Tales from the Gael

A new day … the boiler has broken and we are awaiting the vital part that will bring back heat and hot water. John has the King of Colds and I have just knitted a Christmas elf. Outside, the garden is a riot of fallen-down colour, pretty but wild and we don’t really want to cut away the last of the yellows and purples. The sea looks agitated and the sun can’t make up its mind whether to come out or just stay behind that whimsy black cloud. Autumn, and the change of the season and almost time to change the blue rug to the winter red.

A month ago we ventured forth, down to the South of England to explore and visit and revisit. Our aim was to walk the 100 miles of the South Downs Way. It was all organised and accommodation booked and baggage transfer arranged. We were confident that, after the West Highland Way, the Great Glen Way and the last hundred miles of the Camino de Compostela, we would easily manage the rolling fields and hills of Hampshire and Sussex.

First though we stopped in Cambridge on the way south, and idled the  hours looking at the clever graduates celebrating their special day. It was all too much and the sun was so hot, we opted for a lie down on a  punt and our English Gondolier took us along the beautiful River Cam, and pointed out the famous colleges that have educated some of our finest brains throughout history. Beautiful and we were duly impressed.

Onwards then to Bexhill-on-Sea and visited Rosie and Pete. So nice to catch up, listen to chatter and walk through ancient woodland.

We felt quite alone as we caught the train to Winchester, our car safely left in the care of Pete. The start of the route started from Winchester and would end in Eastbourne. Naturally we looked at the cathedral, paid homage to Jane Austen who is buried there, and also Saint Swithen, the poor saint  whose body was dug up from his tomb outside and reinterred into the cathedral itself. Whilst he was open to the elements it rained, it rained for forty days and forty nights, and so the legacy remains that if it rains on Saint Swithen’s day, which is the 15^th July,  it will continue raining for forty days. We ate in England’s oldest pub, The Royal Oak – c1002, a gift to a Viking princess who later became the mother of Edward the Confessor. I duly read all about it as we munched the traditional fare of pies and chips. I didn’t even know that Winchester was the original capital of England under the mighty King Alfred. I only knew that he had burnt some cakes once upon a time. My education was coming on in leaps and bounds.

And at last we set off on The Way. We strode out of the town, along the pretty river path with commuters rushing to work, and headed for the countryside. We walked and walked, the day was hot, and we struggled to find a seat to rest. My midday I had developed a nasty blister on the ball of my foot. We tended to  it, covering it with Compeed. We walked on, and after fourteen miles I limped into the pretty village of Exton. John was as fresh as a daisy, just a little weary.

Our hotel was full of character. I sat on the bed and it collapsed. I went to the loo and got locked in as the snib was broken, the taps turned the wrong way, the ceiling was soaked from a bath leak upstairs and the television wouldn’t work. The guy from reception was full of apologies, and said I could sit and watch TV in the room next door, but only on one chair, as the reception was affected if you moved about!

Amazingly the food was fantastic!

And so day two dawned. The foot was agony. The hedgerows each side were massive, the woodlands were huge and the view came and went. The final straw was five miles of constant climbing on hard cement roads and evil sharp flints that threatened to pierce the soles of my boots.  We arrived, after 13 miles, in Buriton.

Day three, we decided to detour to Petersfield, where we bought up bandages, plasters, scissors and tape and then sat in the Physic Garden and doctored the foot. It was good to rest amongst such healing plants.

Then on again, along the tracks and roads and HIGH hedgerows to Cocking where we stayed in Midhurst. A pretty place with ancient black and white houses resembling a film set, and finally for me, Cocking to Amberley. The day was hot and the scenery quite beautiful, with fields of sunflowers and rolling land resembling a patchwork, and there in the distance, the glittery English Channel. I sank down on the grass, avoiding the evil flints, and had to call a halt. My foot was swollen to twice its size so I had to quit. John was my knight and managed to secure a lift to our B&B from a Ghurka campsite nearby.

We did carry on but not on foot. The train to Brighton was a revelation. It was packed full of glamorous festival-goers wearing as little as possible. We hid behind our masks and looked and learned, it was like a lesson in anthropology. Glitter was being painted on cheek bones across from us, a very pretty girl opened a bottle of Prosecco and tipped her bottle and drank thirstily. She saw us looking and said, ‘I normally have a cup with me but I forgot, I normally have more decorum.’ She didn’t like the Prosecco, so she rummaged in her backpack and pulled out a bottle of Smirnoff and tipped that up to her mouth. ‘Much better,’ she said. The time was 11.20 am. It was going to be a long day at the festival!

John was delighted to meet up with his daughter Becky and grandson Jenson and also his son Matt. We had a good social day together before we got our bus  to Upper Beeding.

Now there are B&Bs and there was this one. Oh my. We had the Yellow  Room, bright and crisp and fabulous. Our owners adore colour, and Ron had created a mini Greece on a flat wall across from the house, an Australian outback bar in the back, and an African welcoming garden at the front. I was entranced with the mighty Honda in the driveway, and was told that the couple were planning to ride to Morocco on it for Christmas. Fun place.

From there we went on to Lewes. Such a pretty town, and our B&B lady seemed lonely and pleased to see us. In the morning I saw three sticky glasses lined up by her chair in the living room. It was here that she had sat listening to music on her headphones the previous evening. It reminded me of a novel by Elizabeth Jolly. She described a woman taking three crystal glasses of whisky and soda to bed with her. She lined them up and drank them as she enjoyed her novel. I wonder? Is this something that people do?

And finally back to Rosie and Pete in Bexhill. Such bliss to be back and rest and catch our breath. They took us to Beachy Head where we should have finished the walk. We did see a man walking towards us across the hill on his last leg of the Way, and I was so jealous. Maybe another time?

They took us to Chartwell House, home of Winston Churchill. What a fabulous place with so many paintings and apparently Brad Pitt has bought one of Winston’s landscapes for nine million pounds!

The only painting of his that I really liked was the one he did of his wife, Clemmie.

It poured with rain as we looked at the gardens, so we took refuge in the Wendy House that Winston had built for his daughter, Mary. Here at the age of five she played hostess and served rock buns to Isaac Newton and Charlie Chaplin.

And so we left, and revisited Brighton where we stayed with Matt and Hannah, then on to Chichester where we saw John’s sister Libby, and then to Salisbury. The rain was a deluge, so we missed the choral singing in the Cathedral; instead we saw Zizzies where more modern history was played out with the poisoning of the Russian spies. I felt a little disconcerted as our land lady was called Natasha. Hmmm.

Our plan was to go on to Wales after visiting Stonehenge, which we saw quite clearly from the road, but my own Natasha and Bonnie had both just been diagnosed with Covid 19. (She had been double jabbed so not good.) So we decided that as we were so far south we would make a diversion and visit Devon instead, and then meander up to Cornwall and see the Eden Project. No need to go on foreign holidays, just visit the glass bubbles of this amazing place, where the temperature sits at 26C and you walk through South East Asia, West Africa, the Caribbean, Australia and the Pacific Islands.

The plants have all been grown from seeds or have come as babies from other nurseries, but now they tower high with waterfalls and flowers. Fabulous experience. We bought a toothache plant. We saw them growing like weeds along the sides of the Amazon River a couple of years ago.

We called into Port Isaac, a lively fishing village, but more famously home to Doc Martin, and also the film set of Fisherman’s Friends. It seemed strange to walk through streets that are so familiar and eat a vegan Cornish pasty sitting on a wall that I have seen hundreds of times on TV.

And no visit to Cornwall can be complete without visiting Boscastle. Natasha insisted we should visit the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic. What an experience. We learnt about potions and poppets, i.e. the dolls that you can transfer evil thoughts of hate and revenge or envy. One poor man doll looked a bit like a hairbrush – he  had so many pins sticking out of his chest. It seems he made the woman’s daughter pregnant. Oh well.

We came out reeling with so much information and so many images to digest. We headed to Tintagel where the legend of King Arthur originated. It was late, and so we didn’t bother walking down to the sea. Maybe another time.

And finally, on to Chester… again in the pouring rain, so no walking around the city walls. We lurched into the Museum of Medicine. To be honest I think we lurched out again about an hour later feeling very green around the gills. It was so graphic and quite horrible, but very clever and true. We saw depictions of horrible amputations, diseases, barbers’ chairs, complete with manacles for the hands and feet . The barber’s symbol that hangs outside their door is red and white, and now I know why. A very bloody experience for sure.

And HOME sweet home. It has been good to travel and visit and meet so many people, friends, family and new friends. But now it is time to reflect.

I shall continue sewing, started doing shirts, and planning a very colourful spring season – and John has so many jobs to be done, inside and out and soon it will be the end of another year.

I have just celebrated another birthday, and John stepped up to the mark and baked me a Victoria sponge (courtesy of Mary Berry).  His first ever, and it was so delicious, it will certainly not be his last.

I will not be writing this blog anymore. It has been fun these last 10 years or so, and sometimes I look back at the entries from Australia and Doha and the various trips we made and remember all the fun adventures we had.  Also I marvel at how Bonnie and Hazel, Darcey and Dillon have all grown and become part of my life.

So – goodbye from me. Thank you for reading, stay well and happy, wherever you are!

Gael

This morning the fog was thick, no sign of life over the sea wall, but I could hear the hoot of the Royal Scotsman crossing the bridge on its way north.

Not for us the luxury of sitting back and enjoying the scenery as it unfolded… our trip was more hands on, walking through bracken and wet fields at dawn with glowering mountains as our backdrop, for we have just come back from our own Highland Odyssey.  In some parts I felt we were emulating the steps of the great Dr Johnson and his companion Boswell as they headed to Skye and beyond.

I do love the feeling of entering the corridor of majestic mountains that make up Glencoe, and it felt like meeting old friends as we drove past the Buachaille Etive Mor and saw again the Devil’s Staircase.

Our destination was Skye, and the campsite at Edinbane, not so far from Portree. The sun shone, and we feasted like kings on steak and vedg cooked on our little barbecue, relishing the quiet and the dark loch in front of us.

The next day we decided to re-explore the sights of the north of Skye, and came upon Flora MacDonald’s grave in Kilmuir. 3000 people attended her funeral, and she lies with some fine company. One fellow dragged up a King’s headstone he found on the beach and ordered it to be his stone for when the time came. Another had a stone that had killed him on the mountain. Here lies… killed by a falling boulder. And there it was. The air was so clean, so pure, the lichen just grew like a fairy coat on the gravestones.

The  Quiraing, the Old man of Storr were lost in mists, but tourists were parked nose to tail, looking at where they might have loomed. We headed for Portree and a cup of tea. We may have missed the sights of the Black Cuillin range that day, but Runrig’s singer Donnie Monro had painted  a fantastic mural on a wall in the town, so we enjoyed the view at close range.

Sorley Mclean, the Gaelic poet wrote the beautiful poem Hallaig on his home island of Raasay. I felt after all these years it was time to see the woods that had inspired his haunting words. John and I drove to the ferry at Sconser only to see it leave. ‘Oh well, that’s that,’ we thought. But no! The ferry turned back especially for us, the side dropped down and we were ushered on. “You don’t get this kind of service with busses and trains!” our attendant shouted. And they didn’t charge us!

It was early afternoon. The MacLeod’s table stood proudly awaiting us to climb. We thought of the stalwart Londoners, Boswell and Dr Johnson, so we decided to climb up this table top landmark.

Taking water and waterproofs we set off up through steep woodland, and for seven miles we ascended 682m. Often the approach was through rough moorland and the day was hot and the bog myrtle was alive with black butterflies. John searched the skies for golden eagles, but to no avail. Approaching the summit, imagine our horror as the sky changed and a heavy mist swathed us, and we lost our vision. We posed on a rock, took a snap and decided to call it a day before we retreated safely away from the dangerous white-out. No fabulous views of the Cuillin or distant Dunvegan. Not this time. Instead we ploughed through bracken and John was rewarded later with four nasty little ticks on his lower shins. They obviously hated my body lotion.

Our treat that night was to stay in the baronial Raasay House Hotel, once a great stronghold of the Jacobite cause, and later razed to the ground after Culloden (1745). It was rebuilt, and over time modernised and refurbished.

The setting was glorious, and I dressed for dinner. What a difference from the campsite, chopping vegetables and marching over to the common facilities for water etc. We entered the dining room. No white linen, no napkins, only cheap cutlery that might bend if you pushed, and the menu no better than a roadside coffee shop. What a disappointment. The staff seemed under-trained and saw the job as a good summer holiday.

Later we walked in the grounds, and I gingerly touched the standing stone -an ‘Outlander’ moment. Where would I end up, in the mists of times gone by?

We took the ferry from Uig over to Lochmaddy in North Uist. We were back in the Outer Hebrides. It was such a good feeling, almost like coming home. It was evening, the gloaming time of day as the ferry berthed and we settled in to the same hotel that we stayed in two years ago. We were ready to go searching for beaches and lapwings and skylarks. I was also on a mission to find the resting place of Margaret Fay Shaw Campbell. We drank brandy and whisky in our room and looked out to the sea and the black shape of a cormorant.

We did find a coffee the next morning, not in the Dark Island Hotel (sorry we are closed to casual visitors … have you booked?) but from following the advice ofthe lady in the Co-op. ‘Well, you turn off when you see the sign for the Jewellery shop, drive up that road till you hit a wall, well I don’t mean that, you understand. But the wall is where they are building a horrible house, I don’t care for it at all, well keep going and it’s behind that. You can’t miss it.’

And that’s what we did. The ladies gave us coffee, but to take out: ‘We are rushed off our feet, all the tables are full.’ (There were three). Then they chatted about cooking fish for their tea.

Two years ago we stayed in a hostel in South Uist, quaint and welcoming, so we decided to revisit it. It was closed and locked, unsafe in these Covid times. The man in the jewellery shop told me that if I was going down that way, to be sure to look over the brown bridge that spans the river leading into the sea.

‘The salmon are just queuing to get up, rows and rows of them, you can’t miss it.’

We walked along the sands, and did indeed look over the bridge. Alas, it must have been the wrong tide or something!

South of Loch Boisdale in North Glendale, where Margaret Fay Shaw came to live, and where we drove around looking for any signs of the old croft house where she lived with the MacRae sisters, Peggy and Mairi Andra. She wrote that she lived on porridge and potatoes and fish. The only Vitamin C she got was  from marmalade! We did find her grave. She was not buried with her husband John Campbell but chose to lie beside those sisters in the graveyard near St Peters Church in Daliburgh. John and I found it, with the help of two grave diggers. The earth was mainly sand and easy digging, and we watched them prepare a grave. Rabbits had burrowed many of the surrounding graves. The land is reclaimed from the natural machair, mostly sand, and dotted with buttercups and wild daisies. Finally we found her. 1903-2004. 101, not bad for whisky, fags, no vedg and a lifetime of music!

We stayed that night in the Polechar Hotel, sitting out on the edge of the world and flanked by pure white beaches. We were served scallops and lobster in the most exquisite sauces. I think I died and went to heaven. Oh my! It was so good.

And then it was away to the ferry again and over the sea to the Isle of Harris and a new campsite sitting on yellow sands with a dramatic brooding backdrop.

It was there we met up with Natasha, Leo and Bonnie and Hazel. They had just arrived from Eriskay, so we joined forces and John and I took the little girls down to the beach where we re-enacted The Olympics, which were very topical at the time. Bonnie tended to win Gold all the time, Hazel – Silver, John – Bronze, and Granny – a lump of coal. I am not as good at star jumps as I once was, or handstands or running VERY fast.

We explored the island and went for a long walk to the lighthouse at Scalpay.

Over the moor lands we tramped, the going was heathery and scratchy. Bonnie miles ahead with John, ‘ I hate having to wait, whoever has Hazel has to go really slow, I like it when we get walking again.’

We got tea at the lighthouse, which was very welcome and learnt about Alexander Reid. My, what a man. What a hermit with dedication. 35 years he tended his wick, his garden and his lazy beds… wanting for nothing, no greed for gold, nor burning ambition.

 

The day was ending and we had the long drive up to Lewis, and over to Mangersta on the West Coast. The road from Stornoway to Uig is like a runway, it was tempting to ‘hit the ton’ as they say in motor shows. Didn’t fancy being caught by Stornoway’s PC Plod though.

Mangersta is like Shangri La, you come over the hill and there it is, soft croftland, magnificent beaches, and a meandering road that takes you round. That night we heard the wind, and that was all.

We explored the rocks where the bothy of stone is built into the sea wall. It is built exactly like a Mongolian yurt, and inside it is snug and warm with an open fireplace. We wandered around and finally got back to our pods. Natasha spirited up curries from her magic ingredients. A little of this, a little of that. No packets or bottles in sight, all ground and mixed and stirred. Delicious.

Beaches and Lewis Chessmen, and sand dunes and threatening dark clouds. Amazingly we had no rain, so we walked and talked and Tasha and Leo fell in love with the crofting life.

I taught Bonnie and Hazel to sew. It was quite special. They did lots of stitching and eventually finished their mats at Badrallach campsite beside Little Loch Broom where we could see An Teallach in the distance.

We barbecued fresh mackerel and played games. The weather held and Bonnie, Hazel and I collected wild flowers from a meadow that potentially held adders!

We parted and they went south and John and I made our way to Applecross, over the pass of the cows. Terrifying, especially as one car had gone over the inside verge and the rest of us had to manoeuvre our way round him, trying not to look down the steep drop.

Applecross is magical, with a beautiful walled garden, and the lovely pod we stayed in, and lichen draped trees.

 

And finally we called into Glenelg and met up with Catriona and Mary and Bo. John wisely excused himself as the chatter went on and on till the early hours.

I met Mary in the morning and she gave me an orchid that her husband Iain had found on the Galtair hill years and years ago. Somehow it had seeded itself, so she dug up a prime plant and now I have a bit of her garden safely in mine. Long may it flower!

So, we got out of our Covid cage and tested appropriately and all was well. It felt good to see people again and hear their stories, and share for just a while their lives. Good to intertwine, go home and reflect.

By the way it is finished!

 

 

 

I sat out this morning at 6.30 a.m. and the sea was like silk and the bumble bees were bumbling and buzzing in a froth of poppy pollen. The garden has flourished and we have won against the elements and the onslaught of the sea storms and evil salty spray. For a few months we are the winners and the  flowers and bees can pretend they are in a country meadow. 

This last month has been a roller coaster of happiness. I visited my mum in her care home and sang the songs of The Sound of Music and at 97 she was word perfect. She chatted about friends of long ago, and together we shared memories that only the two of us remembered. After two hours of stimulation, she was like a different person. It was nice for John and me to drive there again and see the countryside away from our own perimeters. Lock down is over!

To celebrate, we packed the tent and drove north and west to the Ardnamurchan peninsula and pitched on a lovely site in Strontian. The leaves on the tree above us quivered, and I wondered if it was an aspen, and hummed tunes by John Denver as a suitable tribute, and was a little disappointed to find it was actually a type of poplar.  Don’t know any songs to celebrate poplars.

Anyway we took to camping like old hands, and numbed the senses appropriately with a bottle of warm fizz, then slept under canvas and didn’t miss the comforts of home at all. We explored the north and most westerly point of the United Kingdom at Sanna Sands, which sit just outside of the ring of fire, of dramatic volcano fame. It was just too beautiful, and the only thing to mar the day was the hottest mustard in the world that I had lavished on our sandwiches. Hotter than chilli, hotter than wasabi. Our eyes and noses ran, and reading the label I read it was made for the Victorians, “who liked their mustard as hot as the Devil’s pitchfork”. Enough said. We left our crusts for the crabs. Good luck to them, I say.

We lay in the sand dunes and watched threatening clouds that were just full of hot air, and blew away, leaving us to the tableau that might have adorned an artist’s palette.

We walked through corridors of pine trees for about 5 miles to get to the Singing Sands. We saw on the horizon the full range of mountains, from the Rhum hills, to the Sgurr of Eigg, to the the Cuillens of Skye and the distant peaks of An Teallach and Ben Alligin in the Torridon mountain range. All so clear, yet in tones of blues and silvery turquoise. 

It rained later, but not to worry, we were booked into a luxurious ‘restaurant with rooms’ that overlooked a mini loch. The waitress was seen in the morning (before her shift) standing, soaked to the skin beside the water, giving her baby ducks a swim. They were then herded back to their pen, safe from the nasty drake that would have terrorised them. All this animal husbandry is news to me. I was just amazed at her devotion as the midgies that morning were so fierce, they looked like a black cloud on her hands, and the bites I got from just walking out to the car left huge welts on my neck that lasted for days.

So we came home revived from our adventure, and John was invigorated to go brick hunting again. We revisited Bo’ness, where he found 21 bricks that he didn’t already have, so we manfully carried them back to the car. I must say I did moan a bit. They are very heavy. Some of these bricks come from kilns from 1850, and they are like a living architectural testimony to the days of the coal, and pottery industries. John has built a round ‘wildflower meadow’ with the bricks, which is about to flower at any minute. He also gave them a good wash and painted on their names. 

Walking has been good. Woodland walks with Darcey and Dillon, ‘Come on Dillon, let’s go man go!’ I heard him grumbling to Darcey that ‘Granny called me a mango, I’m NOT a mango.’

We also had a fabulous walk around the farmlands behind Aberdour, when the gorse was heavy with blossom and the rich coconut smells made me just want to lie down and forget about climbing the next hill.

Trees took on faces, and I wondered if I was in some enchanted wood.

We drove to St Monans then walked up the Fife coastal path to Crail, the sun  shone and the sea glittered, and we ate fish and chips at the half way point, then regretted it, as we felt we could have just snoozed away the afternoon.

For the first time in ages we got the bikes out and cycled the 23km round loch Leven. I threw my avocado pip behind me into a stream. Imagine my shock when I heard a loud squawk of protest. I thought I had clobbered a duck. But no, the splash had woken up a nest of ravenous baby black birds who thought their mum had returned. I think they were blackbirds, they were scrawny, but did look quite big. My bird spotting is limited… though John did get a good shot of a kestrel eyeing up some mouse. I was quite impressed. My shot looked like a black dot on the lens.

We had Rosy and Pete to visit, they drove all the way up from the South of England and we celebrated being together, first time in ages. I made them a symphony of crab for dinner. Bisque, soufflé and linguine. Courtesy of the local man who chugs past in  his blue boat most days. Delicious! We drove out to Cramond and explored the island at low tide. Pretty place, and we posed on the beach. We look a little like a rock band, ready to party! 

Sadly we witnessed the aftermath of a boating accident. It was a tanker that actually saw the men in the water and called for help. But within half an hour the boat remains had washed up on the shore in front of our house. The current out there is lethal. Doesn’t prevent wild swimmers and canoeists from enjoying the sea close to shore though. Anyway we ‘helped the CID with their inquiries’. I was very impressed with their beautiful suits and shoes and showed one of them round the garden. John just rolled his eyes! 

We later learnt that one man had lost his life. 

Suddenly out of the blue I met a lady from across the sea, courtesy of our modern technology. Her name is Margriet Ruurs and she is from Canada.

She  had read my book, The Moon in the Banyan Tree, and had written to say how much she had enjoyed it. I was flabbergasted as it has been some time since I wrote it. Anyway we exchanged a few emails, and she too has written a book, called Stepping Stones with the artwork by a Syrian man called Nizar Ali Badr.

I promptly sent away for the book and was blown away by the story and the concept and the amazing artwork. It is a refugee family’s story and it is portrayed in stones. Margriet, as a result, has been invited to so many international schools around the world as a visiting author to talk about the book.

The pictures in stones represent love, anguish, sorrow and joy. I cannot believe pebbles from a beach could communicate so much and so poignantly. 

Anyway I have sewn one of the pictures as an applique, and it will be a reminder of the message.

I saw a whale the other morning. He was huge and had a massive black fin. He was slow and majestic and in no hurry. 

The mural continues outside on the decking. We still have to paint on some wisteria, so I will not post any pictures until it is finished. 

I have been making sunglasses cases, and sent some down to my little girls in Wales. They make ideal models!

So, we are past midsummer, and the nights are long. A rainbow appeared at 10 p.m. last night, it would have been too perfect if the whale had returned to complete the picture!

Adieu.

I’m at a loss. Finished all my projects, tidied my sewing room, and don’t know what to do.

For the last few months I have been possessed. Finished the Iliad and the Odyssey, and Margaret Attwood’s ‘The Penelopiad’, Madeline Miller’s  book, ‘Circe’ and Robert Graves, ‘The Greek Myths’. All this coincided with Edinburgh University’s series of on-line lectures. I was able to consolidate so much with Rolland Mann’s lecture on Homer. So – a good start to the year. Natasha rang the other day saying we should go to Greece next April (if possible) and I nearly jumped down the phone. How wonderful would that be. Culturally of course, but I have visions of the blue Aegean, the stuffed vine leaves and red mullet and cold white wine and olive trees and wandering about in flip flops and letting the ancient world seep into my bones.

Apart from revelling in myths and legends, I have been sewing my swansong. I started with birds and butterflies, which eventually became the border of a rather pretty garden quilt.

which eventually became the border of a rather pretty garden quilt.

It just seemed to grow, and I would stand gazing and wondering if a clematis might suit the edging and should the gold finch have a crocus to stand by him.

It was a joy to do, even though John was concerned about how black my eyes looked after hours bent over the sewing machine. Yesterday we took the finished quilt to the Long Arm Quilter who lives in Stirling who will work her magic on it, and I should get it back in a couple of months.

John has been foraging the sea shores on both sides of the Forth. Discarded bricks dating back from the 1850s lie embedded in the mud and sand,

and together we have hauled them out and carried them home. He has painstakingly chipped the rubble off them and treated them to a good bubble bath, then finally painted in their names.

They now stand around our latest feature… a new flower bed (a bit like a kid’s paddling pool) and they look very classy in their new role.

We have planted wild flowers in it, near the Beespoke Hotel. Nobody can say we are not doing our bit for the planet. Mind you the only residents so far in the hotel are two spiders. We have high hopes.

I had my second Covid jab and promptly fell at death’s door. It was awful. I had NO reaction from the first one, then wham, I had high fever, shivers and headache. I still feel flat and tired, but all the other symptoms have gone. But we are so lucky. We are done. We can move onwards. Didn’t expect that, this time last year.

I did meet Irene a few weeks back (when we were allowed) and we had such fun. Jumped on an Edinburgh Bus and did the whole route, sitting up at the top seeing the sights. It was brilliant. People sitting out in the sun, cherry blossom and spring flowers dotting the way and we talked and talked, like two bandits with our dark glasses and masks.

Meanwhile John and Mike had been fishing, and came back with two mighty rainbow trout each. A good day was had by all.

We have had Dillon and Darcey for the odd day when Nursery has been closed, so that has been good for taking us out and letting them run free. Their chatter is a tonic. Sadly I can’t see Bonnie and Hazel yet, and Hazel seems to agree. Natasha showed her a picture of my quilt on her phone, ‘I don’t want to see Granny’s quilt, I want to see Granny!’ Quite so.

Hopefully we can break free soon and get out on the open road. We are so excited to get the camping things together, but my goodness the weather has been cold. Poor little baby plants are being treated like royalty, being brought in to sleep in the warmth every night. They are getting a little big for such pampering, so hopefully after this weekend?

Mind you, I was pleased the weather was so vile during the Snooker world championship. I felt no guilt, sitting and watching frame after frame, sometimes being quite animated at the twist and turn of fate, as the little balls didn’t go quite where they should have. I also found Mark Selby very pleasing to the eye – Mr Granite – he would be a very good model for Ken of the Barbie doll world. I also love Ronnie O’Sulliven, but he was knocked out quite early… he is just a force and is so revered. My mum and I used to watch Pot Black many moons ago.

I took a notion one wild windy day to paint a mural out on the decking. We were able to get some sheets of wood, which John coated in white and we set about it. I started doing a Scottish mountain theme, but it was too cold.

So, inspired by a Doha friend who had created Tuscany on her villa wall, I tried something similar. I just got a sponge and started! It was quite liberating. John painted the arches, and helped with the architectural accuracies of the little houses, and we now have the most unusual scene to greet us every morning. I do need to touch up the lavender fields and I want to put on a vine to hang down from the arches. But, feel reluctant. It somehow looks ok.

So for today, it is goodbye. I shall await further inspiration. I do hope it won’t be long in coming. Everyone needs something to look forward to, and something to be interested in.

For today my aim is quite lowly. I shall make some soup.

Adieu.

A Guid New Year to ane and a’….. and so the story goes. Burns night tonight, and yes, we shall eat haggis, neeps and tatties. We are all trying to follow the calendar, do what we have always done, watch the sunrises and sunsets and sometimes, against some horrible odds, we try to keep cheerful.

There have been some black days and it’s easy to have an excuse to be down and disheartened,  but I am reminded of our minister in Glenelg who used to visit a blind woman once a week. They would sit and she would talk, and he listened to tales of travel and countries and  Tahiti and Sri Lanka. He watched her face glow as she relived her times rattling over rough laterite tracks in the back of a jeep. Red dust ingrained itself round her eyes, and he laughed with her, seeing her as she might once have been.  He heard the waves pound the shore, and could hear the wind rattle the coconut blinds and although her eyes could no longer see, she painted her pictures and he too was watching the forked lightning and heard the steady beat of the monsoon rain.

Happiness they say is bankable. We store it up, and can draw on it at will. I have been looking through past photographs and I too remember the sleepy sounds from a tropical veranda, or the cruel winds that battered the West Coast of Scotland. Now we are all confined, but today I chose to wear my Peru jumper and the beads and earrings I bought from the Shaman on the Amazon River. I close my eyes and I am there. So many wonderful things that just trigger a memory. Sorry, whilst uploading pictures, the Amazon and the Hebrides got mixed up! easily done!

I see the Banksia man that I brought back from Australia, the Buddhas from Thailand and Burma, the picture from China, the ornament from Ukraine, the cloth and paintings from Vietnam. Suddenly I am transported. 

Life recently has  been tough but I think I have been coping with all the new challenges. 

We have Darcey and Dillon twice a week, and John and I have to cope with some terrible truths. ‘You are so bouncy, Granny,’ or ‘Why is your face a little crumbly?’  or ‘Why have you red things in your eyes?’ and finally, ‘You and John are really old and you are going to die… we aren’t because we are new.’

John and I just look away, and quickly draw on the happiness bank… what can cheer us up? Maybe the fantastic beaches of the Isle of Harris on the Outer Hebrides. Fabulous wide, windswept spaces and totally empty. No horrible questions or stark statements, just the cries of the gulls.

Sadly we lost a legend last week. Christopher Main of Glenelg  passed away, and left so many of us sad and introspective. His humour and sense of fun was infectious, and no one who spent any time in the Kintail Lodge or the Glenelg Inn will ever forget his unique approach to hospitality. I can see him now, passing between tables joking with everyone, the pub busy and the band playing and people dancing, and Chris pulling me up and we swayed to the Wild Mountain Thyme.

Christmas was wonderful. I was so lucky to have had Natasha and family make the journey. For a few days life felt normal, and Bonnie and Hazel sang the Beatles karaoke song with Tasha and Leo, and performed the 12 days of Christmas on Christmas Eve. John was bemused as the kitchen was totally taken over by the Vegan Chefs, and our Christmas table was full of strange stuffed celeriacs and delicious stuffings. 

I can no longer do my University courses, but I have bought the books for 20^th Century French literature, so at present I am lost in The Mandarins by Simone de Beauvoir. I love it. 

John and I have been walking the paths around us, and it has been tough, slipping on ice and frosty rocks and stones. We did get a little snow,  though not as much as those who live away from the sea. Darcey and Dillon made the most amazing snowman… I was so impressed.

Instead we walked and held our faces up to the winter sunshine, the frozen trees looks dramatic against a perfectly blue sky.

There was one that looked as though it could not make up its mind which way it wanted to grow, it had twisted and turned and now looked like a giant cork screw.

And as we walked home, look what we saw. The first sign of spring!

No need to shut my eyes and conjure up memories, for here was the present and the hope for better days to come!

Today is Saint Andrew’s Day, and it will always be etched on my memory from the years spent in Kota Kinabalu in Sabah, East Malaysia on the island of Borneo. 

I was young, the children tiny and the days seem golden in reflection. Days of sitting looking out on the South China Sea to the islands of Gaya and Sapi and Mamutik. Nowadays these islands are developed beyond recognition, and Gaya has three five-star resorts. Forty years ago there was sand and palm trees and us on a Sunday, snorkelling and hanging out with friends on coconut mats and drinking beer and cold white wine from the packed Eski boxes.

We practised Scottish dancing from October, formed a committee to organise the event, and finally on St Andrew’s day itself we dressed and danced and filled our dance cards for Dukes of Perth and Gay Gordons and Strip the Willows. 

All these years later, there is less glamour. Today I have been mopping and hanging out washing. I doubt I would get through two of these dances without a breather in between. Still, John and I march and march, around the coastal paths of Fife, through small pretty villages and treat each day as  precious. We are fit enough.

The trees have been on fire, the sunrises and sunsets have been explosions of red  and orange, and with such a fanfare to mark the ending of 2020, we now approach the winter months. 

We have foraged, and produced the jars of homemade jams and chutney, wine and liqueurs to mark the autumn harvest. 

I did enjoy the yew berries, and carefully sucked off the juicy red flesh before spitting out the lethal pip. What a tree, so full  of menace. I walked along an avenue of yew on Lord Roseberry’s estate in Dalmeny, and ate the pretty harvest as I passed. I did study the branches, for it is the yew that lends itself to making bows and crossbows. They are bendy I believe. Certainly don’t look it. I did wonder why they are always planted in cemeteries, and are known as the tree of the dead. Maybe because they are so lethal. Nearly every part of the tree is toxic and poisonous to humans, and you must take care not to lick your fingers if you are busy carving your bow.

The tree is poisonous to every form of animal, like horses and dogs and sheep, and so, according to legend, they were planted in churchyards.  Livestock were usually kept out of these sacred places.

I have been reading a Learned Tome all about Wordsworth and Coleridge, and their contemporaries – Lamb, Keats and Byron. Strange to think of them writing their poems about daffodils and Kubla Khan and ancient mariners at the time of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars. Sometimes I think I know more about Dorothy Wordsworth (the poet’s sister);  she is quoted quite a bit in travel books. She was a prolific writer, particularly about her travels with William. Both Wordsworth and Coleridge drew from her journals; it was as though her minute observations opened their eyes to the minutiae of detail. 

Anyway, I was drawn to the chapter on landscapes and trees and particularly the colour brown.

Sir George Beaumont said that every landscape should have one brown tree. Sublimity requires darkness, and he always said, ‘A good picture , like a good fiddle, should be brown.’ And another view was that the artist could see that the trees were blue and purple , but to recreate the effect,  might displease the traditionally-minded spectator. 

Poor trees, they were idealised, and should have ‘form, lightness and proper balance’ to be truly beautiful, yet artists showed much enthusiasm for decayed or damaged trees. So thought the Reverend William Gilpin, who enjoyed sketching tours around the English counties and introduced the idea of picturesque travel: 

‘For one living tree in a forest you will have twenty four evil-thriving: rotten and dying trees; what rottenness! What hollowness! What dead arms! Withered tops! Curtailed trunks! What loads of mosses! Dropping boughs and  dying branches shall you see everywhere!’

Oh dear! I  quite like the effects silhouetted on an evening sky.

John and I joined Cathal and the children at Hopetoun House’s wondrous woods celebration recently. Fun night and dry, thank goodness. Lighting and special effects made superstars of the ancient oaks and we enjoyed tramping through the woods in the dark.

Otherwise I have been busy, just finishing crafts already started, and two Shetland wool beanies. 

I have been quite absorbed with trees, and yesterday I did actually search for a brown tree. Couldn’t really find any! When you think of how brown is made up on the colour wheel, there are so many variables, from rich reds to light golds. So how do furniture and fiddles look so BROWN! I am looking at my furniture around me, and it is all so rich and SUBLIME!  

Enough, maybe I should be like Coleridge and carry a notebook around with me and record as he did:

‘The chapped bark of the lower trunk, the bark like a rhinoceros rolled in mud and exposed to the tropic heat. Oh Christ it maddens me that I am not a painter or that Painters are not I!’

Adieu!

It is witchy time again, and although it will be a different Halloween this year, there are signs that the magic is still around – pumpkins guarding the doorways, witches’ faces drawn on windows and little kids all excited to dress up and have a ghoulish time. We ate our pumpkin ages ago so we are spoil sports, but I did see a very nice recipe on TV for a curry sauce that I might try next week. 

This year I have become my mother’s and grandmother’s daughter. They had huge doubts about me whilst going through my teenage years and even in my thirties, but suddenly I have discovered the joys of the hedgerow, and have become a born-again jam maker and forager. Natasha is in a different league, as she and Leo have become members of the mushroom club and can tell what can be eaten and what must be avoided. I find the fungus world quite beautiful, and am happy to leave the fairies to their little domed dwellings.

Bonnie made a beautiful picture of mushrooms that won first prize, and quite rightly so.

Hazel has been ready for Halloween for days. 

John and I have hunted for brambles to mix with brandy, also apples and plums for chutney, and we were given a gift of sloes which I turned into gin.  I have made raspberry vinegar, elderflower cordial and every kind of jam. The kitchen has been a production line of ladles and jars and labels. 

Today the sea is agitated and the sky is grey; storms are forecast. I did brave the splattering rain to harvest the angelica plants that I have grown this year. The herb of the angels I am told and so apt for this time, as it is medicinal and was once thought to help fight the plague. Nick’s ex-girlfriend sent me a collection of seeds from all around the world, to help fight disease and build up our immunity. I was quite bemused, but dutifully planted a selection from the packets, even tiny poppy size seeds from the Andes which produced small little tubers that I am to plant next year and which should give me a more recognisable crop of potatoes. I have Cape gooseberries, Japanese cherry, rhubarb and so many more which all came from tiny packets. I am tending them carefully.

Anyway the angelica flourished and  today I have blanched the straw-like stems, and will then peel the outer skin and dunk them into a sugar solution. The whole process is fiddly and prolonged, and I know no one will want any… but I shall insist! 

I could also make tea from the roots and put leaves into a chicken dish – we shall see.

We have been walking around, further afield now that restrictions have been lifted (for the moment) and searched for bits of broken pottery along the beautiful Fife coast line for Irene to turn into mosaic pictures. The days have been sunny and we have relished being out and about. 

We walked up by Falkland Palace and through the path to the Pillars of Hercules. The day was beautiful, and we stopped in the antique shop that specialises in violins. An elderly man was strumming his guitar, and pointed us to a pile of books which he was selling. They were his autobiography. We dutifully bought one, and later found out all about Bob Beveridge, an ex-CID officer for Glasgow back in the 70s and 80s. His violin/antique shop has been visited by Johnny Cash and later by his daughter Roseanne and in fact Roseanne Cash recorded three songs in the back room of Bob’s shop. 

We chatted, and our eye looked over the wallie dugs, old dinner sets and specialist violins, but it was not a buying day.

We do love the little village of Culross with its fabulous history and colourful quaint houses, but best of all we like to tramp across the fields behind the village to the old graveyard. It has become so familiar to us now, and further along to the plague graves where the remains of children from Dunfermline lie in the woods. 

We look after Dillon twice a week at the moment, and took him to Torryburn, where the woods and village were used in the setting of the TV series Outlander. The woods were magical and so we played Hide and Seek. I was mad with John as he hid so well, I really thought Dillon and I were going to be walking in circles for ever. Scary places in the deep dark woods.

Talking about Outlander, Jamie was spied modelling a kilt outside my old house in Glenelg!

Last week we meandered along the coastal path from Limekilns to Rosyth, where the huge aircraft carriers were recently built. 

We found the derelict tumbledown ruin of Rosyth Church and its graveyard. It was naturally on  the ‘Coffin Road’ so we duly went in to look at the inscriptions of ‘who lies here’. I was intrigued with the stones marking how many ‘rooms’ were available in each grave.  I have never heard that term. On looking it up, it really means how many ‘lairs’ are available, and people would buy the plot, and have it dug to the depth they might require. 

Anyway we walked back and had a walk about, and dutifully photographed a dragon that someone had erected in their front garden.

My birthday came and went, and it was good. Particularly the lobster cooked with a thermidor sauce. It was just so delicious. Gerry’s oven had broken down, and as she had offered to make the cake she had to resort to buying one instead. We were all a bit shocked at the size! It had about five tiers, probably good for a wedding. Fantastic and we shared it amongst us, and needless to say our half is gone. 

Because our university classes are all cancelled, I did look up to see what might have been on offer, and one tutor was going to be doing American Literature, so I acquired the books and read them, and am so glad that I did. Of course I miss the tutorials that would have gone alongside, but still I am all the better for having read something new and different.

Housekeeping by Marlynne Robinson, A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan, Winters Bone by Daniel Woodrell, and I have just finished Jazz by Toni Morrison. 

Sewing has been limited. I did do a picture, but turned it into a table runner.

It’s quite nice. I have also made a Shetland beanie and am now making another.

I painted some buoys, which are fun, John was not impressed with my Forth bridge, but at least its recognisable amongst the flowers. I have just done the undercoat for two more. I am waiting for inspiration before I get started. 

John has been fishing with Mike, at a pool near the Five Sisters Zoo. They were so lucky and caught five rainbow trout between them, and John was bemused as he quietly cast his line and heard the roar of lions in the background… this is Scotland? 

So life goes on, we are busy, and like everyone else, we are making the best of this year, trying to live and be happy but also keeping our distance and being safe. Who knows how the winter will develop? 

I have put lavender detox pads on the soles of my feet, and John bought me a mighty machine that sends electricity up through your feet and helps circulation. We watch TV, and hum Yves Montand as we look out, and see ‘the autumn leaves pass by the window, the autumn leaves of red and gold’.

This might be my last blog, in which case fare thee well.  But if not, and I decide to pay up for another year’s subscription, you will hear from me in a while!

And I saw a tree in Edinburgh, totally in Lockdown!