers are to be saved with a minimum alcohol pricing policy, we can't go anywhere because the terrorist will kill us, Scottish football is in disarray and we have run out of grit.

I refuse to be pessimistic. The BBC Scotland Hogmanay programme was one of the best they have aired for years, not least because one of the house band was a former guitar teacher of mine, Jenn Butterworth. The quality of music pulled together by Phil Cunningham and his crew bodes well for the vibrant Scottish traditional music scene and the year ahead. And Celtic Connections is just round the corner.

Each year I give myself objectives. Last year I aimed to reduce my carbon footprint and I believe I achieved that. All waste that can be recycled is recycled, at most I put out a full carrier bag amount of rubbish to landfill each week. Most of my food was and still is bought locally, and like last year I gave home made food hampers as Christmas presents. Not only is this a cheaper way of doing things it cuts down on unwanted Stuff that no one wants or needs.

My big failing was to have three short haul flights. This year is going to be different.

Procrastination be gone!

Procrastination is a writer's biggest enemy. Email and the internet are the willing accomplices of the procrastinator. Today I spent all day unsubscribing to the hundreds of newsletters that flutter to me through the course of each session. I have been hard and cut out all those diversion I have built around me to make me feel wanted, things that give me no benefit and often prove toxic.

My big fat Wii

Over indulgence is a given at this time of year but my Wii Fit is bullying me along and I have high hopes for a slimmer figure and more energy by Easter. For some strange reason I seem to excel at the more violent pursuits like boxing, swordplay and kungfu. It's a great way to get writer's frustration out of my system.

There is nothing mightier than the pen in my arsenal

My writing went well last year but my submission rate was abysmal. This year I plan to write more short stories and to submit many more pieces to publishers, agents and magazines. I also intend to try my hand at more competitions. Last year I entered three national competitions and had one success.

Let's face the music

One Christmas present Santa brought was a Chieftain whistle, a big silver brute that gives my hand cramp. At the moment I can just about manage a scale. Big challenges there I fear.
And although my guitar practice has slipped over the holiday period, last year I learned many new chords, performed in public three times and I am looking forward to continuing to pick up new tunes like the Ashokan Farewell on the clip.

Family Values

This may sound mushy but as I grow older I realise that families are the most important people in our lives. I need to remind myself of that more often.

A word about the weather

This post would not be complete without a word out the recent weather to have hit the UK. The rest of the northern hemisphere must be laughing up their sleeves at the fuss we make. But I would like to give a big acknowledgement to Council workers, not just the men who have battled to keep our main highways open but also to the Carers.

My mother lives in Fife and has a carer visit her morning and night. While others, me included, could have a holiday and hide indoors, these low paid workers battled up and down snow stormed and icy pavements to bring care to those who need it. My mum appreciates it and I am sure many other do too.

2010 is going to be a great year (once we dig out of the snow), not just for me but for the world.

Computer says, 'fat bitch'!

2009-12-14T20:11:00.003Z

Computer says, ‘fat bitch’

OK maybe it didn’t use those words but that was what it meant. My new toy, a Wii Fit, pulled no punches when it diagnosed the state of my body. I thought it would be just like any other computer game but was shocked to learn that it weighs you, gives you a BMI and awards your a body fitness age based on its results.

And its results on me were pretty damming. I have been avoiding the scales for years and tend to judge my weight on how comfortable my clothes feel, but I have always known I could do to loose a few (ah-hhem) pounds. The poor weather recently has meant that my meager attempts at running have been reduced to once a month, if I’m lucky. Pilates once a week isn’t enough and the empty calories consumed in the red wine I drink are a disgrace. But do I really need a computer to tell me that I am overweight and dying prematurely? Apparently yes.

The Wii gave me a fitness age twelve years my senior! I am a crumbling heavy wreck according to the black box plugged into my telly. But help is on hand, this little darling has promised to help me, all I have to do is visit each day for 30minutes and I will be saved.

Being a computer of course means it doesn’t sugar coat anything with excuses; the fact I am big boned does not wash with Wii. This is a nuts and bolts solution you can’t argue back with and that is the reason I like it. I have decided to give this solution a go, I know it is the wrong time of year or maybe it is the right time of year. I have to do something because if what this thing is telling me is correct, my body is going to start giving up twelve years before it is suppose to. I live in the West of Scotland, I am surrounded by premature old, young folk, it is not going to happen to me!

Once I made a Wii mini Mii (small and dumpy) I was ready to go. So what is it like having a computer as a trainer? My personal virtual female trainer is very encouraging, but individual games have their own scoring system. The boxing trainer, a crabby faced cockney, is horrible and shouted that I hadn’t even broken sweat. The text rankings aren’t much better; they hurl cheeky insults at you like ‘couch potato’ or ‘amateur’. It gave me an ‘I’ll show you’ attitude.

There is one exercise where I managed to persuade the computer to call me ‘Champion’. This is Zazen, a zen exercise that measures how still you can sit. It involves sitting on the balance board and staring at a candle on the screen. If the flame flickers your body is moving, if it moves too much the flame if extinguished and it is game over. Distractions are thrown at you, creaking footsteps and fire flies that sizzle in the flame. I can out sit the computer time of 180 seconds. It seems I excel at sitting doing nothing.

History Lesson

2009-12-07T20:07:00.004Z

My weekend was spent in London and the highlight for me was a trip to see Billy Elliot the musical. I remember a few years ago watching the film with great interest particularly the parts about the miners strike, but the musical is a far better representation of these times.

When I was at school reading '1984' for my 'O' Level English I had no idea the year would have such an impact on my life. Billy Elliot is not just a musical it is a social history. There were many foreigners in the audience who I am sure did not really understand what was going on, or maybe thought that police riot scenes are exaggerated. But they aren't. The writer of Billy Elliot obviously lived close to the miners strike - as I did. From the years of 1977 until my divorce in 1991 I was married to a coal miner. I lived through that time and I had forgotten what that life was like.

It was the orange overalls that did it. Each week I would boil my husband's overalls in my hire purchase automatic. Tiny pieces of coal would get stuck in the rubber of the door. I would hang them out in all weathers just to get them out of the house. often bringing them in frozen from the line, like cardboard cut out. They never really were clean.

I never agreed with the miners strike. I hated all the leaders; MacGaughy, Scargill, Macgregor and of course Thatcher. Not one of them cared what happened to the families.

During the strike we had our rent paid and received a food voucher for the local supermarket. I would go armed with calculator and carefully buy a week's shopping trying to use the whole amount of the voucher. No change was given, no non-groceries were allowed. My blood still ices over with the humiliation suffered at the hands of the checkout girls if you miscalculated and had to decide what to leave out of the basket, while other shoppers looked on.

It was during this time that I learned to economise and have now turned this skill into my How to Survive the Credit Crunch course. The single mothers I teach are fascinated with my hard luck stories.

It wasn't until after the strike that many wives, myself included, found that Social Services were giving cash hand out to the men to help the families. In my case these handouts got no further than the Miners Welfare Club. How did I find out? As soon as the strike ended, Social Services billed us over a thousand pounds, the handouts were in fact loans and had to be paid back. Oh happy times.

There is a nostalgia attached to the demise of the coal industry that I will never understand. It was a terrible way to make a living. I remember my ex husband had pock marks all over his back from falling debris coming off the tunnel roof, the only time it cleared up was during his three week annual holiday. Many men were injured or lost their lives working in unsafe conditions. I admit that the small communities were unique but I don't believe it was only the pits that kept the community spirit alive, the strike shattered communities as is documented in Billy Elliot.

With the right attitudes and the right resources communities can thrive again, they just need another enemy to fight. It would be good, considering the damage the coal carbon omissions make to our world, if their fight is against climate change.

On a brighter note, Billy Elliot is not all doom, the dancing is superb and the young actors are to be admired. And the sight of burly men dancing in tutus over those orange overalls made washing them all those years ago worth while - my ex husband should be spinning in his grave.

The Final Countdown

2009-11-30T19:54:00.004Z

It is almost finished - I'm almost finished!

My first attempt at the Write a Novel in the Month of November (Nano) has been an experience that I will definitely repeat.

I hadn't contemplated trying Nano until one of my writer Facebook friends suggested this was a great way to clean up lurking WIPs. I have loads of those. I mentioned in a previous post that the Nano novel I am writing is something masquerading as a short story. In that previous post I said I was hand writing the story and would type it up when I had the time. That is still the case, I have continued to write almost every day although I have to admit that I didn't take full advantage of the support offered from the website set up to help all the participants in this challenge.

So how did I fair in this gruelling challenge? It was tough especially because I continued to edit my other WIP novel. I have never written so much in my life before (and my house has never been so dirty). I have over 17,000 words on my hard drive and I calculate another 13,000 in the two note books I filled over the month. I still haven't finished the story even though I know most of the plot.

OK, so it isn't the 50,000 words the challenge set, but 30,000 is still a good shout and I will continue to write the same volume each day and hope to have the first draft finished by Christmas.

This process has been a real revelation to me. I normally take two years to write a first draft and here I am with the potential of a two month draft. I can't wait to start the edits.

My Silver Darlings

2009-11-25T15:47:00.008Z

Many years ago, when I was a fledgling writer I took a trip with a Glasgow writing group to Pittenweem in Fife. This was strange for me, being a Fifer who had spent many holidays on this fishing coast, but it was an excuse for a trip back in time and some free time to write. The purpose of the trip was to pick up on any inspiration the Pittenweem Arts Festival had to offer. There was so much on offer that my poor senses were bombarded so I took myself off, on my own, to the harbour wall and the experience of the sea. While I sat on the wall I composed the poem Cut Fingers based on the history of fishermen’s knitting which has long been a passion of mine.

But the poem didn’t tell the whole story. A year later I joined a writing class and wrote a short story using the same title and the same subject. I knew the story idea was good but my writing skills were poor. I put the story in a drawer and bided my time.

Last year The Scottish Association of Writers (SAW) held a competition with a theme of Homecoming. I took the original story, which was written in the third person, and rewrote it entirely, this time in the first person.

The story was commended in the SAW event but has since gone on to win Second Prize in the Bournemouth Short Story Competition 2009.

A good lesson in hoarding.

To read Cut Fingers click here

Seaside Inspiration

While updating the website with some of my more successful pieces of writing, one thing has occurred to me – the sea plays an important part in my writing.

National Novel Writing Month - A good excuse

2009-11-16T20:25:00.004Z

I always said would never do it, but I have to admit I have succumbed to the National Novel Writing Month (nicknamed Nano). For one month only I am expected to shove all other commitments to the edge of the desk (if I can find it)and write, write, write. The reason I decided to do this was to give myself a break from editing my second novel, The Incomers.

The Mongrel, a short story I wrote about two years ago has been gnawing at my bones. It always was a novel, but being a fantasy story I could never see myself writing it. I reckoned if I could do it in a month then I could purge it from my system once and for all.

I thought the process would be tedious and distracting. It's not. I am hooked.

The website that monitors the project, www.nanowrimo.org/ lays on advice and offers facilities for writing buddies to give encouragement, but I am not into that. Writers are also expected to log their word count as they go on. By the end of November the total words logged should be 50,000. So far I have logged 7500, but these are only the words I have managed to type. I have written many more.

The process I use is to write every morning, at least 6 A5 pages; no editing, no reading back. The plan is to type them up when I have time, but unfortunately I am not good at ditching my other commitments and have lagged behind with the typing. Does it matter? I reckon I have about another 15,000 words hand written in a notebook, which is incredible; I have never written so much in such a short time before. And the story is so alive in my head, I think I might use this method for first draft from now on. This is the third week and I know I will stick in and work with my own wee process. Maybe by the end of next week I will be done with the story.

Blog, Blog, Blog, Blog

2009-11-02T18:38:00.008Z

I am chilled, I worked hard today and was rewarded with a prize.

Today I was delighted to receive a Lovely Blog Award from my writing friend, Rosemary Gemmell. When I first joined the writing group Erskine Writers, Rosemary was one of the first people there to make me feel welcome. Rosemary is a fine writer of fiction and articles and is tireless in her work; I am always a little in awe of her productivity. Her blog is a tasteful reflection of her gentle personality and a showcase for her writing. I am honoured to receive the award from her.

The rules of the award are that you should:

1) Accept the award, and don’t forget to post a link back to the awarding person.
2) Pass the award on.
3) Notify the award winners.

The two blogs I would like to give the award to are both children of Misha Somerville. I first found Misha's blog Red Light Ray when I bought his exceptional book Bamako Boom Boom and started to learn the whistle. This is a blog that makes me think.

I have now discovered his other blog High-8. High-8 acts as a vicarious feed for my adrenalin need - check it out. It has some stunning photos of Scotland and offers accessible alternative adventure outside of the munro bagging circuit.

There is an uncanny coincidence about the new project I started yesterday for National Novel Writing Month (there - I've announced it, now I'll have to do it)and the High-8 blog. I am writing something set in the future but I wanted some old traditional Gaelic names for my characters, the main character was originally called Solie but I decided, after a read through an old Celtic Review, to change his name to Somhairle, a name I had never heard before. About one hour after making this change I discovered that the co author of High-8 is called Somhairle Macdonald. Spooky eh?

Loch Ossian, a photo stolen from a WIP Lovely Blog

I would have liked to also award the blog prize to Colin for his photography blog but it is in bits at the moment so you will have to settle for one of the photos I stole years ago and have used here and there ever since - he doesn't seem to mind too much.

PS I wish the award had been called something other than Lovely - I hate the word although I have been known to use it occasionally in this blog!

Krakow - The City of Inspiration

2009-10-26T20:30:00.006Z

The Chess Game - Children of all ages spend a wet Saturday afternoon playing chess in a large shopping mall. Now that was inspiring.
Somehow I can't see that being replicated in Glasgow's Silverburn Centre!

At the risk of being thrown off Blogger by the cliche police I have to report I was stuck in a rut. After a burst of enthusiasm in September, my novel has moved from trundle mode to stutter. I needed a holiday to find some sparks and Krakow in autumn hit the spot.

It was sunny when we arrived but that didn't last long. The clean and adequate Hotel Kazimierz had made the prudent decision that it wasn't cold enough for heating - the room was a little chilly. That first night, as Colin and I sipped our duty free G&Ts, we planned our week. We scanned the many tourist tours on offer and decided they were not for us. The two things I wanted to do was to travel down to the border town of Zakopane and also visit Auschwitz.

Apart from the straight forward journey from Airport to town, I found the train system in Krakow incomprehensible, but the buses had easy to understand and frequent timetables and cheap fares. Because of this we bused it to both our desired destinations.

A direct flight from Edinburgh to Krakow, followed by a two hour bus journey to Zakopane means the town has the potential for a cheap skiing holiday. Unfortunately the day we were there the Tatra mountains hide behind the thick veil of rain, but the town was neat and seemed to have good facilities for walkers and skiers.

The next day we braved the cold sleet to make our way to Auschwitz, which was appropriate weather for such a trip. I have never experienced such a huge sense of bewilderment. As I stood, cold and hungry, on those famous tracks and listened to the Polish guide explain that it was here the new arrivals were split, some to the camp, most to the gas chamber, I swore I would never complain again. Words fail me still.

When I got back to the hotel I went straight into bed to warm myself up, or maybe it was to make myself feel better.

A visit to Auschwitz should be compulsory for everyone in the world. What happened there should never be allowed to happen again.

The weather didn't improve but at least the Hotel put the heating on.

The people of Poland seem to have forgotten how to smile but I liked them for that, when I did get a smile I knew it was genuine.

And the inspiration appeared while I was there. Two poems and one short story tumbled out of nowhere and when I came home my characters were waiting for me with a few surprises.

What happened to September?

2009-10-01T18:36:00.004+01:00

The Month of September

I have not managed to post one entry in September. Where did the month go?

Granted I was on a writing retreat for one of the weeks, finishing off the first draft of novel number two. But that still leaves three weeks.

The preparation and commencement of my two community courses used up a huge chunk of time. The first course, How to Survive The Credit Crunch, I am attempting to deliver to eighteen rowdy young mother's who have, up till now, had few breaks in their lives. They still have to realise that making the right choices and taking control is the key. I hope I can teach them a few useful tips. I would have had more chance to succeed with a smaller class, but it appears to me that funders are more interested in the numbers than the actual results, which is a shocking situation.

The second course is with a small creative writing group I am leading into the varied world of musicals.

I have never written a musical before and neither have they, but they are inspired (and inspiring) and having fun and that's all that matters.

1st October

The first of October arrived early for me with small scratching sounds at 4.30 this morning. At first I thought it was rain, but soon worked out that is was a mouse working its way from the outside wall to the inside wall. Living in the country, we can't keep them out, but I cant remember them arriving this early in the year before.

Country Life

2009-08-31T18:25:00.007+01:00

The winners along with a peely wally bottle of Sloe Gin that didn't stand a chance. Now I know.

There are a few drawback to living in the country but not many. I was brought up in a small village in Fife so I embrace country life. When I moved into this area four years ago I was determined to try to join the community. This is hard if, like me, you are not a member of the church or have children at school. The Annual Village Show, is a great way to support your village and see the natives at play.

I have never shown vegetables before but I do know it is a deadly serious business. This was my first year at the show and I treated it as a vegetable reccy. I had however entered into Women's Rural Shows before, so I know the score with jam and scones. I entered seven exhibits into the Preserves and Wine categories. Imagine my surprise when I found I had won two firsts, a second and a third. The locals must have wondered who this incomer was.

I took my time doing the rounds of the vegetable exhibits, noting the style of presentation and the winners' good points. Next year I will enter my vegetables but judging from the monumental size of some of the onion and leek exhibits I doubt if my efforts will raise much excitement among the seasoned winners.

My new raised bed will help my chances at next year's show.
The jungle between the bed and the green house is a crop of sweet corn and butternut squash. They are both first timers in my garden. The sweetcorn is a great success, the butternut squash, I am still waiting to see.

A Lovely Thing

Today while walking home along the West Highland Way I met a young lad of about nineteen or twenty. He wore cheap, obviously new, waterproofs similar to the type I had when I first started walking. He was grinning from ear to ear.
'There's a calf just been born, just back there,' he said in a strong Glasgow accent.
'What a way to start my week's holiday,' he continued before marching off with pride.

His joy was infectious and I hope he sees many more wondrous sights on his way to Fort William.

I walked only a few feet further on and watched the mother finish licking her baby and the little one take its first shoogly steps on this fine earth.

The Importance of Being Moira

2009-08-27T19:24:00.004+01:00

I did two significant things today.

First I posted off my application for a writer's bursary. If I am lucky enough to be selected for this I will receive money to continue the research for my novel and further the development of my creative writing courses.

The second was to go to Glasgow's Western Infirmary for a chest Xray. My doctor suggested this because she is not happy with my persistent cough. While I was sitting in the waiting room I finished the excellent book, My Year Off by Robert McCrum, which is an honest account of the author's recovery from a stroke he had when he was only forty two years old. This may not have been the best book to read in a hospital waiting room but a loved one recently suffered a similar fate and I wanted to understand the condition.

As I walked out onto Church Street I thought about the fragility of our lives and how, in seconds, our futures can drastically change course. I thought about the possible outcomes of my application and my Xray. One I hope is positive, the other negative, no guesses as to which outcome goes with which event.

Such ponderings could have led to low spirits, but they didn't. They provided me with a startling clarity of what is important in my life. My spirits lifted, I treated myself to a delicious lunch at Peter's Restaurant, Hyndland Street, I tried on expensive dresses I couldn't afford in Hyndland Road and I found and bought the handbag I have been seeking for almost two years. This seems very indulgent and it was, but I also had fun haggling with the fruit seller in Bryes Road and selecting fish for the freezer from the fish monger.

Now I am at home, when I should be somewhere else.

I am sitting in a cosy kitchen, sipping a glass of my home made wine, listening to the radio and admiring the ruby red pots of plum jam and plum compote I have just made for Colin and my lovely family who I am going to visit tomorrow.

A Reflective Post

2009-08-19T19:04:00.005+01:00

Enough of gardening, persistent coughs and bad weather. I heard this song on the radio the other day and couldn't believe I had never come across it before. Where have I been?

It is like a musical version of Desiderata by Max Ehrmann which was written almost ninety years ago and runs like this:

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy."

But don't forget the sunscreen

The hills are alive with the sound of coughing

2009-07-28T20:18:00.015+01:00

Morning Sun on the Mont Blanc Massif

Relaxed and refreshed after the holiday - No.

Today is the first day since I came home that I have enough energy to post a blog.

I developed a sore throat and cough just before setting off on a trekking holiday which would take us over passes and through the valleys of the Pays de Mont Blanc. What should have been an action filled, spirits lifting, weight dropping fortnight, turned into a barking trudge up hillsides; sometimes to as high as 2500 meters where I would collapse into hacking, gut ripping, coughing fits.

I had looked forward to meeting fellow travellers of different nationalities. But at the end of each day when I wheezed into the refuges, my fellow walkers eyed me with dread, knowing I would keep them off their well earned sleep. I tried in vain to muffle my coughs by burying my head in my sleeping bag, but the only relief I got was the night an elderly man two spaces down kept the whole valley awake with his apnea.

Despite my disability I managed to enjoy the trip. The refuges were clean and the wardens fed us well and soothed my throat with fresh lemon and honey. The mountains and scenery were stunning and the meadow flowers would make Jeremy Clarkson feel guilty about the Mont Blanc Tunnel.

Chamonix in the shadow of the Mont Blanc Summit

Why I Like Chamonix

The big surprise of the holiday was how much I enjoyed visiting Chamonix. My expectations of this tourist trap was of fat hoards splodging about on dog poo covered streets. There are tourists, but they are there for a reason - the mountains.

The hulk of Mont Blanc follows you round every corner of the village. A cool grey glacial river runs between the pristine streets. Everyone looks healthy, there is no smell of chips, no pubs doors decorated with smokers. Beers are served ice cold in small glasses, coffee comes black in even smaller cups and there is not a drop of mayonnaise in sight. Missing is fat men with bellies on proud display, despite the scorching weather. Men and women with defined muscles eat crepes and appropriately dressed salads while they pour over guide books and maps.

Of course there is the climbing poser brigade who jingle jangle off the Aiguille du Midi cable car, exuberant at their morning's climb, but I am assured by Colin that often these poor alpinists just manage to catch a car and may not have time to take the gear off on the way down.

Above the clouds

When we arrived home to Scotland we finished off the holiday with a meal in a local restaurant. We walked along a litter strewn pathway to reach the pub that was bursting with wobbly bellied bodied, glugging down pints and stuffing their faces with grease and sugar laden muck. It's great to be home.

What a difference 14 days makes

My garden was well tended while I was away, but what a sight met me on my return. The New Zealand Flax, which has been cursed as a waste of space by our household's chief grass cutter (not me) has been busy producing flowers. I took this photo last week, I think it has grown another two feet since then. The flowers are burgundy, almost black and the bees and butterflies are having a nectar feeding frenzy; apparently this plant is packed full of the stuff. I wonder if global warming will bring humming birds to Scotland?

New Zealand Flax - The Grass Cutter's Bane

The difference between the English and the Scots is...

2009-07-03T14:56:00.003+01:00

While the English commentators were happily comparing Andy Murray's expected win to 1966, we Scots were hiding behind our sofas, scared to look in case our interest might hex the boy and make him lose. Why are we like this? We have had it beaten into us since the cradle - "don't get too big for your boots now!"

Today Andy shook off the national curse, and played his wee heart out. Next year he will win for sure.

More Firsts

Someone asked me the other day if I am still collecting Firsts. In a way I am and always will. One first this week was the harvest of my first time growing beans. They were delicious steamed and served with local venison stew and redcurrant sauce (another first - last years redcurrants were enjoyed by the crows).

Unfortunately my garden is dripping with produce waiting to be picked and I am off on holiday for two weeks. My house sitters and garden waterers will have a great feast while I am way.

Classic moment of the day

Just spotted - a car with driver and passenger who looked as though they had eaten all the pies and were searching for more. Emblazoned on the car side "Want to loose weight? Contact us" I think not!

The Good, The Bad and The Privileged

2009-06-26T15:46:00.005+01:00

The story of Molendinar Family Learning Centre.

The Eco Flag flies above flowers donated earlier in the day by a local gardener.

I have been working this year with a group of mothers at the Molindinar Family Centre. The Centre is situated in Blackhill in the East End of Glasgow. Wikipedia describe Blackhill as "developed as a council housing estate in the 1930s. Most of the new development was designated Rehousing, the lowest grade of council housing intended for those cleared from Glasgow's 19th century slums". In the last decade the estate has been rejuvenated and the Molendinar Centre is one of the many success stories of that rejuvenation.

The Centre has a three large nurseries and a parents room. In the past year they have successfully worked for, and been awarded with their Eco Flag. I have been working with the parents to grow vegetables and herbs and the nurseries have been growing flowers. Tyres and boxes have been painted by the parents and a couple of weeks ago we planted them up.

When I arrived last week I found the lot had been vandalised. I was told that some youths had rampaged the outside area and thought it would be fun to destroy this hard work. The children and the mothers had cried when they saw the damage.

The Evening Times reported the incident on Monday. When I arrived yesterday the scene had transformed. Flowers bloomed from every corner of the Centre. Local residents had turned out in force to donate money and flowers to repair the damage.

This is an example of how the actions of a few callous youths can be overturned by the kindness of the community. I have no doubt that community will win in the end.

It has been a privilege for me to work in Blackhill and I am looking forward to working with them again in the future.

Glittering Prizes

2009-06-22T19:35:00.005+01:00

The Proof - Monty Halls' Wilderness on the left, the MOD on the right

A visit to Applecross last week was a welcome break. We found a few changes since last there. The pub, always busy, is over stretched with the increase in traffic since the BBC invasion. What hasn't changed is the MOD's proximity to Monty Halls wilderness paradise and the stunning scenery.

We will go back in November for the unedited local weather, a decent seat in the pub and a chance to chat with the locals once they emerge from their summer hideout.

Food Miles

At the beginning of this year I claimed I would reduce my food miles and I now realise that I haven’t reported any of the things I have been doing.

I am lucky to live in Scotland. Here I have almost all I need within our borders. And Europe is so close that I can almost get away with buying the rest from there.

Here is a list of all the things I have changed this year;

All flour from Aberfeldy Mills
All honey from Dalmiur
All eggs local
All cows milk local
All meat local
All fish Scottish (our local butcher sells fish purchased weekly from Pittenweem)

I now buy only Scottish cheddar, soft cheese I make myself but I have still to get into the practice of doing this weekly. Parmesan from Italy.

I try to only buy Scottish fruit and vegetable, preferably from the farmers market. The big exceptions are bananas and lemons, I can’t do without bananas, but I qualify this by buying only Fair Trade – the lemons I’m still working on.

My garden is now beginning to bear produce so I am buying less and less as summer progresses. All my herbs are home grown.

The wine we drink is either home made or French.

One acquisition to the garden is Champion the Bean. The Centre for Contemporary Arts in Glasgow are currently running an exhibition called This Land is your Land. Part of that project is to give plants away to anyone happy to look after them. I took Champion. They also gave me two chilli plants which I called Cayenne and Abel. The bean was unhappy in its pot but is now thriving in a whisky barrel in the company of an Italian bean and a butternut squash.

Champion the Bean on the right of the barrel. The plastic tub is the beer trap I put out to give the slugs a happy time and keep then off the beans.

Glittering Prizes

Congratulation to James Kelman on winning the Scottish Book of the Year for Kieron Smith,boy. I finished the book last night and can confirm it as a worthy winner.

This novel uses a unique voice to chart the life of a small boy through the ages of five to twelve in post war Glasgow. I heard James Kelman discuss the book a couple of months ago where he stated that this is a book for women to discover how fraught with danger a little boy's life is. The story is touching, heroic and funny. It has been described as Kelman's best book yet.

Capercaillie and Cateran

2009-05-25T16:52:00.006+01:00

It isn't every weekend that you share a stage with an international supergroup and then follow in the footsteps of marauding clans and cattle thieves. Not to mention the realisations that I am becoming addicted to Britain's Got Talent.

The weekend began at the Fintry Music Festival. The traditional music group I am a member of, Get Reel, was asked a while ago if we could support Capercaille. Unlikely you would think but a fact. Under the able instruction of our tutors Mike (Malinky) Vass and Barry (Spad)Reid we learned three sets to perform. This was our fifteen minute happening.

Karen Matheson passed through our rehearsal area back stage a couple of times and gave us smiles and hellos. I think she probably felt sorry for us as we screeched and droned.
At 8.00pm on Friday night we walked out into the stage in front of the packed hall of Fintry Sports Club and played our wee hearts out. The audience clapped along and gave us a massive applause. The Capercaille show was pretty fine too.

I have heard the bookings are now flooding in.

The Cateran Trail

I found a flyer in a magazine about a new walking trail in Perth and Angus. The circular trail starts and finishes in Blairgowrie. It follows the paths that the Caterans used and takes about five days to complete. Colin and I only had a couple of days so we opted for short sections.

The first section was from Bridge of Cally to Blairgowrie. The track takes a high route over the Cochrage Muir and give the walker wide landscapes of clean ploughed fields and up close and personal access to the many nestling birds in the area. At one point we were surrounded by lapwing mothers flapping over their youngsters, while the fledgling flustered round ground nests wondering what all the fuss was about.

We completed the section in a couple of hours and caught a taxi back to the Bridge of Cally Hotel where we enjoyed a well prepared and presented meal.

The Dalhenzean Lodge B&B, just up the road, was clean, comfortable and gave us the biggest cooked breakfast I have eaten in years. It was just the job to see us off on our next trip.

This time we opted for a variation on the Cateran trail so we could enjoy a circular route. This route took us past Loch Beanie where a fledgling oystercatcher was chirping and birlin in circles like one of those wind up toys you see in Chinese markets, the only difference was this little bird never ran out of spin.

Part of the walk took us on road but it didn't spoil the enjoyment too much. The thousands of lambs we encountered brought back to mind that age old puzzle - Why do such cute lambs turn into ugly sheep? It isn't right somehow.

One lamb made friends with us, I was tempted to stick him in my rucksack but in the end sent him back to his mother.

One lamb trying to make his escape

Welcome Babey Boy

2009-05-19T18:35:00.004+01:00

Yesterday was a big day in my life. A wee babey boy was born at 8.30 in the morning. He is my first grandchild and I am bursting with pride. I was over in Fife yesterday visiting a very tired Mum and Dad and a very contented little boy. I wont say any more otherwise I will turn into a cliche sprouting idiot.

Poor Neglected Blog

2009-05-05T21:40:00.001+01:00

The Clutha Vaults - The only place to be seen on a Friday night in Glasgow.

I can't believe it is almost a month since I last created a post. I have been delivering four new courses into the community and the preparation and teaching time have elbowed everything else into the background.

The courses, Excel, Kitchen Gardening X 2 and Creative Writing, are all going well. I am finished with the Excel and one Kitchen Gardening this week and hope this will free up some time to push me out into my own garden and reintroduce myself to my novel.

But it hasn't all been work. Colin won a weekend for two at the Jury's Glasgow Hotel and we thought we would combine it with the Bob Dylan concert.

We came into town on Friday night and had dinner at an old style Glasgow restaurant. It was at one time the place to be seen. We had eaten there before, on Valentine's night, but like all Valentine meals, we were disappointed. This time would be different, I was sure.

But it wasn't. I was served over cooked scallops to start. They were no match for the succulent fresh beasts dished up at the Applecross Inn. There they are so fresh you pass them on the way in still sloshing about in the fisherman's bucket.

The main course of swordfish wasn't too bad, but it wasn't that great either. The most startling thing about the restaurant was the clientele. They all looked like gangsters; old guys trying to impress young straightner-straight-haired women. It was a bizarre experience.

We needed brought back to earth, so we went for a drink in The Scotia Bar, an old Glasgow institution. A live Blues band was belting out many decibels, but a couple of old guys in the corner told me The Clutha Vaults, across the road, was better. And it was. Another live band was playing, this time seventies and eighties rock. Before I knew what was happening I was up on the floor dancing with four women from Pollock. They don't make pubs like that anymore.

After that Saturday night at the SECC could have been a let down, but Sir Bob came up with a show. He played a mixture of old and new material and his band were excellent. I hate Bob Dylan's new staccato singing style, but it was an honour to see what was billed as The Poet Laureate of Rock.

Congratulations to Carol Anne Duffy on becoming the new Poet Laureate. Let's hope she will continue with the excellent work Andrew Motion began with the Poetry Archive.

Chill out time

2009-04-07T19:38:00.011+01:00

Eilean Shona - Scotland in miniature

Colin and I have just come back from a week’s holiday on Eilean Shona, a wee island off the west coast of Scotland. The ferry (small rubber dingy) picked us off the mainland at 5.00pm on Saturday, we were walked to our cottage and left to enjoy the peace. We had enough food, drink and books for a week.
Eilean Shona is a sort of mini Scotland. It has some reasonable hills to climb, a diverse international forest, lochs, fine walking, history, wildlife and a fabulous white sandy beach.

The Perfect Red Cottage

The island has a number of holiday cottages. We were staying in Red Cottage which was up a hill on the edge of a forest. There was so much storm damaged dead wood lying around we were encouraged to have a camp fire, which we delighted in doing most evenings.

Afternoon tea at the cottage

Being a mad recycler I was keen to keep the rubbish we produced and left behind to a minimum. The new estate managers, Rose and Ali, had told me that they hoped to create a vegetable garden. I asked if they had a compost heap for my vegetable scrapes, not yet but they had something better. Three pigs who were employed as environmental rotivators, churning up the vegetable patch and grateful for anything you threw at them.

The Three Composters

We failed to see the promised wildlife of pine martin, otter and sea eagle, but we did manage to see deer and grey seals and plenty birds. And we brought some wildlife back with us; the walk to the beach had us wading through some pretty long heather. As a result of this heather bashing both Colin and I have been plucking tics out of our skin ever since. I thought April would have been too early for Scotland’s nasties, but apparently not.

The sun sparkled beach - was it really April? Yes, that's why I still wore my hillwalking boots on the sand

WWF Earth Hour

Just because I was on holiday did not mean I forgot a very important appointment. At 8.30pm on Saturday the 28th of March, Colin and I sat in our wee Red Cottage and watched our wood burning stove glow while we turn off the lights for an hour.

Earth hour - check out how the rest of the country spent the hour

A funny turn up

2009-03-26T17:43:00.005Z

Bursting to get out

This is the last week of my two Survive the Credit Crunch courses. I am pleased with the results. In the early weeks, the women I lectured were sceptical and often disagreed with my prattles about budgeting and saving money, but as the weeks progressed I witnessed a shift. Despite their doubts many took on board much of what was being discussed. Hardened cynics who insisted they could never save money, would always take taxis and couldn't live without their tumble dryer, were proud to announce that the bus wasn't so bad and if the weather was good, the washing could dry on the line while they walked to where they needed to be.

Many of the women were already pretty shrewd when it came to household budgets. I learned loads from them and am pleased that I have now been given the opportunity to continue working with one group to take Surviving the Credit Crunch a step further by introducing them to growing their own vegetables. Their enthusiasm for this subject is inspiring. I can't wait to start in April.

Forced into daylight

Talking of Gardening

The March weather has been relatively dry and sunny and has been tempting me into the garden. I have been resisting the urge to plant my potatoes. Many years ago a wise old gentleman gardener, sadly now deceased, told me never to plant potatoes before Good Friday. Taking his advice was always a good bet and I have quite a few wins in the Grand National to prove that.

One thing I did do early on was pop a pot on top of my rhubarb. The result was my first ever forced rhubarb. I stewed the first crop with a lump of fresh ginger and served it with Greek yogurt. Yum.

Monty Halls’ Great big illusion-delusion

2009-03-10T14:32:00.004Z

Sand Beach on the Applecross Peninsula - like Monty Halls, Colin left the MOD submarine base out of the picture.(photo Colin Baird)

It is no secret that one of my favourite places in the world is Applecross in the North West of Scotland. Colin and I had a house there for four years and know the area well. Imagine our delight on finding a programme made there. We watched it with interest last week and again this week. However after the first week my enjoyment was derived not only from the scenery and seeing old pals but also trying to spot how many distortions the BBC can cram into the show.

For anyone who hasn’t seen the show, Monty Hall has moved to a derelict shed on a deserted beach in the wilderness of Applecross, with the desire to live like a crofter. He was able to entice the local population into helping make the shed habitable, this included a guy who was impossible to get hold of when we were there. What the programme fails to point out is that the beach, Sand, is the busiest beach on the Applecross Peninsula and the ‘remote shed’ is only about 200 metres from a MOD submarine base. Like some alien movie the existence of this base has been evaporated and erased from the world of Monty Halls. Those are the most obvious fibs, there are loads of others. I will never believe another thing on the telly again. The programme is worth watch despite Monty Halls believing real life crofters have solar panels to power their iPods and seems to be incapable of catching mackerel with a full kit of high tech fishing gear. Maybe the friendly locals omitted to mention to him that if he drove his landrover four miles down the road to Toscaig Pier and stood with a rod for a couple of hour he would catch loads of mackerel.

Books for a Better World

2009-02-16T16:48:00.007Z

Being a writer I have to be careful not to annoy anyone who might help sell my book once it is published. Being a reader I can not help being frustrated by the way a certain online bookseller does its business.

Last year I heard that publishers were being manipulated by this bookseller in the same way large supermarkets treat our farmers. Margins were being squeezed so tight the profit was turning from black to red. One publisher stood their ground and refused to reduce their rates. The consequence was the seller removed the BUY NEW button from their site, denying the publisher the sale.

I was enraged and vowed to use my library more and only buy books from the High Street.

Last week I was looking for a book called The Hidden History of Glasgow's Women by the eminent Elspeth King. I tried the Mitchell Library first but they only had a copy in a secured shelf. I would have to locker my bag and sit in a secure room to read it. No good. They could order it for me, but I might have to wait a while.

Being of an impatient nature I tried both the large High Street bookstores. Despite the shelves heaving with 3 for 2 offers of American and UK easy Lit I found no joy when looking for this influential piece of Glasgow history.

I had no option but to turn to my old pals the second hand online seller ABE Books. This reliable portal site puts the shopper in touch with many seller across the country.

But each time I use this option I am faced with a dilemma. The poor old publisher and author still miss out on the sale but the recycling aspect of it appeals. This time the seller I found gave me added bonuses.

Bonus One. They were based in Dunfermline, my home town. Income for the Fifers!

Bonus Two. They are called Better World Books, an organisation that helps literacy across the world and saves books from landfill sites.

Bonus Three. I found two books I was looking for at a low price and they arrived on my doorstep within two working days of being ordered.

The result.

A Better World 3 - Greed 0

Busy, Busy, Busy

2009-02-09T19:33:00.003Z

The paid work

It has been a while since I last posted a blog but I have a genuine excuse. Before Christmas I punted a couple of ideas round some learning establishments in Glasgow. I had outlines for two courses I thought would be perfect to deliver into the community; A Guide to Successful Living and How to Survive the Credit Crunch. I figured I would have a couple of months’ breathing space to develop the course before anyone organised themselves and booked me. Wrong! A college in North Glasgow booked me to deliver the Credit Crunch course to three separate groups of women. I am now into the fourth week of a ten week course and am just beginning pull the last pieces of the development work together.

The course looks at budgets, debt, money saving tips, smart shopping and even some microwave cooking. It has been a fantastic learning experience for me and I have turned into a fanatic light switcher-offer and standby plug puller.

The novel

If all this teaching isn’t enough to keep me away from my blog I am delighted to report that I still find at least one half day a week to work on my second novel. It can be frustrating to commit to paid work (the course) and to find it is the perfect catalyst for shifting writers block and leaving you yearning to complete the non paid work (the novel). I now miss my main character Ellie when I don’t spend quality time with her in the week. I am halfway through the first draft of the story and want to finish that by July.

The seeds, the seeds

It is seed time again. My carbon footprint project is also ongoing and even though I haven’t spent a huge amount of time on it I do live the ethos daily. One of my main objectives is to step up the food production in the garden. I planted the first of my seeds yesterday and will gradually increase that as the spring arrives.

A new trial for me is using the inside tubes of toilet rolls to make seed pods. I have been collecting them for ages and I am relieved to get them out the way and in use.

You can see the snow in the barrels outside. I hope my November planted garlic will be OK.

A Well Kept Secret

2009-01-12T20:30:00.005Z

Gartocharn Farmers Market

I heard a rumour that the small village of Gartoharm held a farmers market every Friday. I had passed through the village many times on Fridays and caught no sign of life, but last week I was determined to seek out and find. I drove over at 9.30am. No homemade signs hammered into the verge alerting passers by to this fabled event, nothing. The car in front signalled right and tuned off the main road so I followed. Some police cones lined the pavement, things were looking hopeful. I spotted two elderly men leaving the Village Hall car park carrying shopping bags, but the Village Hall door was open; something was going down in there.

'Where is the farmers market? I shouted out the car at a passing women. She pointed down the road to where droves of people now headed, where did they come from? 'It's just along that lane, follow the crowd.

Result! I parked and headed along a tree lined avenue reminiscent of the boulevards of France. White farm buildings dominated the skyline almost hiding the stunning backdrop of Loch Lomond. Rows of fresh local and imported fruit and vegetables burst from trestle tables. It was indeed just like the French market I stumble upon whenever I visit Paris (but without the fish and cheese). I jostled with the crowds, tripped over pushchairs and rummaged for the best of the fine selection. I loaded my bag with as much as I could carry and went into a shed to pay. Inside the shed there was more to choose from, including at least eight varieties of potatoes.

The other customers greeted each other like old friend and I suspected that the market is not advertised because the locals prefer it that way. Well I am a local too (almost) and I felt privileged to be able to shop here.

I envied the wee woman who trundled her trolley bag back up the avenue. Next week I would be sure to be better prepared.

I didn't have my camera with me on Friday - the craft market is held in the same hall as my Pilate's class

But what was happening in the hall? A weekly craft market, thats what. I enjoyed the luxury of sauntering round the hall, taking a 25p shot at the tombola and not winning, then paying £1.40 for a mug of (not bad) coffee and an indulgent chocolate brownie. I sat and enjoyed the view from the hall window and reflected on life in the country. It is a bit like being thrown into the set of the Archers and realising that it is an enjoyable experience. I can't wait until next week.

Goodbye 2008 - Hello 2009

2009-01-05T14:23:00.002Z

2008

This Christmas, with the economic recession foremost in all our minds, I decided consumable home made goods would be a good bet as presents. I was a bit worried about the reaction but was amazed that everyone loved the idea and the gifts. The gifts ranged from small goodie bags to large hampers. I filled these with a selection of home made country wines, sloe gin, rowanberry liqueur, ginger wine, chutney, marmalade, pecan and maple tablet, rum and raisin fudge, brandy truffles, shortbread and cake. The best thing about these hampers is that everything in them can be recycled!

Glen Affric - Above the clouds

My year of firsts finished with a visit to a new Hostel just outside Drumnadrochit where I celebrated the arrival of 2009 with friends. The Loch Ness Hostel at Bearnock was luxurious compared to some of the places I have visited in the past. Warm, clean and accessible to the many nearby hills is just what is needed for a winter break.

I have not made a definitive list of first but know that I have surpassed the fifty mark. The highlights for me was my fabulous birthday treat to the Three Chimneys in Skye, the Connect Festival and reading out my poetry in public. It was a memorable way to celebrate my fiftieth birthday year and I know that I will continue to celebrate each new experience in 2009.

A spooky Glen Affric below the clouds

2009

For me every New Year starts with bags of enthusiasm for my over ambitious plans. This year is going to be particularly special for me because I am due to become a grandmother for the first time in May. I also have loads of projects planned.

Here are a few;

Novels

I plan to finish my second novel, working title THE OOTLINS. I have been nibbling away at this story for the past year and although I know what needs to be written I find it hard to motivate myself whilst searching for a publisher for my first novel Torque. No more procrastination. The book will be finished this year.

Community Courses

I have recently been developing two courses to deliver into the community. The one that is attracting most interest is Surviving the Credit Crunch for Families. This can be tailored to any group. I use my past life experience of surviving the Miners Strike in 1984 but I also use day to day home crafts and all round canny practices.

The second course is the Guide to Successful Living which covers all aspects of health, wealth and happiness.

To find out more about these courses visit the website at www.moiramcpartlin.com

Carbon Footprint

My personal project for 2009 is to reduce my carbon footprint. Last year I made a good start on this but I think that with all this financial gloom around just now the time is ripe to push further to reduce the air miles on food and live on local produce.

I had a first stab at this yesterday.

Ta-Dah

As threatened last year I bought a cheese making kit. This first batch of cheese was produced from one litre of locally produced milk. It took ages but it is good fun.

Strange Phenomenon

2008-12-15T18:40:00.004Z

I don’t know why it happens but it does. After years and weeks of managing to completely avoid the X Factor I always seem to end up compelled to watch the final. Is it because it is on a couple of weeks before Christmas and I am so knackered by the time Saturday comes round I just want collapse in a heap and be drip fed red wine and dross TV?

This year I have to be honest and say I did have a tiny motive. I had heard that Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah was to be the X Factor single. I guess many purists will be horrified, but poor Leo’s retirement fund has been ripped off so he needs the cash. This is one of my favourite songs and I was curious to see how brutal the murder would be. Alexandra, the girl who won with a little help from Beyoncé, did an OK job of the classic but it wasn’t a patch on the Jeff Buckley version.

I have been trying to play and sing the song since last week and have been failing at every F, it is full of them!

Leonard depends more on his songwriting skills than his singing style.

Guilty Pleasures

As the night progressed I threw out the last of my street cred (if I had any to begin with) into the recycle bin and watched and enjoyed The Girls’ Aloud Party. I had forgotten what a Saturday night was for, but I will make sure I have other plans organised for next week or I might end up watching the final of Strictly Come Dancing.

The result of climate change or the return of winter?

2008-12-02T14:23:00.007Z

Alpine glow on Bidien Shuish

On Friday we drove through scattered snow showers to reach Fort William before the big freeze happened. Our weekend with the Ochil Mountaineers had begun in seasonal style. The Àite Cruinnichidh bunk house at Roy Bridge was the perfect doss for a trip into the abundance of hills nearby. Saturday morning broke through with every drop of precipitation in evidence frozen white. Colin and I and one other OM decided the small Binnein Shuas (746) was a perfect excursion for our winter gear. It was so, so, so cold. What’s going on, November is normally the wet month? This was phenomenal, or maybe I had just forgotten. I certainly can’t remember the last time I donned my balaclava at the car park. We were like puppies let out in the snow for the first time. The three hours to the summit gave us plenty time to dawdle and snap the light.

Our return home on Sunday was just as incredible. At the summit of Rannoch Moor the car told us it was -8.5 outside. The landscape looked like a Christmas cake iced too early. It looked alien. Is this the beginning of the ice age we have been warned about or is it just that we have been due a good hard winter?

Judging from the number of businesses closed down in Fort William (not counting the troubled Woolies), it feels like the Fort could do with a bumper skiing season to pull the town back in full swing. Let’s hope this is the year.

Recipe for the birds

We arrived home with a bump from the dizzy clear heights of the high country to the fog bound Central Belt. The garden birds were down to their last few peanuts so I made then a special treat - Home made bird cake. This counts as a first because I made it first only a couple of weeks ago.

In a large pot melt half a packet of vegetable suet over a slow heat
Add a general wild bird food mix until the suet has been absorbed and all the seeds coated
Pack the crumbly mixture into half coconut shells or any other suitable container. It only takes a couple of minutes to cool and harden. Take outside and sit back to watch your afternoon entertainment; a feeding frenzy and a few spats too.

As I put the food out I couldn’t help worrying about the deer herd I saw down at road level hunting for some food. I hope they will not suffer too much with this early winter.

Just Read Barbara Kingsolver Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Barbara Kingsolver, author of the Poisonwood Bible, is famous for her novel writing but I suspect she is about to become the Al Gore of the literary world. This book chronicle the project she embarked on with her husband and two daughters; to live for a year eating only food sourced within a hundred mile radius of their home in Virginia. This fascinated me because it seemed impossible and I continually searched for holes in their theory. How would they manage without resorting to living through the winter months eating turnip and brussels sprout soup. They achieved it in style.

They did have the benefit of living on a farm and flexible jobs but it could not be denied that they worked hard at making this work.

I loved reading the book. At first I wished that I read it in February because I was itching to grow things but half way thorough I decided November is the perfect time because I now have time to plan how I can make a dent in our food miles.

While reading the book I dragged up a memory of someone trying this in Fife. Google brought me to the Fife Diet. I know Fife isn’t as exotic as Virginia but it is only fifty miles from me and I have to travel there anyway to visit my family so I found their resources most helpful.

Even if you don’t agree with Barbara’s view the book is worth a read for the exquisite and humorous writing.

I’m now off to order my cheese making kit. Thanks for the idea Barbara.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T19:02:00.002Z

Firecracker Corn Bread

Today is Thanksgiving and because I am a global type of person, I decided we should celebrate it. We have been celebrating Chinese New Year for at least three years. The only problem was Colin is out tonight so we celebrated one day early.

I am addicted to two US food blogs 101 cookbooks and Smitten Kitchen so finding recipes was not going to be a problem. On the menu was Pumpkin Soup (recipe courtesy of the BBC) served with firecracker corn bread (101 cookbooks) - this was hot! I had roast duck because I can't face cooking turkey twice in one year, roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and Confit of Cranberry (Delia). OK so it was a trial run for Christmas but at least I now have duck fat for roast potatoes and my mountains of cranberry freezing away until the 24th. Life is going to be so easy. Now looking back at my meal I see the one and only recipe from over the pond was the corn bread.

Not Long to Go

2008-11-24T20:40:00.010Z

Fig wine colour co-ordinating with a pumpkin and my maturing Sloe Gin.

It’s been a while since I posted a ‘first fifty’ blog and because it is nearing the end of the year the ‘firsts’ are starting to pile up.

Over the past few weeks the firsts have been;

Read Great Expectations. I have read Dickens before but am amazed at the amount of people I have met recently who declare this to be their favourite all time book. It was beginning to get to me. In my classics bookcase I have a fine set of three leather bound compendiums my dad bought years ago and never read. Mark Twain (another who beckons), Arthur Conan Doyle and Dickens. There is no excuse.

The introduction to this version of Great Expectations claims, rather sniffily, that it was a block buster of its day. I can assure anyone who has never read it, that it is a fantastic page turner but it deserves the title of classic. The characters, particularly of Pip, are flawed with human traits and the mad Miss Haversham is every bit as nutty as I imagined she would be. Even the ending is left for the reader to decide. It may not be the best book I have read but it is certainly in the top twenty.

Make Fig Wine. This year I planted a fig tree and in anticipation of that crop I bought a 500gram bag of figs from the health store. I was then flummoxed as to what to do with them, so I did what I always do with buckshee produce – I made wine. Fig wine was easy to make and cleared to produce a warm honey coloured liqueur with long legs. And the taste? Well it tastes a little strange – it tastes like honey and Greek yoghurt. I am sure it has some medicinal qualities too!

Go to the Bingo. This is one I have been pining to do. When I was an unruly teenager I would occasionally go to the Sunday night bingo session in the Oakley Miner’s Welfare Club. I sat among all the old biddys and tried to win back some of my drinking money. I was hopeless because I was always too shy to call, but I hankered after these big colourful neon sparkled bingo halls just the same. What would they be like?

On Friday night my friend Fiona and I went to a Carlton Bingo(somewhere in Scotland). We signed up for our membership, paid our money and were given a pile of bingo books, each page containing about six separate grids to play off. It was daunting. The wee man at the microphone was kind enough to tell us what order the books were to play, then we were off. This must be the best trial for concentration I have ever had. The game starts with trying to fill one line. In no time someone calls. The next game is for two lines. This was new to me, they never had this in Oakley. It turned out to be the most difficult of all, so difficult that unlike my early days of silence, I called because I believed I had two lines filled up. I did have two lines filled up, I was certain and yet when the boy came and called my book number, ‘the computer said no’ I still needed 46. Fiona was buckled and my confidence was floored and my face scarlet. No one else seemed to mind. The next part of the game was for a full house. Neither Fiona nor I were near the mark on any of the games, but we did have fun for the first half, then the novelty ran out. We had arranged to meet Colin for a meal and had to leave before the end. The two ladies next to us were delighted to receive out remaining books. They were not fazed with the prospect of looking for numbers on twelve grids. I don’t know how they do it.

The Battle of Stiling Bridge in crayon. It wasn't originally as messy as this, but the sheet has been kicking about in my handbag all weekend

Brass Rubbing. This might sound daft but it is still a first. I remember when I was a kid this was trendy, if a little nerdy pastime; a bit like crocheting your own bikini. On Saturday I went to the Smith Institute in Stirling with the intention of visiting the Leonardo De Vinci exhibition, the only problem was it moved to Aberystwyth at the beginning of the month. The Smith Institute can still thrill no matter what the exhibits are. The replacement for Leo was the Fife Printmakers Workshop which, spookily, normally lives in the next street to my mother’s flat in Dunfermline. The rest of the time I spent revisiting the permanent exhibit of the history of Stirling, which is more comprehensive than the bridge battle and William Wallace. There are hands on activities one of which is a brass rubbing section. Pick up a piece of paper and a crayon and rub. It isn’t as easy as it sounds; I think the correct way is to tape the paper to the brass, without tape the paper slides around. Good fun though.

1918

2008-11-11T08:56:00.010Z

The Bandsmen

A few years ago my sister and I helped Mum break up the family home in preparation for her move into a retirement flat. It was a time of sadness, but also a time of fun and joy when we found long forget ten toys, photos and musical instruments in the loft. One of the finds, among my dad's possessions, was a diary that belonged to his father, James Patrick McPartlin. Mum gave it to me along with some photos.

The diary is a brown book measuring only one and a half inches by three inches. Just the right size to fit into a serviceman's tunic. The year of the diary is 1918.

My granddad (Papa) was a bandsman and served in the Machine Gun Corp (Suicide Club). In 1918 he was wounded and gassed and spent most of the year in hospital. This diary has fewer than 20 words written in the pages, but they are enough to sketch the picture of his year. When he was discharged from hospital he still had an open wound which needed to be dressed daily for the rest of his life. He died in his fifties, years before I was born.

Not long after receiving the diary I had the opportunity to visit the memorial to the Machine Gun Corp which is situated at Hyde Park Corner in London. Unfortunately it is covered in graffiti but it gave me the chance to thank my grandad for my life and gave me the inspiration to write this poem.

The first few words of each verse are his words - the few entries to be found in this historic diary

1918
(in italics, the sparse 1918 diary extracts of bandsman, James McPartlin, No11 Coy D. Batt, Machine Gun Corps (Suicide Club).)

Jan 10 operation at Stoke War Hospital - your time cut
through horror and waste, steal a breath.
Lungs to blast music fill with poison gas
lay down you instrument and accept the shrapnel blast

Jan 29 operation war Hospital - and lie there, alive
whilst your bandsmen march the tempo of death,
innocent eyes stare out from the frame
stir guilt that beats time in your brain

Feb 6 23 years of age - celebrate old man,
the passing of youth through your bloody wounds
here’s your chance to play the second canon
perform in a brave new battalion

May 3 To Stone Red Cross Auxiliary Hospital - and as you heal
forget the distant thunder of horns
tend to your heart for there lives a hope
sound the Reveille and drown the Last Post

July 29 Left Stone Red Cross Hospital - to bear false hopes
pack your kit bag once more
the suicide club fights to the death
and they are not finished with you yet

Aug 24 operation - hush in dolce
they whisper ‘instruments still shine’
another theatre awaits the twist of a knife
to lay open a weeping wound for life

Oct 18 Discharge from Hospital - with instruction
for a lifetime of pain, a daily dress down parade
a small sacrifice to return home
sow seeds and watch them grow

Oct 31 Left Stoke Staffs - turn your back
for your year and war is ended
syncopation falls flat and the metronome slows
as bandleader bows, the last valves close

Nov 1 Landed Home - to fanfare
to an annual garland of red paper flowers,
your life short, others shorter yet
so we may be free and still we forget

Remembrance

2008-11-06T17:55:00.002Z

Last week I trailed round my village with a red can and a bag of plastic poppys to try to persuade people to part with their money for the Scottish Poppy Appeal. The week before all the poppy volunteers gathered in the village hall to watch this video.

It should be shared with everyone; the statistics are shocking.

Please watch this and give to the Scottish Poppy Appeal if you are as moved by it as I was.

Let us hope Obama and Brown can sort this out.

food and drink and foraging

2008-10-27T19:24:00.006Z

High Brow or What

It is no coincidence that food and drink feature highly on my list of first fifties. I adore food (and drink). The weekend before last was the beginning of my collection of food firsts.

Every year Aberfoyle hold a mushroom festival and being close at hand seemed like an opportunity not to be missed for a novice forager like myself. I booked a couple of places on a mushroom foray. The weather has been pretty yuck here but thankfully the rain stopped just in time for us to meet Liz, our guide for the day. She led us under screaming children having fun on the Go Ape slide that operates from David Marshall Lodge. Liz was very knowledgeable about her subject and without being too technical managed to engage an audience of about twenty adults and teenagers. We were given an opportunely to forage for mushrooms and bring them back to Liz for identification. In one small patch we managed to collect a fair haul, most were inedible, some poisonous. There was one log covered in Angels Wings, a white fungi Liz said was edible, so I took a couple of wings to try later.

Next morning I chopped up a small piece of mushroom and fried it in butter. Colin and I both tried some and waited for an effect. When but there was no ill effect I chopped up the rest and put in our chicken gravy. I was not happy when clearing the plates away I found that Colin had left most of his mushroom lying on the plate. Coward.

The next first was a long overdue visit to a Concert, a Canapé and a Cocktail, which plays every Monday at Oran Mor and is a sister event to the much loved Play, Pie and Pint. The concert played by the National Youth Orchestra of Scotland was superb. Unfortunately the canapés were unremarkable and the cocktail had dubious ingredients and little alcohol content.

Not so the last of my firsts this week. On Saturday night we went to dinner at friends’. We were royally treated to champagne, red wine, roast beef with perfect vegetables and a cocktail I have never tasted before. ‘A dirty girl scout’ was served between courses, this is a concoction of three parts Baileys to one part crème de menthe, I think vodka might have been mentioned too. It tasted like peppermint creams and judging by the hangover I had yesterday it was lethal.

Echo Wall by Dave and Claire Macleod

2008-10-18T11:43:00.007+01:00

Watch the trailer again

Last week I blogged the trailer for Echo Wall. This week I’ve been lucky enough to preview the Echo Wall DVD and can tell you that the full length version lives up to the thrills of the trailer.

Climbing was a mystery to me until I moved to Glasgow in 1998. Back then I sometimes accompanied Colin to the Glasgow Climbing Centre at Ibrox. There I would piddle about on a couple of climbs trying the reach the top of easy walls before wimping to the café in the rafters to sup hot chocolate and watch the show on the really, really hard walls. One night I noticed a dark haired climber who bore a striking resemblance to my horrible ex boss, I was fascinated, not by the resemblance but by the sheer eloquence of the climbing. Even I could recognise this climber was special. At the end of the night I asked Colin who he was. ‘That’s Dumbie Dave, he’s from Dumbarton’.

The climber was Dave Macleod, now one of the world top climbers as proven in his astounding film E11, when he pioneered one of the hardest rock climbs ever.

A year ago Dave and his wife Claire moved to Fort William to concentrate on their professional climbing and film careers. They might not like this comparison but they seem to me to be the Posh and Becks of the climbing world, but with substance and much more to offer.

Echo Wall finds Claire behind the camera, filming her husband training for an attempt on a dangerous climbing route, a blank wall on Ben Nevis. Where this film differs for other climbing cinematography is that there is no Big Wall American hype or zoom-in shots of worried faces; no phoney tension build up or histrionics and no strangled cries of ‘OMG this is awesome’.

Echo Wall is clever. One powerful opening shot is a wide angle of the massive, terrible ice smeared cliffs of Ben Nevis and a single, small figure (Dave) moving up the face, the shot is super imposed with the climb’s name ‘Don’t Die'(XI). My heart stopped at that point and I began to bite my finger nails.

The training in Spain shows Dave climbing 'Darwin Dixit' (8c) solo (no ropes – very bad if he fell). The techno drum soundtrack choreographed the piece into a stunning new art form; a synchronism of man and rock. It was wonderful to watch and I still had some nails left.

The training on Echo Wall itself showcased Scotland at its weather worst and best. The highlight for me was Dave’s training run over Tower Ridge, a ridge that most people tackle roped up.

It was fascinating to listen to Dave’s philosophy on risk and to watch him on hand and knees on his hall floor making a reinforced thighpad (next years must haves) and explaining how it would give him a few minutes rest time on the climb just before the crux (the hardest part where he could fall off).

The actual attempt is arresting, I have no idea what Claire must have been feeling behind the camera and I wonder if having her there makes any difference to Dave’s obvious sound attitude.

I won’t spoil the ending for you but will recommend that, if you are planning to buy a Christmas DVD for an adventure hungry relative or Discovery Channel junkie, then this is guaranteed to thrill.

As a novice film maker, Claire must be applauded for the production of the film. The appropriate and evocative music is ModernTrad and very desirable to own. She would have been spoiled for choice of scenery shots in Scotland, in this instance the choices shows relevant locations, using the best light and angles. Even the fun shots of the pair digging a snow pack off the route lightens the tension and makes the whole project feel intimate.

I suspect we won’t see a perfume range produced by Brand Macleod but I predict that thigh pads and hopefully the movie soundtrack will be the next offering. Even an art installation at the Glasgow Centre for Contemporary Arts (CCA) is a possibility.

The DVD can be purchased from www.davemacleod.com and selected outdoor stores.

The best First of all

2008-10-10T18:44:00.003+01:00

The Memorial, Lochore Meadows (the meedies)

Yesterday was National Poetry Day and I had something on my list that could no longer be avoided – to read my poetry in public.

I woke in the morning and decided there and then it had to be done. To prevent me wimping out at the last minute, I emailed my intended participation to the organiser of the Scottish Federation of Writers’ poetry event that was due to happen in Glasgow’s Gallery of Modern Art(GOMA)library. All the way into town I psyched up, reminding myself that I had climbed the Inn Pin on Skye and hadn’t been this scared. What was I scared of? I was only reading, I wasn’t going to fall off a podium to my death.

The problem is that I suspect I have mild dyslexia, my reading is atrocious, my spelling even worse. Visions of me standing in front of the School assembly and stumbling through passages from the bible still haunt me and bring me out in cold bile. Now that I am writer, I find that reading my own work is even worse. Whenever I read out at my local writing group my throat closes up and I sound like a throttled chicken.

At the GOMA the show was in fair flow when I arrived. My two writing buddies Frances and Sarah came along for moral support and to make sure I didn’t bolt. As I sat and waited for my name to be called, I could feel my face and neck redden, this often happens when I am nervous. Then a strange calm came over me. This is my inevitability period when I know I will go the whole way. It happened to me as I sat in the car at the beginning of my driving test and it happened as I stood at the start of the Inn Pinn climb. I recognised this feeling and decided that I could do it. My name was called and I stood up in front of twenty odd people, I held a microphone tight and read my two poems. It was fantastic, I was so happy, I still am.

The theme of National poetry day was Work and being brought up in Fife I read two poems about the industry there. The first Cut Fingers is about the fishing industry, I explained how a fisherman’s jersey is knitted with individual patterns to make it easier to identify drowned sailors. The second poem Colliery Requiem is on my website and is about the closed pits on the Auchterderran Backbone seam in West Fife.

Here they are below, I hope you like them.

Cut Fingers

Cut fingers twist coarse yarn,
A new bride adds her history.
Bramble, moss, lover’s knot,
her family’s texture wovening.

Cut fingers mending nets,
salty, worn, stinging.
The beacon calls, guiding home.
Harbour walls embrace them.

Cut fingers casting off.
Storm brews then rages.
Hook their bodies, reel them in.
Life’s threads unravelling.

Colliery Requiem
Minto, come away, you've had a hard life,
your belly, ripped apart, with nought to show.
Your master tired of grafting,
searching for a prettier face.

Nelly and Mary you were raped in your youth,
became killers of children and men
You were treated like whores,
then cast aside on the heap.

Jenny Gray , are you there? Or lost in time,
To creep into the memories of breathless souls.
They loved you too much,
but to what cost?

Josephine, Oh queen, witch, volatile wench,
your fiery depth, the lure of all greed.
Ten honest men entombed,
on your Halloween.

Michael, conquered tides, held back the swell.
Rich beyond dreams, was justice ever yours?
Once the prize of the land,
now a fight beyond mortal men.

Frances, you were drowning, or so they said.
No good for the cost, a sacrificial lamb.
Keep your treasure locked,
and wait for resurrection.

Continuum, a back bone tired and destroyed.
Cruel death and disease replaced by depressions.
Community soul passed on
to other pursuits.

Memorial, raise your defiant head in the blistering rays,
shadowed in Benarty's bulk, beyond the rising Loch.
Silenced, while children play oblivious.
The cage closes, sealed forever.

A fistful of firsts

2008-10-07T10:44:00.010+01:00

Check out this new film by Rare Breed Productions. 'Echo Wall' is released this month and can be ordered directly for www.davemacleod.com.

Who needs manufactured Hollywood Blockbusters when you can witness real live thrills played out on the steep cliffs of Ben Nevis.

A fistful of firsts

Well maybe not a fistful but I love alliteration and sometimes I can’t help myself.

Saturday dawned with the water pouring from the sky and from the cold water tank overflow pipe. Colin could fix one but not the other. We decided to knock off a couple of things I had on my fifty wish list with the biggest and best of the day being in direct response to the weather. What better day to go to the first and only boat lift in the world – The Falkirk Wheel. Opened by The Queen in 2002 and just thirty miles from home, I am amazed it has taken me so long to visit this feat of Scottish engineering. While we waited for the boat trip we encountered many soaked and mud splattered charity mountain bikers who had just travelled the route we originally planned to take to the Wheel; the canal tow path from Anniesland. I am so glad we opted for the car.

The Boat trip lasts an hour and for our £8.00 we were treated to a running commentary by a crewman while we travelled the four and a half minute vertical journey from the Forth and Clyde Canal to the Union Canal, then a short trip through a tunnel and back again. It is too difficult for a engineering nitwit like me to explain the full principle of the wheel but it works using the counter weights of two gondolas, so uses hardly any power to operate.

Another first for me was, while travelling to the Wheel, we passed through Bonnybridge. Now Bonnybridge has been a fascination with me for years, ever since I heard that they have more UFO sightings there than anywhere else in the world. As we drove through I tried to suss out why aliens would pick this place to make an appearance. The town was a boom town during the industrial revolution, with good road, rail and canal links, but now it looks very much like a number of small towns in Central Scotland, a bit tired.

A second interesting fact I found out about Bonnybridge while at the Wheel was that they have more lottery winners per capita than anywhere else in the UK.

On the way back home I was tempted to stop off in Bonnybridge to bag another first, - buy my first lottery ticket, but then I remembered the reason why I have never bought a ticket before. I passionately believe that the lottery robs people not just of their money but of their aspirations. I remember in the olden days people pinned all their hopes on winning the pools, at least there was a small degree of thought went into that practice. The lottery is chance. Folks live from one week to the next in the hope of winning money to pull them out of the doldrums.

I know that the counter argument is the lottery gives to a large number of good causes, but it is my experience that the beneficiaries of the good causes are a different demographic completely for the poor buggers who spend large proportions of their income chasing empty dreams.

My first fifties are things I have always wanted to do, the lottery does not fall into that bucket. I know I will never buy a ticket.

First number three for this weekend was to cook a Sri Lankan meal. I am not sure if this is a cheat of not but I bought a packet of different spice at The Wheel Shop and yesterday I mixed them with the last of my garden potatoes and spinach to make a lovely coconut curry. The Hodhi Mix contains turmeric, dried curry leaf, mustard seed, mustard flour and Rampe. At first I thought this was a funny thing for a Scottish tourist shop to sell until I realised the producer, Therssy’s Village, is based in Portree, Isle of Skye.

Joan Baez wows Glasgow

2008-09-30T17:33:00.006+01:00

Another first for me. Last night I witnessed the hard men of Glasgow simper under the hypnotic vocals of legend Joan Baez. The show at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall was special for me because having just learned the rudiments of guitar I have a renewed love of all things folk.

Joan Baez was a huge draw when I was a child and to have the chance to see her singing live was a privilege.

This lady, who has shorn her hippy hair, now looks stunning with a trendy silver crop. She retains the crisp vocals and astounding range of early Joan. However she did admit last night, after forgetting lyrics for a second time, that her brain cells are not what they were. Her band played a little out of sync with her; this was explained when she introduced them as having met her only a week and a half ago. Because of this I enjoyed her solo set best, just Joan and her guitar.

It is a testament of our time, that her signature protests songs have now been reintroduced into the set. Dylan's God On Our Side was particularly telling.

The humor was provided by the guy in the first row who persisted in shouting out requests, despite Joan's plea for a translator. The affection the crowd poured towards Lady Joan was touching. I suspect she has a long career ahead of her.

Just Read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

In my quest to read more African books in 2008 than I have in my previous fifty years, it was a delight to stumble upon Poisonwood Bible in the Bibliocafe. The book is a former Oprah book club choice but, having now peeked into the list, with some exceptions, I am beginning to think that is no bad thing.

Set in the Belgian Congo at the time of Independence, this novel tells the tale of an evangelical minister who drags his wife and four daughters into the jungle to convert the natives. Told through the five very distinctive female voices, this is a masterpiece in character, plot and sentiment. With the exception of War and Peace it is the best book I have read this year.

Food for Free but no vitamin D

2008-09-16T11:54:00.005+01:00

One of my few sunflowers not felled under the weight of August's rain.

Experts said on the radio yesterday that the people of Scotland suffer from a vitamin D deficiency because the sun's rays refuse to shine here. Looking at the weather today I can see their point but there is so much more going for us that we forget to look beyond what the experts tell us.

Last night's full moon could not been seen through the rain clouds, but I knew it was there. I am inclined to call this the Harvest Moon although that technically is not correct; the Harvest Moon is the moon after the first frost and miraculously we haven’t had a frost yet. But harvesting is what I did most of the weekend. The wet summer means the hedgerows are dripping with produce and there is enough for me and the birds. The day was dry and bright on Sunday and Colin and I stepped just outside our door and foraged for sloe berries, rowan berries and brambles. The hawthorn is in abundance too but we had run out of bags when we reached them. I also collected some beechnuts which I intend to roast.

And like last year I collected pounds of plums and damsons from my neighbours’ trees. Yesterday while the rain poured down and the sun refused to gift the Scots with their necessary dose of vitamin D, I spend the afternoon in the warm company of the radio making compote, jam, chutney, wine, sloe gin and rowan berry liqueur. I think we now have more than enough sugar and alcohol in that batch to see us through the wet winter.

I just need to find my own herring stock and then the vitamin D problem will be sorted.

My barrel garden

More firsts

The harvest in the garden has also been a bumper. In keeping with my Fifty First Timers here is a list of all the vegetables and fruit I grew successfully for the first time this year;
Peppers, cucumber, cauliflower, leeks, celery, asparagus pea, red onion, tomatillo and Brussel sprouts. I am also attempting to grow aubergine but as yet they have to bear fruit. Rhubarb, gooseberry and blackberry, have also been planted this year although the birds had the feast of the harvest there. I grew marigolds from seed and used these as a companion plant for the greenhouse plants. It was amazing to watch them being shredded by tiny beasts while the veg plants were left to grew in peace.

If the food prices continue to rise at their present rate I may have to put in even more effort next year to reduce my food air miles and the strain on my budget.

Buffalo Burgers and Mud Cakes

2008-09-05T17:15:00.005+01:00

Wet or What!

Hydro may be Greek for water but Hydro Connect is Rock and Roll for Mud

Last weekend I experienced probably the best first of the year. We went to our first ever music festival; Hydro Connect, a boutique festival still in its infancy which is held in the impressive grounds of Inveraray Castle, the ancestral home of the Duke of Argyll.

We wanted the whole outdoor festival experience so opted to camp, although we weren’t so brave as to take our own tent, we opted for ‘posh’ camping organised by Tangerine Fields. The tents were supplied and erected. All we had to do was lug our supplies in from the car park situated twenty minutes up a muddy path. Being festival virgins we were dismayed to realise that the dozen bottles of beers we carried in would be banned from the site. So we drank some, hid the rest in the woods and vowed to know better next time.

The weather was overcast on the Friday but warm and dry. The main stage was situated at the bottom of a field directly below the castle and because the tickets were limited to 20,000 it was possible to sit on your free poncho and watch the bands without any obstruction and dance around on the grass without spilling your drinks. It was also possible to spot friends you haven’t seen for over a year.

The Friday highlights for me were Manic Street Preachers and the brilliant and very tall Kasabian, who were headlining that stage.

We were further delighted to stumble upon Sparks, a weird band I remember from my teenage years.

The first night in the tent was not too bad, but that may have been helped by the alcohol consumed. We were disappointed that the dedicated toilets and showers promised to us by Tangerine Fields had not arrived. The line of Portaloos was found after a long traipse through a muddy field and were non too fresh by the evening.

The next day was still overcast but dry. The earlier line up was uninspiring so we headed towards the Speakeasy tent for brownies and coffee. Alan Bissett was due to appear at four but before that we saw an interview with the organiser and the Duke and saw a fantastic new band called Grace Emilys. It was such a treat. Alan Bissett performed his piece in wellies and was very entertaining.

Although I was ambivalent about seeing Paulo Nutini, he was the highlight of the day for me. His set was spot on and his new songs inspiring.

The tent field - no chance of escape

Our night in the tent was spent sleepless, listening to Tangerine Fields staff playing guitars and singing. There was one happy guy who held the title of “The world’s most irritating laugh”. If I had met him next morning I think I might just have punched his laugh out.

On the Saturday I noticed the camping and festival fields were morphing from grass to mire. When Sunday arrived wet with no outlook to clear, I predicted a mud riot in the car park later, so we packed up early and took the car out of the muddy field and parked it in Inveraray. Although the coffee shops there were filled with tourists, the owners welcomed all the festival goers and didn’t seem to mind the muck on their carpets.

Back at the field the mud was getting deeper and someone started a mud slide. Waiting in the queue for the toilets was like trying to walk through plastacine, and it stank because the urinals were overflowing (I was reliably informed).

The rain continued until six in the evening. When Sigur Ros came on stage the sky was clearing, mist was settling over the tops of the trees and the air was filled with a spooky anticipation. This is what I had been waiting for and I was not disappointed. They played a perfect pitch set and had the crowd baying for more.

Other highlights from Sunday were Elbow and Goldfrapp (what is it with her and clowns?)

The festival goers were a friendly bunch and just out for a good time. The setting was perfect despite the mud. I will be back next year - well done Duke of Argyll, thanks for giving up your home for the weekend

One other first from the weekend

One of the main festival attractions for me was the food on offer. Loch Fyne had a tent which served the best pre baked macaroni and cheese I have tasted (and I have tasted many because I have a personal challenge to find the best macaroni and cheese). They also have yummy lamb stovies and kebabs, and juicy cheese burgers. There was little of culinary interest outside this tent with the exception of The Puddledub Farm Stall. Have you ever tasted buffalo burgers? The nutritional value posted outside the stall was impressive. I had to try. They were succulent and tasty and hit the spot. I might catch them at a local farmers market later in the year and stock up my freezer.

A chance to be inspired

2008-09-03T21:26:00.007+01:00

Below are the details of the Lapidus Residential Conference. I have been a fan of Lapidus for over a year now. They are a worthwhile group who believe in the power of the word. This year's impressive lineup are sure to inspire you.

I first saw Seeds of Thought last year at Glasgow's West End Festival and try to catch them whenever they make an appearance. Their performance poetry is stunning.

The Line Up

Words In The World - Residential Conference at Newbattle Abbey

A rich line-up of poets, storytellers and environmentally-friendly writers has been announced for a Residential Conference in the beautiful setting of Newbattle Abbey near Edinburgh from Thursday 9th to Sunday 12th October.

The theme is Words in The World and you’ll be exploring the power of words to change yourself and the world. To inspire you there will be Seeds of Thought, an urban poetry group who share words, art and music; Valerie Gillies, the former Edinburgh Makar and Ted Bowman of the National Association for Poetry Therapy (USA).

The Conference aims to encourage personal, political & ecological explorations for writers, singers, activists, environmentalists, health and social service workers... anybody who wants their words heard in the world. There will be Open Space sessions facilitated by Larry Butler & Margot Henderson to maximise those fruitful, between-speaker spaces.

This conference is the harvest of a year-long project run by Lapidus Scotland. Contributors from previous workshops such as land-artist, Gerry Loose; storyteller/poet/singer Margot Henderson and crofter-poet, Mandy Haggith from Assynt will report, share and create new synergies out of the work done throughout the year.

Words in The World is like a river flowing over stone, each event deepening the relationships and embedding the insights made over time. Come and add your unique voice to the flow.
Contact: lapidusscotland@yahoo.co.uk or Lapidus Scotland, 2/1 14, Garrioch Drive G20 8RS.
Info:www.lapidus.org.uk
Rates: inc. full board: £190 (conc); £240; £290 (organisational)

Supported by Awards for All, Scottish Book Trust, Glasgow City Council and Lapidus [Literary Arts in Personal Development]

to be admired

2008-08-27T20:26:00.001+01:00

Congratulations Team GB! Nineteen Olympic gold medals and a shed load of others. I am please that the Olympics were such a success. The British reporters on the ground in Beijing were heaping praise on the organisation and the friendliness of the volunteers. Well done Beijing.

And come on London - you have a lot to live up to now.

Leave the girl alone

I was stunned at the weekend to hear normally egalitarian friends slagging off Madonna,

What is she like?
She should act her age
Why can’t she grow old gracefully?
She should be at home knitting

Kntting!

This woman is a dancer by profession, why can’t she be allowed to do her job. I have never heard anyone saying that Mike Jagger should grow old gracefully, they say of him ‘Isn’t it great he still rocks.’

I reminded these so called liberal thinkers that Dame Margot Fonteyn did not start dancing with Nureyev until she was forty three and she did not retire until she was sixty.

If fifty is the new forty then I think Madonna has a few years left before she needs to pick up her knitting needles.

Thank you for the Music

2008-08-18T20:32:00.010+01:00

A great music experience

Life has been pretty quiet and I was struggling to find some thing to put on the blog tonight then I turned on the radio for my tea time music fix. I enjoy cooking but sometimes weekday meals become a chore; Radio Scotland’s and Bryan Burnett’s ‘Get It On’ is the best antidote for teatime blues. I have mentioned ‘Get it on’ before but to remind you the programme – now extended to a two hour slot - chooses a theme each night and listeners send in their requests. The format throws out the most unexpected selections and during the show you are constantly saying ‘Oh I haven’t heard this for years’

The programme has a definite cult following with regular contributors like ‘Jim the Jam Man’ ‘Mike from Fife’ and the ‘Inverpolly Crew’. On the Monday second hour one listener has the chance to feature their own summer mix; a play list with related stories behind the choices. These have been immensely popular and often hilarious but tonight’s offering deserved to win a platinum disc.

Maybe it’s because we Scots are a sentimental bunch but Donna’s summer mix was heart wrenching and judging from the comments read out, everyone agreed. Donna, an American pilot, came to Scotland for a holiday last year, ended up on the Isle of Skye met Bryan (not Bryan Burnett) and they fell in love, married, but live thousands of miles apart. I could hardly eat my tea for the lump in my throat. Check it out - Donna's story and her playlist are on the blog. I feel as though I am part of a big family. I hope Donna finds a job in Scotland soon.

Still On the music theme

Colin and I are currently working our way through our separate vinyl collections and converting them to digital. This is enjoyable but can often be an emotional experience. Last Saturday night I played Stevie Nicks' Bella Donna and it brought back painful memories of my first marriage.

Christmas Day 1980something I received this album from my parents, but I was forbidden to play it by my then husband. He maybe wanted to watch ‘Eastenders’ or ‘The Great Escape’ for the tenth time - I can’t remember. Once he was drunk enough and sleeping, I crept out of my marital bed in the middle of the night, poured myself a wee glass of wine and listened to my pressie. Sad eh?

Rant

2008-08-12T18:24:00.003+01:00

Be Nice

Some B*****d has hijacked my email. I was first alerted to this yesterday by a friend and am still trying to resolve the problem with Google.

What amazes me is the various reactions to the spam blast that was sent out from my mail. Most people are concerned and let me know, while others send nasty requests for me not to send such mails to them ever again. Why oh why do people find it so easy to be nasty on email.

Come on guys; let’s be civil to each other out there in cyber space. It wasn’t my fault, honest.

TV and Newspaper reports

I was fed up with the BBC coverage of the lead up to the Olympics. They appeared to be obsessed with the pollution in Bejing, but I was appalled my Kirsty Wark’s biased discussion about the opening ceremony on Newsnight on Friday. The report stressed that there was no reference to Mao in the celebrations and that China seems to have conveniently forgotten its past. When a young Chinese guy in the studio tried to point out that London would probably not dwell on slavery, colonialism and Northern Ireland when their time came, he was dismissed and the debate was handed back to a North American journalist who rubbished the whole games. This happened several times during the debate, was blatant and embarrassing to watch.

Kirsty was not finished, she then went on deliver another bias report on the situation on Georgia, leaving the interviewee visibly bemused by her slanted attitude. I don’t know the full story of this dispute because she was too busy trying to score anti Russian points to allow the story to emerge. I only watched Newsnight becasue it followed QI and I thought it might have shown highlights of the opening ceromany. I will remember to switch off in future.

I gave up reading newspapers a long time ago because their biased views and reports are dictated by the fat cats that own them.

They say their reports are in the public interest, but the public I speak to are sick of it.

I read the Metro which gives the facts; that after all is what I am looking for, not hidden agendas. The rest I can pick off the internet.

Phew, I feel better now.

History Lesson

2008-08-05T19:51:00.006+01:00

Fifty First Timer No. 27
Read and adored War and Peace

The blurb on the cover says this is the greatest book ever written. I don’t know if that is true but it is certainly one of the best books I have read.

To say I was daunted reading this 1360 page novel is a lie; I have been in the past that was until I heard a great piece of advice. ‘How do you eat an elephant? Answer, in bite size pieces.’ That is how I tackled this, a chapter at a time. The hardest part was holding the book for long stretches of time, its heavy!

The story takes place over two Napoleonic Wars and gives a fantastic insight into the way the Russian class system worked at that time – no wonder they had a revolution. The aristocracy were few but owned all the land and also owned the Serfs, who were slaves. I am so ignorant, I had no idea.

I also worked out that Tchaikovsky wrote 1812 Overture about the battle of Borodino – there is a gruesome section about this battle.

As the title suggests, it isn’t all about War. There are long sections about the years between the two wars. There are over 500 characters (some historical) in War and Peace Tolstoy uses great techniques to help the reader remember who each one is. By the time I was finished the book I was intimate with them and now miss them.

I would encourage everyone to read this book, it only took me two months to read.

Age doesn’t come on its own

As a birthday present the Health Board sent me an invitation - I am now eligible for their bowel screening programme – lovely, can't wait!

Five Firsts on my Fifty Week

2008-07-30T21:10:00.001+01:00

Three Chimneys, Skye

What a fantastic time I had. I was amazed that I managed five first. A couple were expected but not five.

Fifty First Timer No. 22
Stay and eat that the Three Chimney’s on Skye

This has been on my wish list for year. The Three Chimneys is reputed to be one of the best restaurants in the world. I didn’t realise they also had accommodation, so imagine my surprise when I discovered my birthday treat was two nights dinner, bed and breakfast at this exclusive establishment.

The drive up through Glen Coe and The Great Glen was dramatic with sun and sheet rain. We arrived at the House Over-by at 5.30 with just enough time to gaze in wonder at the view, experience the luxury of the room and dress for 7.30pm dinner.

That first glass of chilled champagne fair went doon a treat.

My starter was succulent scallops this was followed by the freshest oysters I have ever slurped, they were juicy and ripe and perfect. My main course included a first (see below) - Lamb with heart, sweetbread and kidney. Yummy.

We were too full for pudding because every course seemed to be preceded by an appetiser - pan fried mackeral on goosberry puree was about five mouthfuls too small - we settled for coffee, some dinky little cakes and a dram to finish off. I could see beads of relief wave off Colin’s brow when we were informed the 25 year old Talisker was finished, I had to settle for a 10 year old.

Fifty First Timer No. 23
Eat Sweetbread

I am conscious that a number of these first include eating weird food, but I am a foodie, I have to try everything at least once.

When I was younger and lived in Fife I bought all my meat from a travelling butcher’s van – Bert The Butcher. He came every Wednesday and Saturday and I always bought the same thing, mince, bacon, beef, square sausage for Sunday Breakfast. Ladies would flock to the van. ‘ony sweet breads the day Bert?’ they would ask. I was always curious as to what the elusive and desirable sweet breads were

I later found to my horror that it was testicle. And I still did until I checked before posting this blog.

I thought I had no desire to try this but couldn’t resist when it was offered with the lamb dish. It was delicious fried but not as nice as the heart, which I think I have tried before.

How naive was I? I now find out that sweet bread is a gland near the heart.

There you go, another urban (or Fife) myth bites the dust.

Fifty First Timer No. 24
See a Minke Whale

After a luxurious nights sleep we ate our fill at the House Over-by breakfast table. Homemade muffins, breads, pancakes, oatcakes Scones and applesauce, marmalade, jam. There was also smoked salmon, fish pate, cheese, fruit and a smoked salmon omelette on offer. We had to at least attempt to walk some of this off.

The Three Chimneys is located in the south west portion of Skye, an area we had never explored before. We drove round tiny single track roads to Neist Point where a well laid out path took us to a light house which can be rented as holiday accommodation. Loads of sea bird activity just off the shore alerted us. Some children were screaming with delight and jumping up and down. We rushed down to see what was happening.

I stared at the sea for about ten minutes watching the gulls dive bomb the waves and was rewarded with the sight of a small black fin and then the sweep of a black curled back arching out of the sea and sinking below the depth before I could take the camera out of its case. There was no doubt with that shape and size I had just encountered my first Minke Whale, out for a spot of fishing. We hung around for ages hoping for another glimpse but we only saw a few black fins. I felt privileged.

Sunset over Taransay from Horgabost camp site

Fifty First Timer No. 25
Visit Lewis and Harris

We left Uig in Skye on a CalMac ferry bound for Tarbert, Harris on Monday afternoon. We left the unusual sunshine on Skye for a murky Harris, where the clouds skiffed the roads. The missel soaked us during the ten minutes it took us to pitch our tent and carry our gear from the car to the pitch which was high on machair on a beach side site at Horgabost.
The campsite proved to be idylic so we stayed all week. White sand, bird watching, and the creaking gate call of the corncrake merged with the sound of crashing waves to lull you to sleep.

The next morning proved no better weather wise so we plumped to explore Lewis.
After reading Stornoway Way by Kevin MacNeil I expected a grim town, but Stornoway turned out to be a pretty little fishing town with fine brick buildings, an excellent art centre featuring local artists and crafts and a few good cafes. There were loads of pubs though and this is maybe where the tarred reputation of Stornoway stems from.

While we could still see the road from the mist we headed south to the Callanish Standing Stones.
These are described as the most spectacular megalithic standing stones in Scotland. They are impressive standing tall and fast against the western storms. There is something very touching about the fact that people gathered together and took such care 4000 years ago to erect these stones. I wonder then if they realised the fuss folks would make all these years later.

It was a good day to see the stones, not too many people milling around spoiling photo shots and quite dramatic backdrops.

Callanish Standing Stones

Fifty First Timer No. 26
Have a drink in an inflatable pub

I am pleased to say the weather improved. So much so we were forced to go for a drink in a pub. The main hotel in Tarbert is being renovated; the bar is out of commission for months, what could they do? They took a bouncy castle approach and erected an inflatable bar. It would have been perfect had it not been made out of plastic and had real window instead of painted on ones. Inside the bar on this hot day was like being inside the inside of a wellie. Everyone preferred to sit outside in the 24°heat.

Inflatable Pub, Tarbert

Back to auld claes and porridge

View from Skoon Art Cafe, Harris - The best plum and oatmeal muffins ever.

The Half Century has arrived

2008-07-19T09:11:00.000+01:00

Today is my fiftieth birthday. I am not sure how I should feel; I know I am happy it is my birthday because I love celebrations of any kind. I don’t feel fifty; I don’t know how that is supposed to feel. If I was honest I am worried that I won’t be able to do all the things in life I want to do, but I know I am going to have a hell of a good time trying.

Big Buddha

Fifty First Timer No. 21
Climb a Hong Kong munro

I know I am becoming a bit predictable with all these munros and hills, but it has to be done.

Hong Kong region has vast ranges of forests and hill trails. On our initial approach to the airport on Lantau Island I was astounded by the superb ridges that reached out over the territory. The fact that I could see trails on the crest of one outstanding ridge urged me to explore the area I later learned was the New Territories.

We were staying on Lantau Island the first week of our visit, so it made sense to start with the Lantau trail and its highest point, Lantau Peak (934m)
To say I climbed a munro is a bit of a cheat because we caught a bus from Mui Wo to a high point at Ngong Ping, a popular tourist destination because of the giant Buddha statue and the Po Lin monastery situated in the same spot as the start point of the Lantau Peak. Funny, but it didn’t take long for us to loose the crowds and find we had the path to ourselves.

Although this is a well marked trail, the path was steep with a couple of sections where I felt a tad exposed. It was also raining which made the rock slick.

Climbing a hill in Scotland is hard enough work but the added tropical heat meant that the leg up we were given by the bus ride did little to ease the pain of the ascent. The summit was reached in good time for lunch, but the flies and mosquitoes on top had the same idea, so we beat a hasty retreat along the Lantau Trail to find ourselves spewed out of the forest onto a busy highway ripped up by major road works. The workies were helpful in guiding us through the traffic cones to the nearest bus stop and like all our transport in Hong Kong, it wasn’t long before a bus stopped to accept our Octopus card swipe and we were soon home in Mui Wo drinking beer.

If we had left this trip to the end of our holiday we would have failed because a week after our climb Ngong Ping and its neighbouring villages were cut of by a major landslide which left the area without electricity and fresh water for days.

In the last week of our holiday we climbed Tai Mo Shan (957m), Hong Kong’s tallest mountain.

If I look shattered it is because I am.

Money makes me mad

2008-07-15T20:00:00.008+01:00

If only we could blow Grand Lisboa Casino into the South China Sea

Fifty First Timer No.20
Gamble in a casino

One ambition I have held for years has been to visit a casino and place a bet. Where better to achieve this ambition than in that world famous gambling paradise Macau. This former Portuguese trading port is an hour’s ferry trip from Hong Kong and was high on my lists of ‘must visits’.

We caught the ferry from the exotically named China Ferry Terminal in Kowloon. This Sunday morning the streets of Kowloon were almost deserted, but for a few stragglers all heading in the same direction as we were. The terminal lives up to its name; it is possible to travel from there to over fifteen different destinations in mainland China. The Macau ferry has frequent sailings but the cheap seats on the next ferry that Sunday morning were taken, so we couldn’t leave for another hour. Starbucks is quite a good place for breakfast though!

Macau was hot, hotter than Hong Kong and because the ferry disembarks a good half hour walk from the main thoroughfare, our tempers were beginning to fray by the time we reached town. This wasn’t helped by the walk through Fisherman’s Warf, a tourist amusement park, the epicentre of which boasts a fake mountain which looks more Utah than Pearl River.

The walk took us past vast concrete and glass creations; the hotels and casino of this Chinese Special Administrative Region. Our guide book led us on a walking tour mobbed with tourists, so we ditched the tour and wandered the quite side streets. I marvelled at the incense burning in almost every doorway, if shrines could not be bought a drain pipe would suffice as a suitable alter. Throughout my journeys in this area I was struck by the arrogance of past colonialism and their suppression of individuals’ rites to worship as they please. I am glad that Bhudda is still strong in the Macauan’s hearts and is pushing forth among the cathedrals and churches and casinos of those other religions.

The heat was intensive and a beer was soon required, but not forthcoming. Even back among the Starbucks, McDonald's and Haagen Dazs, we found no Carlsberg. Then I spotted a young man in an upstairs window that over looked the square supping a beer. There!

We found the door way to café E.S. KIMO round the corner in a crowded market street. Beers taste so much better when you have been deprived. We also ate a Korean Egg sandwich (an omelette on white bread) and a fresh fruit salad which we were appalled to notice was drizzled with Heinz Salad Cream but it tasted rather good.

The biggest and most vulgar casino in Macau is Grand Lisboa Casino. This gold monstrosity rises up like an Imperial standard at the edge of cowering colonial streets and hails the start of the casino studded highway back to the ferry terminal.

Before we could enter the casino we were subjected to a bag search and a pass through an airport security screen. We were then thrown into a hall crammed with tables of baccarat and poker and roulette. The back of the hall beckoned, with flaunting bauble and bells, the fruit machines sang.

Shiny escalators floated us to higher floors where the stakes rose with the altitude. I could see on the seventh floor a high stakes area, cordoned off, admittance by invitation only. Most of the gamblers were middle age, Chinese men, although a high proportion were haggles of young women. Smoke and expensive perfume choked the air and made me gag or maybe that was caused by my disgust at the indiscriminate waste.

I gaped as one man threw a thick bundle of Yuan onto the table and then shrug as it was scraped into the sealed cache of the croupier. Why had I felt so guilty in China, languishing in my expensive hotel in Guangzhou? At least I was giving something back in terms of tourist revenue. This debauchery was indecent.

I had lost my taste for gambling but I was there, so with my grubby twenty Hong Kong dollar note in hand, I perched at a fruit machine and did what I had to do; loose it in three presses of a button.

I would now like to visit a Glasgow casino for comparison, but I can be certain I will never be in danger of becoming an addict; I am too canny for that.

Just Read
Chinua Achebe, Home and Exile

I have only recently discovered Chinua Achebe and am now a fan. A couple of months ago I read the excellent Arrows of God a novel based around the nineteen twenties. Home and Exile is a non fiction essay originating from a series of the lectures given at Harvard University. I bought the book thinking it was an autobiography. It isn’t, although there are a number of pleasing autobiographical anecdotes.

I was delighted to find that Home and Exile examines African literature and argues that African literature should only be written by Africans. He cites the African writing of the past, written by Europeans, as distorting the perception of the continent and portraying the African as primitive, heathen and stupid.

It was quite a shock to read his comments because I am currently writing a novel with an African character and although I do not presume to describe her homeland or her upbringing, Achebe’s comments have made me rethink my approach.

Here, there and everywhere

2008-07-08T19:30:00.010+01:00

Liz on the summit of Sgor na h-Ulaidh

Poor wee soul

This is going to be a short post because I have a chest infection and am splattering my screen with pea green mucus every few minutes. It’s enough to make even me sick.

The McPartlin Munroists

On Saturday I struggled up Sgor na h-Ulaidh (scoor na hooly) a rocky munro in Glen Coe. I wouldn’t normally leave my bed when ill but it was my sister’s munro compleation. The weather was perfect; high cloud, slight breeze in the valley, just a few drops of rain. A well deserved cheese burger was gobbled down in the legendary and hoatching Clachaig Inn followed by a stagger of about a mile to stay over night in a caravan my brother John had booked. The caravan, next to the Glencoe Bunkhouse, had great views towards the hills we had just climbed. It is a shame I kept everyone awake all night with my coughing. Well done Liz!

That makes three McPartlin Munrosits.

Fifty First Timer No.19
Fast Train to China

On the first full day in Hong Kong we booked a trip into China, it takes about a week for the visas to come through so we left the following Wednesday. Mr Lee picked us up at the hotel and deposited us at the railway station with grave instruction on what to do on arrival in China; hang onto your bag, do not get separated, do not declare anything, look out for the guide, if she is not there phone this number.

Our destination was Guangzhou and our guide, Eve, was waiting at the station along with her driver Mr Jang. Together they made our stay an enjoyable, entertaining and informative one. We were templed out, three day later, when Eve dropped us back at the station.

The highlight for me was getting up at seven the first morning to wander the river side streets and find them filled to the banks with people exercising. Tai Chi groups graced every inch of park, make do badminton nets were strung from handy trees, there was even a group of old men swimming in the mighty Pearl River. To say I was impressed would be an injustice, I was inspired. The Chinese, as a race, are temperate, hard working, and thin. What must they think of the arrogant blobs and lager louts who stagger and swagger in the West (and in some parts of Hong Kong)?

This is one of the markets Eve took us to see.

And Talking of Blonde Birds and Bikes

In my last post I mentioned Lucy’s John O ‘Groats to Lands End attempt. Well she has done it. Well done Lucy!

I am now off to bed with a hot toddy, antibiotics, Lemsip and Strepsils - I'll be better tomorrow.

Hong Kong V Scotland

2008-07-01T16:24:00.008+01:00

Carbisdale Castle

I had planned to update this blog with stories from Hong Kong, but it is proving difficult because life back home has been as hectic and exciting as the holiday. However I still have to report all my Firsts, so I will start with another Hong Kong First and slot in some of the Scottish ones.

Fifty First Timer No.15
Eat Shark’s Fin Soup

I know some of you will be throwing up your hands in horror or even just throwing up at the thought of this, but when my principles started to niggle, I remembered the words of my Muslim friend when I once offered her Stornoway black pudding (made from pigs blood) for breakfast and she replied ‘Lovely, I never let religion get between me and my stomach’.

I now apologise and promise never to do it again.

I have tasted Shark’s Fin soup before but it was made from synthetic shark fin. The soup I ordered in Hong Kong was the real thing. The venue was the American Restaurant in Wanchai. The restaurant has been around for xx years. When Hong Kong was a popular R&R destination for the US troops during the Vietnam War the restaurant’s owners, hoping to attract the GIs, renamed their restaurant thinking it would sound welcoming. The name and the restaurant proved popular, so when the war ended they retained the same.

The waiter helped us to decide on the size of portions we needed and advised me that the soup was expensive, was I sure I still wanted it. ‘Yes sir’, falling into an American twang. Like most Chinese meals the food came at different times, what we would consider the second course was delivered first followed by the soup. Sharks fin soup is thick and gluttonous with fibrous strands of fin laced through. The taste is light and eggy which I found delicious, almost like eating noodles in potato soup. The meal was washed down with Tsing Tsao beers and buckets of green tea. Despite his advice, we ordered too much food which gave the waiter a good laugh at our expense.

Weekend wedding and more Firsts

Fifty First Timer No.16
Stay in a haunted castle

The weekend saw a few Firsts, most I will do again because it was such fun.

We attended a wedding party at Carbisdale Castle. The castle is perched on a hill just outside Bonar Bridge in Sutherland and is the Scottish Youth Hostel Association’s flag ship. I have passed it many times on the road to the far north and looked longingly at its towering ramparts and cosy welcoming lights twinkling through the trees, but this is my first stay there.

The castle was built in 1917 by the widow of the Duke of Sutherland. It was gifted to the Youth Hostel Association in 1945. The castle is reputed to be haunted but there was no evidence of ghosts this weekend, they were probably all quivering in a corner to avoid the noise of the ceilidh band, disco, general revelry and my musical abominations.

John and Kate, the happy couple, wanted a party and they certainly bagged their wish. The hostel can sleep over 180 visitors and we almost filled the whole place from Friday night through to a bleary eyed Sunday lunchtime.

Colin and I were attending the evening part of the wedding so we were lucky to spend Saturday in the surrounding area. We went for a wander round Dornoch, had scrummy home made Cornish pasties at the Dornoch Patisserie then walked along the four mile pristine beach to Embo trying to spot minkie whale in the Dornoch Firth. A pass remarkable supper was picked at in a pub before we tarted ourselves up for the party.

The ceilidh band played their ‘Gay Gordon’s’ ‘Dashing White Sergeants’ and ‘Strip the Willow’ for the group, the majority of who were hill walkers who skirled and whirled until the buffet was served. We then switch to the gyrating disco beats of the ‘70s and ‘80s.

When the official music stopped the party moved to one of the many lounges and this is where my other Firsts came in.

Fifty First Timer No.17
Learn to play a bodhrán

Fergus, one of the two Best Men is married to an Irish lady and came to the wedding complete with bodhrán, a traditional Irish instrument, under his arm. I begged for a lesson which he was quite happy to provide, he explained how to hold the single drumming stick and demonstrated the beat then said ‘right practice, I’ll be back in five minutes.’ Being a tenacious learner I did what I was told, but the others in the company moaned in horror, ‘you’re not really going to do that for five minute?’

The stick was as slippery as noodles in chopsticks, and kept falling from my hand. When Fergus came back he told me to relax and steer through the wrist. I did for a little while until my hand grew tired then I handed the bodhrán back to its rightful owner. I think I will add a bodhrán to my birthday list.

Fifty First Timer No.18
Play an electric guitar

Ranald, the other best man, took his electric guitar and amplifier to the wedding. I couldn’t resist a go. I strummed some chords and tried to pick out a couple of tunes, but the combination of previously drunk glasses of wine and the fact the shiny red and white guitar continued to slide over my chiffon dress and off my lap, did not make for a pleasant experience for the other hard core party goers, in the end I reluctantly handed the guitar back and looked out at the dawning day. It was time for bed.

I now apologise but can't promise never to do it again

Blonde Bird on a Bike

Someone who did not partake of too much wedding wine and was probably getting out of bed when dawn was breaking was Lucy. Lucy attended the wedding but rose early to arrive on time for her nine o’clock, Sunday morning start of her John o’Groats to Lands End Bike ride. You can follow her progress on her blog

http://lucymcnee.blogspot.com/

I have also added Lucy's Blog to my top favourite blogs.

Highs and Lows

2008-06-24T20:16:00.013+01:00

Andy with friends at his Corbett completion on Sgurr a’Chaorachain

The High

This weekend I attended a momentous event in my favourite part of the whole world. My pal Andy completed his round of Corbetts on a mountain on the Applecross peninsula. Corbetts are mountains between 2500 feet and 3000 feet and there are 221 of them dotted all over Scotland and some keen hill walkers, but not me, start working through the list of them after they complete their Munros (hills over 3000 feet).

Andy’s feat is more exceptional than most because he is a postie and has to work most Saturdays, also and most incredibly he can’t drive and has managed to access remote areas using public transport and lifts from his fans.

Applecross has featured before on this site. Normally we have bad weather there but this trip saw cloud smattered blue skies and 360° views towards Skye, Lewis, Kyle, Knoydart, Torridon and even as far as the crowning towers of An Teallach just south of Ullapool. I hate the much misused word awesome, but this experience deserves the title.

Much champagne was drunk on the summit and buckets of red wine and beer washed down the excellent seafood at the Applecross Inn later in the evening.

Colin and I caught up with old friends in the village and enjoyed the hospitality they showed to our friends in the Ochil Mountaineering Club.

The Low

Yesterday I received a letter from the Scottish Book Trust informing me I was not successful in my application for their New Writers Bursary. I am used to receiving rejections for my novel Torque, but somehow this was harder to accept. I was gutted.

I worked hard in the morning to shift my black mood. I knew I had to do something positive. I sent off another submission and that nudged the mood into second place but it crept back in. At lunch time I went to my Pilate's class. That did the trick, not only because of the physical stimulation this gave me but because of this view from the hall. It took my breath away quicker than my class.

Fifty First Timer No.14

Swim in the Sea

I know it is terrible to reach this half century never having swam in the sea, but I am scared of water. It is a miracle I can swim. Deep water is a no go area for me. One of my goals for this year was to complete a triathlon but I realised early on, when I couldn’t stop at the deep end, I had to scratch the idea.

Hong Kong first week was spent at Silver Mine Beach on Lantau. I had no excuse. It took three days for me to work up to this but on an overcast afternoon in between showers I squeezed into my cozzie and headed for the shark protection area. I walked into the semi warm water until it brushed my shoulders then swam, not outwards where I would grow out of my depth, but parallel to the shore.

Everyone told me the buoyancy in the sea would make me feel more secure, not so, all that bouncing around unnerved me. But I was happy enough to keep going for a wee while then I waded towards the beach and sat with the sea lapping up to my neck. The water helped to sooth the multitude of mosquito bites I had accumulated and would continue to collect throughout the holiday.

Silvermine Beach preparing for the Dragon Boat Races

Where have I been?

2008-06-17T20:58:00.007+01:00

HONG KONG – that’s where.

It all began with a smooth transfer through the infamous Terminal Five

Hong Kong is a Special Administrative Region consisting of many islands, the biggest and busiest of which is Hong Kong Island, but it also takes in Kowloon and the New Territories on the mainland which stretch from the coast up to the China border.

And what a fabulous place it is. We spent three weeks sampling everything this diverse area has to offer. The town of Mui Wo on the island of Lantau was our perfect first week base. It is tranquil and unique despite being on the other side of a mountain from Hong Kong’s massive International airport, and only a half hour ferry ride from the city.

Second week we moved to Hong Kong Island for a couple of days before heading up into China for a short and fascinating three day trip. On our return we kipped up at the YMCA in Kowloon which gave us a head start in the mornings to explore the New Territories. But more of that later.

There were many things I loved about this holiday. I managed many Fifty First Timers. I also developed a habit of eating with chopsticks. When one night I was presented with a knife and fork I felt weird. But the best bit was the transport. I fell in love with my Octopus Card

The transport system is a model which should be replicated all over the world. An Octopus card is like a credit card you can top up with cash at stations and ferry terminals. With this card you can travel on any form of transport in the region; small island buses, trains, ferries, trams. You can even use it to buy groceries if you run short of cash. Most of the fares are a set fare whether you travel one stop or ten but it doesn’t matter because the fares are pennies. The only exception I found was on the MTR (Mass Transit Railway). Swipe the card to enter the paid area and swipe it again to leave, the card is only reduced by the number of stops travelled. It’s easy.

On Mui Wo everyone travelled by bike to the ferry terminal then hopped over the water to work.

As well as being cheap all the transport runs on time and even the MTR at rush hour was never as crowded as the London Under ground is. And no one rushes, everyone walks because they know that if they miss one train another one will come along in a minute.

The Trams were a treat to ride on

The other thing I noticed was how health and safety conscious everything is. In the MTR stations the train lines are held behind glass panels that only slide open to board passengers, something that only occurred to me when I read in the local paper about a boy in Tokyo who pushed a stranger onto a train track only because he ‘wanted to kill someone’.

Because of the geography of the area the Hong Kong people have been plagued with landslides. Because of this they civil engineering group have a continuous programme of making slopes safe. Their slogan is ‘Safe Slopes Saves Lives’. Each slope is registered and has its own number. Unfortunately we discovered while we were there that not all slopes have made the grade. More later.

A trip doon the water

2008-05-22T19:45:00.002+01:00

Wemyss Bay Station

Fifty First Timer No.13
Didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to Rothesay.

Rothesay - one time holiday destination for almost everyone living in the west of Scotland. The town nestles on the eastern shore of the small Isle of Bute in the Clyde Estuary. And I have never been there!

Two of my writing cohorts from our group The Mitchell Sisters agreed to accompany me even thought they are both seasoned Rothesayites. The transport is straightforward. One return ticket covers the train to Weymss Bay, ferry to Rothesay, bus and entrance fee to Mount Stuart house.

The Victorian style station at Weymss Bay is a give away for what is in store. On the island’s grand sea-front, houses big enough for family and servants, tell of rich Glasgow merchants escaping the grime of the city to this gentler shores. Later the working classes cottoned on to this gem in the Clyde and paddle steamers transported hoards ‘doon the water’ to spend the Glasgow Trades fortnight at the seaside.

Sadly this trend died out with the advent of cheap packages to Spain and the town became the tired seaside haunt that is evident up and down the coasts of the UK. But there is work afoot to change that. Building work at the ferry terminal hints at a turning tide for the tired old lady of the Clyde and the town is close enough to Glasgow to be a desirable weekend bolthole.

The Mitchell Sisters

Our destination is >Mount Stuart House, the ancestral home of the present Marquis of Bute, racing driver Johnny Dumfries.

I had heard that a Mark Neville exhibition is being staged there and was keen to see his latest project. Mark Neville is the photographer who took photos of working class people in Port Glasgow, a depressed shipbuilding town and gifted each resident exclusive copies of the resultant coffee table book.

The Mount Stuart exhibition focuses on the rural, agricultural classes and with the use of different lighting techniques he captures stunning images of these hard working folk which is evocative of Russian portraits.

The guided tour of Mount Stuart House lasts an hour. Two memorable sights from that visit are the black calcified marble on the stairs, where fossilised sea creatures are captured for eternity and the discovery of more striking photos; a quick trip to the toilets reveals a hidden set of photos taken during the Great War when the house was used as a Naval Hospital. The setting for the hospital is grand and unique but the suffering is captured in the wounded sailor’s eyes.

Mount Stuart Gardens

Terrifying times two

2008-05-14T09:36:00.016+01:00

The Inaccessible Pinnacle

The Inaccessible Pinnacle (the In. Pin) is the hardest munro in Scotland and you can see from the picture why that is. All hill walkers have to endure this torture before they can complete their round of 284 munros. I climbed this intimidating beast two years ago and I have no intention of doing it again. On that occasion I left my camera behind thinking I would have my hands full enough, so it was a treat to be a spectator at this momentous event.

Eight of us headed up the hill to meet this brute. The walk up the ridge of Scurr Dearg is terrifying enough for me. The Skye Cullin Ridge is the most exhilarating place in the world, but also the scariest. The photo shows three climbing the ridge and Colin abseiling off having completed the climb.

You can experience some of the drama of the In. Pin by viewing the excellent Gaelic film Seachd:The Inaccessible Pinnacle.

I think this is the ridge we walked along, but I cant be sure; I had my eyes closed most of the time.

High Wire

Last week I visited the Centre For Contemporary Art (CCA) in Glasgow. This venue has the best seafood chowder ever, but they also have pretty exciting shows. The exhibit showing was High Wire by Catherine Vass. Vass's film installation documents a high wire walk; 150 foot-long wire slung 265 feet up across the tops of three of the Red Road Flats. These flats are evidence of the idealistic housing developments in Glasgow in the 1960 and are now due for demolition. They also feature in the fantastic Andrea Arnold film Red Road.
The installation was filmed in July 2007 using four cameras and viewpoints. I remember hearing the walker, Didier Pasquette being interviewed on local radio the day of the walk and thinking, as the gale force wind waffled down the microphone, this man is mad!

I won't spoil the ending, but will confirm that this is one of the most exciting art installations I have ever witnessed.

High Wire is on at the CCA until Saturday 24th May. Check out the seafood chowder too.

The power of good writing

2008-04-29T21:42:00.002+01:00

A Play, a Pie and a Pint

On Friday I bussed it into Glasgow to watch some lunchtime theatre at Oran Mhor. I may have featured A Play, A Pie and A Pint before but it is always worth a plug. I made an extra effort last week because the play was written by Denise Mina so it was sure to be a winner. I saw her first play Ida Tamson performed there last year and was gripped by the story of a granny squaring up to a Glasgow hard man.

Last week’s play was A Drunk Woman Looks at the Thistle which is an adaptation of Hugh MacDairmid’s poem A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle.
When I arrived at Oran Mhor half an hour before the box office door opened, I was stunned to see a growing queue. I was informed that the play’s star was Karen Dunbar, a popular Scottish comic actress and that The Herald had awarded the play five stars.

It lived up to its reputation. Karen gave a virtuoso performance of this epic poem which analyses the Scottish identity and psyche and put a few hypocritical noses in the audience out of joint. It is a piece of Scottish writing that is well overdue and I applaud not only Karen Dunbar for performing it with such energy and fun, but Denise Mina for having the guts to write it in the first place.

A mention should also be made of Alison Peebles who directed the play. Every Alison Peebles play I have had the pleasure to watch has been executed with perfection.

You can read the script here, but be warned the language is strong and it is not for the faint hearted.

Just read

It’s been yonks since I featured a ‘Just Read’. That isn’t because I haven’t been reading; it is because either the book hasn’t been worth mentioning or because I have been reading tons of research material that no one else would be bothered about.

Brazzaville Charms

One research book is however worth a mention. It is Brazzaville Charms by Cassie Knight, subtitled ‘Magic and Rebellion in The Republic of Congo’.

I was fascinated by this book, firstly because, I am ashamed to admit, I knew nothing about The Congo and didn’t realise there was Belgium Congo and French Congo, which is pretty dim of me because I have stamps from both colonies.

The second major aspect about this book was that it made me angry and the more I read the angrier I became and will remain. Angry about Colonialism; angry about how oil and power seem more important than people; angry about poorly managed forestry and the destruction of the second largest rainforest in the world.
Angry that the world can sit back and watch oil, and forestry companies conspire with the Congolese government to allow a resource rich country remain one of the poorest in the world.

The writer may exert a certain amount of bias in this book but the facts are staggering in their simplicity. She uses a clear and unpretentious style to make her case of exploitation of a people and country she is passionate about.

Read it and feel as enraged as I was. Everyone needs to feel this anger before something positive is achieved here.

Cat’s Eyes by Margaret Atwood was also a research book but I would probably have worked my way round to reading it eventually.

Cat’s Eyes is a story of girls bullying girls and how this situation can affect all parties’ life choices. The story swaps back and forth in the life of one of the girls, Elaine. As an adult she returns to Toronto where she grew up and was tortured by her little class mate Cordelia. Although Elaine is now a successful artist she is still haunted by Cordelia, and this visit peels open old wounds.

The descriptions of the bullying are as subtle as real life girl bullying is, but there are a few episodes that bordered on criminal behaviour and I feel might have been better left out.

As always Atwood spins a good story with solid, well crafted prose. Every time I read one of her books I learn something about my own writing. She is a master.

All the fours - 444

2008-04-23T13:29:00.004+01:00

Happy Birthday Wullie

Today is the four hundred and forty fourth anniversary of the birth of William Shakespeare.
I first encountered him when I was given Julius Caesar in first year at school. I thought it was rubbish and couldn't understand a word. I blame the teacher, who failed to point out the subtleties and fun in his work and that this great bard added more new words to the English language than almost anyone else, but maybe the teacher didn't get it either.

In second year The Merchant of Venice needed no translation, I was mesmerised by Portia and thrilled by the ending.

Macbeth was next and this time the school took us to a performance at the newly opened Macrobert Centre in Stirling (I am showing my age here!). We had great fun shouting out the name of the play to the cast while they tried to perform; it was all very juvenile.

They kept the best till last and gave us Hamlet for 'O' Level. I can't remember the play for the Highers, I suspect it wasn't Shakey.

I still have the books in my bookcase, I must have 'forgotten' to hand them back to the school along with the copy of '1984'. Even at that early age I had a tendency for hoarding books, but that is another story.