Spring has sprung

Posted on March 9, 2020 by gaelharrison

I  have a sore throat and a fuzzy head, and I keep taking my temperature, but I think I am ok, and don’t need to go into lockdown or isolation. I have just been for a brisk walk up the Brae, then down to the beach and along the coastal path.

I breathed deep yoga breaths, making the air go right down to the deepest capillaries, and then sat for a short while on ‘Wee John’s bench’ and viewed the busy sea and sky.

Reminds me of that Chris de Burgh song, ‘Lonely Sea and Sky’ where he describes lords and ladies in stone holding hands through eternity… Anyway my view was of a flotilla of merganser ducks (about 20 in total) bobbing through the waves and a large tanker making its way to Grangemouth. Ahead the horizon was wispy with cloud and around me the gorse was daring to bloom. I don’t think I have THE virus, even though I did venture to Glasgow on Friday and milled around with hundreds of women at the annual Craft Fair bonanza.

We washed our hands religiously or royally, it depends on your method. Margaret recommended I say three “God save the Queens” to fulfil the stipulated time to froth up.

I was blown away by a lady called Sheena J Norquay from Inverness way, a master quilter.

Her design won in a huge show either in Birmingham or London and the piece now  hangs in the Bernina offices in Switzerland. I listened, and felt very enthused as she discussed circles, and all the various things you can do with that simple shape. I nearly curtsied when we left, I felt I was in such a great presence!

We did drive to Stirling to get my William Morris quilt quilted by the long arm quilter. A massive machine that swoops and swirls the threads all over the piece. Very professional. It was a husband/wife team, and we all sat and deliberated whether gold thread was good, or a strawberry motif. John was quite bemused and we can’t wait to see the finished work around the end of April.

My latest passion is wool felting, and sitting beside Jill up at the Arts and Crafts group on a Monday evening, I can pretend that I can do it. She is an expert on wire and beads and anything miniscule… After making my blue tit, and doing very well, I nearly wrung its neck in frustration, trying to do its silly wire legs. Anyway Jill interceded and helped twist the wreckage into some shape and  now I am as proud as Punch. I have such aspiration, maybe a robin next, or a wagtail? And what about a golden oriole? John had better get busy making a large aviary to display these great works.

And the reading! I have converted the household to French Literature. We have been reading ‘Nana’ and ‘The Ladies Paradise’ by Zola, and loved the scoundrel ‘Bel-Ami’ by Maupassant, and now we are absorbed in ‘The Diary of a Chambermaid’. I have a fleeting image of a kitchen described by Zola as having a huge iron grill big enough to roast a martyr! And a description of a lady’s dress swishing out of a  room with the soft whisper of a snake.

After much deliberation, I have decided to stay with this lecturer, Roland, and study ‘The Iliad’ and ‘The Odyssey’ by Homer next term. I am sure they are the basis of Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ so that might have to go on the reading list too.

In the meantime,  I am having a break and reading the autobiography of Julie Andrews – my reason for living when I was eleven. I even named her as my hero when asked who I revered whilst being interviewed for a teaching job. The head’s lips twitched when I said Julie Andrews, and later she said she could have hugged me, as everyone else said, ‘Their father’, or ‘Ghandi’. She had just been in an amateur dramatic production of the Sound of Music as a very good Reverend Mother.

We went to see the Russian state opera company perform ‘Madam Butterfly’ last Thursday. Again the singer was huge and Wagnerian, and dominated everyone else. Sadly she didn’t look like the gentle geisha, but she did have the sense to cover the child’s ears when she hit the high Cs and Fs, as she sang looking straight into his little eyes. He may have been spared from certain deafness or shattered ear drums.

Apart from that, the music was sublime and we booed Pinkerton as though we were at a pantomime  at the end. He was such a cad.

Gerry came round yesterday with her crew, all dressed in my hand knitted jumpers. I was very gratified and so we all sat and posed like a modern day knitting pattern.

Only Cathal has been neglected in my endeavours. He put on a brave face and offered to be the photographer instead. I look quite mighty sitting up. Next time I shall lurk behind the sofa.

 

All my little people are growing up, Bonnie clocked 6 and Hazel turns 3  tomorrow. Darcey is now 4 and Dillon is 2. John’s little Jenson is 1, so it is all good.

 

John is doing well at the gym doing his running, skiing, rowing and whatnot. He has just come back and told me that he has just pushed 200kg on the Leg Press machine (!!). I told him he needs to put a bit more effort into it…

Nick is improving daily, and only uses one crutch to get about. The right foot is still swollen and taking longer to heal. He goes to see the orthopaedic guy tomorrow. We shall see.

And that is that. The days are getting longer, and the daffodils are nodding their pretty heads. The woods were swathed in snow drops and we managed to grow three this year, which promptly died in the wild February rainstorms.

I do hope all these biblical plagues of rain and flooding and viruses clear off, and we can get on with life and living and being happy.

I can’t stop humming this from Madam Butterfly.

‘One fine day you’ll find me

A thread of smoke arising on the sea

In the far horizon

And then the ship appearing

Then the trim white vessel

Glides into the harbour….’

La la la la! I’m off for my home-made soup and home-made bread, and maybe a taste of home-made jam!

Posted in North Queensferry 2020 | 2 Comments

Peru – Part 2 – Sailing down the Amazon River

Posted on February 2, 2020 by gaelharrison

‘Sailing down the Amazon River’, it conjures up so much: wide, brown, slow-moving waters, thick jungle vegetation, creatures all-hell bent on destroying each other in order to survive. It is the river of dreams and nightmares. Beautiful and terrifying, full of harmful bacteria, piranhas, electric eels and anacondas. But it is the river of impossibly wide water lilies, playful pink dolphins and laughing children diving for armoured catfish. We had all this to find out.  We boarded our river boat, the Amatista, at Iquitos.

Our guides, Daniel and Victor briefed us that first evening.

Daniel had been born and bred in Iceland! Yes, a small community way up in the jungle, he was one of fourteen children. The family moved to Iquitos when the American oil companies moved in to the area in 1987 and renamed many of the villages with their own names, e.g. San Francisco, Florida, etc., hence Daniel was from Iceland!

We learnt that the Amazon basin flooded for six months of the year, so making the area a poor place to build factories and industries which have been the blight of Brazil. Instead the area is protected, and is a refuge for wildlife.

People along the banks  grow rice, beans, vegetables and bananas, which they trade at market in towns like Natau and Iquitos. There are local football teams and people meet and marry in local communities, all linked by the 11,000 tributaries that connect them all.

Originally they followed the animistic religion, and believed in the spirits of animals and rocks and vegetation, but the Spanish Roman Catholic conquistadores of the last centuries brought their missionaries and the people now have the inevitable church alongside their volleyball and football pitches.

We heard a story of how Francisco Pizarro, after destroying the last of the Incas, wanted to loot the country of its treasures. He went on a trip to explore, taking three hundred Spanish men, and provisions for eleven days.He didn’t realise that the men were only interested in finding women.They eventually came to a tribe, whose native name meant ‘Men who wear skirts’ and who wore their hair long.

Of course the Spanish got very excited and tried to capture these ladies of the forest. Imagine their horror when they were attacked by blowpipes with poisonous darts and arrows.The Spanish who  survived the attack were terrified and fled, and likened their foes to the story in Greek Mythology, of the women who cut off their left breasts to enable them to shoot with a bow and arrow. These women were called Amazonians… hence the name.

Truth or myth? It doesn’t matter!

The Amatista was splendid. It sailed serenely down the wide river, stopping to let us off on to two small skiffs to explore the river banks. We searched the trees for birds and monkeys. Holding binoculars we strained our eyes to make out the shape of iguanas and sloths.

John was in bird heaven as he followed Daniel’s instructions to look at the tall tree, move over to the light coloured branch, now at the end of the leafy branch is a crested oropendola.

Gaily coloured macaws flew over, and red-headed woodpeckers obligingly posed for photographs. We saw strange bats poised head down on the bark of trees suspended over the river. I must say I got quite a strained neck trying to find the elusive bunch of feathers.

It was the noises of the jungle that evoked so much. Of course we didn’t see the jaguar, it was the rainy season, and it would have been further inland. We did hope to see an anaconda, but that proved elusive too. It didn’t matter, they were there, and we were part of it all.

Daniel pulled our boat over to some children who were splashing and diving in the water. Their family had netted part of their inlet to catch armoured catfish.

The kids let us have one for inspection. Lethal looking fish, with sharp barbs on its back, but its head is full of a penicillin type substance, that when boiled cures so many ailments, from cancer to hangovers. They send their catch to Iquitos and make a tidy living. Daniel asked the children what they would like to be when they grew up. One said a shaman, another a teacher and a little six year old girl said she would like to be a tourist! Quite so!

Many of these children die before they are two, as they fall into the river and swallow the water which is seething with bacteria. It takes time to build immunities, which does come with mother’s milk and a more gentle weaning process.

The morning trips on the skiff brought new surprises. The pink dolphins, only found in the Amazon are friendly and happy to swim alongside the boats. We watched them in the morning sunshine with the terns diving alongside. It was quite magical.

Afternoons were slow and serene. We read on the upper deck, slept or just watched the river banks slip past. Sometimes a  turkey vulture would swoop down like a large brown butterfly. Evenings we were treated to the crew’s home made band.

They were fantastic and suddenly the whole atmosphere changed and the rhythms of  the salsa and samba took over. People danced and clapped and round our feet the mosquitos bit our ankles. Pisco sours were a constant order for the poor harassed barman. And then silence. Just the lapping waters and the sounds of the jungle.

We were soon away from villages and now we were in the protected reserve where only local people committed to conserve  the  environment were permitted to live. We met a lady who ran a butterfly sanctuary. She tended her eggs and pupae and caterpillars and finally let the butterflies free to pollinate and get on with their part in the delicate ecosystem. I was intrigued with one butterfly pupae, they were pure gold and would have made fabulous earrings.

Of course we were treated to the retail experience, and bought local crafts to commemorate the occasion. I did buy earrings made with actual butterfly wings. When I will wear them, I do not know!

We visited the large riverside town of Natau, and wandered around the fish market and fruit stalls.

Cindy was very keen on finding a shop to get some beer so John and I duly followed.

We passed the local radio station, which looked like the first stop of a torture chamber, but the sign outside did reassure us that this was where the sweet melodies emanated from!

We bought strange Pina Coloda drinks and beer, before meeting up with the group. Posters were ominously hostile of the long-ago Spanish invasion and imperialist past.

Next on the agenda was a tuc tuc ride to a caiman park in San  Francisco! We got close up and personal with these other residents of the river, and Daniel gleefully threw handfuls of fish to lure them up on to the banks. Half of these creatures were destined for the restaurant, and half repatriated to the river. One way I suppose of curbing poaching.

After our siesta that afternoon, we were taken out to a busy river bank, where a tree was overhanging, and a woman washing and children diving about like small dolphins. We were going to attempt piranha fishing. John and I looked at each other, thinking of the black devils we had seen in fish aquariums, and of Hollywood and all the hype of fear of teeth. Daniel was quite relaxed and threw in his line, laden with a big slug of meat.  After a few haphazard attempts he gave up and instructed the boat man to find another spot. As we withdrew I saw the village’s name was Santa Fe!

This time it was more remote, the waters dark and swirling,  the grasses were ‘snakey’ and we all loaded up our bait and stood hoping for a bite. The trick is you must splash the water. The fish are nearly blind, so rely on sound and smell to get their food. There are thirty different species of piranha and seven of those are vegetarian! But the big news is, they will not bite you unless you are bleeding, then of course you are in big trouble.

We splashed and they ate our offerings, until finally we started to get the knack. We all got one, and proudly stood holding our rather lethal red-bellied piranha, which we took back and the chef grilled  for us to taste.

I will now copy the following right out of my journal. It was written as the boat was moored, during siesta time.

Thursday

There’s a storm on the Amazon. The waters are choppy and brown and the sky alight with forked lightning. Rain is hammering on our cabin windows and I see we have moored beside a small village, with gaily painted dugout canoes along the banks. Boys are trying to bail out the water. After the Shaman visit scheduled for this afternoon we are supposed to go on a kayaking adventure on one of these crafts. The rain lashes down. I am not so sure.

This morning was a dream. We signed a book registering us to enter the most pristine preserve on the planet. It is called Pacaya Samiria Reserve. This territory belongs only to nature and animals. Our boatman drove into an overhanging creek and cut the motor. Only the shrieks of birds and the croaking of frogs disturbed the jungle.

And then onwards, passing blue and yellow macaws, birds of every size and colour, and red and white creepers jostling for space. We pulled over beside a mudbank where fish lay their eggs in the bank in the wet season, and kingfishers nest in the dry. A picnic breakfast was served on large banana-like leaves together with papaya juice and good coffee. It was surreal and so terribly civilized. Of course after so many beverages one is required to visit nature’s facilities.

We motored on, the dense forest was dark, the banks grassy and ‘snakey’ and of course we pulled in.

‘Anyone want to go? – Gents to the left, ladies to the right.’

Only three ladies endeavoured to brave the forest floor. Whilst I awaited my ‘turn’ I was totally alone, beside the crawly bark of the trees, with the heavy canopy above us, – was that a russle? Would anything fall on me?’

We were all a bit relieved to return to the safety in numbers and float away.

But no – Daniel had other plans, we were to look for the anaconda, who loves the green water lettuce to hide and hunt in.

Our boat immediately became entangled with roots and greenery and as we ploughed through, the skiff’s wake covered over instantly, there was no evidence of our being there. What an ideal place to dispose of a body, well, that is in case you needed to. Ha!

The sun beat down, only macaws screeched from the trees, clustered in companionable groups. Daniel scoured the endless green, no anacondas, just another sloth, very large and moving slowly up the branch. We were becoming blasé, ‘just another three-toed sloth!’

We admitted defeat and headed back to the main river. Trees with pointed ants’ nests framed the skyline (so different from termite nests which are rounder… I am becoming an expert)

and we heard the rustle of leaves and a red howler monkey jumped into view followed by the ‘Michael Jackson’ monkey with his white gloves. We saw the night howler, and the woolly monkey and loads of capuchins.

 

The boat stopped briefly to allow those who wanted to swim in this amazing river. After gleefully catching piranha last night they edged their way down the muddy river bank without a backward glance.

They frolicked and floated and resembled the children from the other evening.

‘Ooh! Something is biting my feet!’

‘Oh! Me too.’

But still they bobbed about and laughed and lo and behold! – behind them surfaced two pink dolphins!

Splashing in the water attracts all kinds of creatures it seems!

We made it back to the Amatista and had lunch, and now the storm. Oh my, curtains of water. Our dugout canoe experience will most certainly be cancelled, but I believe they are going to bring the shaman to us, instead of us visiting her in her house.

Later

What a day. We are moored for the night and I can hear all the noises of the jungle. I have applied the snail-slime to my face and lathered my legs with the potion the shaman lady gave to me. I am a walking advertisement for the natural roots and leaves and creatures of the Amazon.

I learnt today (and actually witnessed in that creek) how the snail climbs high up on the tree trunk to lay its eggs, then when the tide recedes it covers them with its saliva to keep them moist. Hey presto, I too shall avoid dry skin. I have nail saliva all over my face and it is doing me the world of good!

 

The shaman arrived in the downpour this afternoon. She had long black hair and a calm, serene demeanour. She answered all the questions we asked her, through Daniel’s rapid translation.

She was chosen by her grandfather because she had the healing aura, and had to spend eight years in the jungle studying plants and local medicines. She had to learn to communicate with the spirits of the jungle, like the jaguar and the anaconda. She ate only fish and bananas.

She was quite scathing when asked about the witch doctor. He only  studies for three months and has a black heart. His mission is to kill, not to heal. It all sounded quite ominous.

She taught us about the ayahuasca root, and its properties as a psychoactive drug, allowing you to travel on mind trips, and give you hallucinogenic experiences, perhaps a little like LSD? Many people come to the Amazon Basin for genuine health reasons and stay with the shaman and healers for a month at a time. We met a lady with sever rheumatism and arthritis, who was hoping this alternative treatment might help.

She also showed us her collection of many of the saps and resins she collects from trees and explained their uses.

We all had to hold hands as she sang and blessed us whilst puffing on a rather vile cigarette and blowing the smoke into our cupped hands.

Then we had consultations if we wanted, and she read our auras. Mind is light blue. She rubbed some potion on to my legs where I have some dermatitis thing that won’t go away. I watched her rubbing in the oil and it was so strange to have this woman try to treat my affliction.

We bought two necklaces, one made from the ayahuasca root  in order to keep the evil spirits away from us.

Strangely I feel quite uplifted!

 

Another day is over, we danced to the wild music crated by our tour guides and crew. Salsa, wiggly hips and waving arms. It was all just so exhilarating.

But now the final potions before sleeping. Anthisan for the millions of mosquito bites we both have acquired. Our ankles are covered in red spots. Luckily there  is no malaria in this part of Peru. Daniel knows this because the night howler monkey lives here, and he wouldn’t if there was malaria present. I am reassured.

The  final day we visited a remote village away from the national reserve. We met the people, saw their homes, admired their boat-building techniques, and some of us learnt how to shoot with bow and arrow and with a blow gun.

I was besotted with a little girl who had a pet sloth. She was so sweet and allowed me to tickle its tummy and photograph up close. Then the sloth took my finger, and squeezed so tight, the blood was pounding, I thought it might burst. We had to wrench it off. What a grip.

We ate at one of their homes (our chef oversaw the preparation, using our own water etc.) but it was delicious. There was chicken and rice cooked in banana leaves, fish with sour tomatoes and fresh yams, a weird roasted local beef, like a rat maybe? I gave that a miss.

It was a good experience, and we made our way down the dodgy steps. No one could give me an explanation for such odd construction… perhaps to drain the water off in the floods?

We ate our last meal on the boat, catfish with passion fruit. It was so good I had to ask the chef how he did it. He very kindly obliged, so I shall try the recipe using monk fish perhaps.

The very last night we were taken for a jungle walk on terra firma. Two miles through the forest, with hunter ‘Robert’ scouring for creatures we might like to see, and hadn’t a hope with our untrained eyes. We did see ‘walking palms’ and giant strangled fig trees, gorgeous flowers and thick vines. But his beady eyes found the tarantula, the red-tailed boa constrictor, the tiny poisonous tree frogs, and a baby anaconda. I am just so relieved he didn’t spot the bushmaster viper, as that will pursue and attack you if disturbed. Lovely stories we are told as we tramp through the rotting leaves and broken branches.

It was a sad day when we left the Amatista for the last time. How could we forget the sunsets and sunrises, the daily trips out on the river tributaries, the kindness of the guides and crew. None of us wanted to leave. We had been so lucky to have had this perfect week, and although we hadn’t seen the jaguar we were not too upset. Let it be, the wild spirit, free for as long as it can.

Our final journey took us to see the manatee, such a strange creature, being rescued and nurtured back to life in an animal hospital. I had never seen one before. It was like the final farewell before we returned to Lima and the bohemian delights of Miraflores.

We became people watchers in this fashionable suburb, and our group slowly dispersed back to the US and Canada.

We had such a good time. It was sort of fitting to suddenly come across Paddington Bear (who originated from deep dark Peru) in Lima on our last day. We too were travelling back to the UK and we too would keep part of this fabulous country in our heart.

Posted in Peru | 1 Comment

Peru – Part 1 – Machu Picchu

Posted on February 2, 2020 by gaelharrison

South America – We had finally made it! We had watched the documentaries by David Attenborough about the Amazon jungle and wondered how we could do it, but with Ashley my hairdresser telling me all about deals and Black Friday,  somehow the trip stopped being a dream and became reality.

We left Edinburgh on a freezing January morning and landed in Lima in the hot, wet season. The taxi whisked us through the sprawling, rather seedy suburbs to the smart Miraflores district and we slept.

The following morning we met the rest of the group and we were whisked off again to the airport for the flight to Cusco. This is a city in  south-eastern Peru, near the Urubamba Valley of the Andes mountain range.

We were advised to breathe deeply when we arrived, as the altitude was quite  extreme, and we would be at 11,200ft or 3,400m.

 

Our guide, Washington (or Washy) met us looking very slick and handsome with a black sombrero that suited him very well. We all breathed deeply as we struggled up the street to our hotel. It was such a weird feeling to be suddenly breathless and woozy, rather like being on a boat.

 

We went exploring later with Washy who pointed out a massive Inca stone wall, the stones so tightly fitting that you can’t get a credit card between them. It is still a mystery how they did this, let alone carry them. A bit like the Stonehenge mystery.

Later that night I lay in bed covered in my new rejuvenating snail saliva cream!

I also inhaled a potion that helps mitigate altitude dizziness.

We had no dinner that night – we just shared a packet of chocolate-covered orange rind that we had bought in the chocolate museum. We know how to live it up and sample the miracles of this mighty continent.

There were flasks of coca leaf tea at reception and an oxygen cylinder for ‘just in case’. We needed to build up our red blood cells to carry more oxygen, so for lunch we had sampled one of the famous national dishes of the high mountains, called lomo saltada (fried fillet of beef) washed down with a fluorescent drink called Inca Cola which tasted exactly like ice cream soda.

Neither of us were keen to taste the other national favourite!

Washy showed us round the market (built on a graveyard, and stands next to an old church), and it was a revelation of colour and variety.

Flowers, fruit, meat, alpaca jumpers and jewellery and a strange stall brewing a broth comprised a bulls penis, pancreas, a fish with no teeth from a certain lake and crab. Presumably it was to build up strength and virility. The lady in charge had a very sour face.

Some of the other ladies just had to be photographed, the hat is obviously such an asset to the outfit.

The  following morning we explored the Sacred Valley of the Incas, and stopped off to see Jesus on the cross, called Cristo Blanco, built by a group of Christian Palestinian refugees who came to Cusco in 1945. We glimpsed the mighty stones weighing 350 tons at Saqsaywaman. This site is at 12,142ft. The workers carefully cut the boulders to fit them together tightly without mortar.

Then we called in to see a weaving co-operative and a pottery place. It was all very colourful and I kept getting memories of dying sheep’s wool with children at school in Glenelg, using local mosses and vegetables to get  the various colours.

Here the alpacas and llamas provide the wool, and guinea pigs in cages provide the dinner.

It was all very picturesque with high mountains and sweeping valleys and terraced farming, and delicious food.

We played a frog game that originated from the Inca kings, where you had to aim coins into the frog’s mouth… not so easy, and later we slept in a hotel surrounded by lush gardens.

The next morning we got the train from Ollantaytumbo to Agues Calientes, which is the village at the foot of Maccha Picchu. On the way, Patrick,  one of our group had opted to do a section of the Inca trail to Machu Picchu, so he left the train at the appropriate stop. The four day Inca trail is not for Jessies as they say, quite gruelling, and Patrick said although he did his part in record timing it was not the easiest climb.

Instead we opted for the easier walk of the 12km round trip to the waterfall, following the rail track. It was all very beautiful, with ferns that the locals called foetal ferns and tiny tiger orchids.

The carriages on the trains have the name Hiram Bingham on their sides, the first American to find the lost city of Machu Picchu. They say he is the inspiration for Indiana Jones. Although Francisco Pizarro, the Spanish conqueror (or conquistador) of Peru and destroyer of the Incan Empire marauded and plundered the gold and silver of the country, he never found Machu Picchu. That remained hidden until 24 July 24 1911.

To recover that evening, from all the sights and sounds, we drank Pisco sours, which were very nice and not dissimilar to Margueritas. I enjoyed them so much I bought six place mats from the restaurant. Just love the colours (they were new by the way!).

And finally the big day came when we would visit Machu Picchu. We bussed up to the top, remembering not to wear high heels, or take an umbrella or walking poles or drugs or guns, and at around 6.30 in the morning the sky was blue and the sun was just up.

It was picture perfect, and I could not stop clicking… it was just so amazing. Imagine stumbling across that scene and finding it for the first time.

We walked down to the Inca Bridge, which comprised two planks of wood, quite handy if invaders come, as you can just haul them up and you are secure.

We lost Genevieve, as she took a wrong turning, and also lost Anne. Minor dramas really, and Washy was relieved to get his group together for the exit.

I had to smile at the Room of Mirrors. Not quite Versailles. But here these two puddles of water were in direct position in order to reflect the star constellations of Pleiades and another one, and windows had been built in order for the stars to be framed. Quite amazing.

For us, as we approached the exit, suddenly the sky darkened and rain clouds were washing the distant peaks, it was like a Chinese painting. And then the clouds burst and we were soaked getting on to the bus. We were so lucky, unlike the poor people who were about to commence their tour.

We returned to Cusco and John and I revisited the town square and drank coffee looking out at the cathedral framed through a perfect circle of a window.

We also revisited the market, and I noticed that the snail seller had gone! I am so glad we were able to snap up the product in time! I am sure my skin feels all the better for this extra protection, but John refuses to kiss me goodnight!

We were given options on our last day, so John and I opted for a massage and a trip to the Inca Museum, which was just perfect. Not so Kelly, she chose the Rainbow Mountain challenge, and had to be up at 4.30 am  and a long drive, and an arduous climb up to 16,500 ft. She had her cheeks stuffed with coca leaves like a tobacco wad, and was sniffing the ‘altitude potion’ that helps to open the capillaries in the chest to help with breathing. She had sunshine and snow on her climb, and it was totally exhilarating. The rainbow colours were discovered relatively recently when the glaciers melted revealing this amazing mountain. I was just happy to see her photos!

It had all been amazing, but we were ready for the next part of the adventure. We had to fly to Iquitos and there we would join our river boat that would cruise down the Amazon.

 

 

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Mid January

Posted on January 12, 2020 by gaelharrison

We are just back from a brisk walk by the sea. Mud and slimy leaves didn’t help and a low winter sun nearly blinded me, but we felt all the better for a quick stretch of the legs and good yoga breathing.

Christmas and New Year celebrations already feel a long way off, and winter coughs and colds did not help in the general cheer. Gerry’s house was like a glimpse into Emergency Ward 10 with bronchitis and thermometers and Prosecco and delicious strawberry pavlovas and Dillon and Darcey tearing around with trucks and plastic horses.

It actually was a lot of fun, and Hogmanay night was again a kaleidoscope of images. We went to a fabulous party, met loads of people, danced and mingled, then John found his alter ego, when the wigs were brought out, and he spent the rest of the time in a Rod Stewart wig, revelling the night away with fellow band players and the odd ‘groupie’ to keep his ego pepped up.

Plans were made, resolutions made, house, cooker and windows cleaned all in readiness for the new decade. Gerry and Darcey celebrated birthdays, so we enjoyed further celebrations.

Families were well, Natasha and Leo in Wales, Gerry and Cathal across the Forth and Nick on a fabulous holiday in Thailand.

My mum enjoyed a sherry and we were hooked on a brilliant series called ‘History of Country Music’. We watched the Carter Family, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline and Emmylou and Tammy Wynette. And then I was lost in an hour of Kris Kristofferson. Oh it was just heaven on a sofa! I would go off to bed humming ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’ and ‘The Great Speckled Bird’ and not forgetting Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys singing the ‘New San Antonia Rose’.

Then last Wednesday I woke up to this.

Nick had arrived back in Sydney, left his key in his apartment, so climbed up to try and get it, and fell. Broke both heel bones. He had to crawl along the pavement to get a taxi to take him to the hospital, where they X-rayed and plastered him to the knees. He has been kept in until further notice, but he will have to come home to recuperate, as there is no one to take care of him out there. He cannot put weight on either leg. It is a disaster. He was due to start on a new rope career in two weeks. He won’t be allowed to fly just yet, so we shall just wait and see.

So much for plans, predictions and crystal balls.

On the positive side, all the bronchitis and coughs and sneezes have gone, I am making mushroom soufflé for dinner and I have to wade through a pile of French literature for my new ten week course at the university. So far I have read, ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ by Victor Hugo (so so sad), Prosper Merimee’s ‘Colomba’ (the same author who wrote Carmen, of the Toreodor fame) and I am about to launch into Nana by Emil Zola. Then there is ‘Bel-ami’ by Maupassant and finally a racy little number called ‘Diary of a Chambermaid’ by Mirabeau. I am looking forward to that, a little different from Shakespeare and Marlow and John Donne n’est pas!

So, a happy new year to all. New adventures await, but will write soon with all of that!

Adieu.

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Early December

Posted on December 3, 2019 by gaelharrison

I have had a plague of bugs recently, and it has been so debilitating. When one enjoys rude health as a rule, it is an affront to be stricken with a persistent cough that goes on and on and on. I had the x-ray, and all is well, so just had to ride the storm, so to speak.

When I was indisposed I made rash orders for a new mop and a long black pleated skirt – such decadence and such fun. I had ogled Natasha’s mop whilst in Wales, and I felt like I was breaking a commandment, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy daughter’s mop,’ but I did, and now I am so glad I did as I whizz around squirting and mopping – no bucket, just a flash and a dash and it’s all done! The pleated skirt will go well for my Christmas night out at the Rosyth Ex Servicemen’s Club… a great venue, where all the ladies’ groups from around about dance to Neil Diamond on a bit of parquet and gobble up turkey and drink festive cheer at ridiculously cheap prices.

But that’s still to come. We have been to Wales, celebrated Halloween with a little lioness and a sparkly cat,

helped out Tasha and Leo as they completed animation workshops, and then we drove back up north and marched briskly in the Lake District. So pretty, autumn leaves framing the lakes, quaint towns and picturesque stone dikes, and always the ghosts of Wordsworth and his sister, rising like the ethereal mists around the shores of Grasmere.

My university class is over for this term. Each week I would ruminate on the writers of the 1890s. Kipling, Hardy, GB Shaw, HG Wells and WB Yeats. We finished with Joseph Conrad. It was a mixed bag to read through, and I did like it all. I went on to find a biography of Georgie, the wife of WB Yeats, and was mesmerised at the extent the spirit world dominated their marriage. They consulted the Ouija board on all manner of things, and I had no idea how ‘open’ their marriage was. Maude Gonne and Lady Gregory were of course huge in his life, but they were actually prior to his marriage.

Anyway next term I am going to move from English Lit to French Lit, and study Hugo, Zola, and Guy di Maupassant. A different lecturer, so we shall see.

John and I watched a rather gruelling  documentary about meat the other night; it was so upsetting. I am going to stop eating red meat, unless it’s from Mr Saunders in Edinburgh. And only now and then.

John has been doing the shopping while I was sick, and bought the cheapest mince from Aldi. He probably thought it was a bargain 🙄. You should have seen the fat and water that came off when I fried it. Nearly a mug full. I had to pour a kettle of water down the sink as I had a fear that all the pipes would be blocked. Imagine our arteries. I was making Delia’s Ragu sauce, and in the end I had to bin the lot. We shall feast on cabbages forthwith.

I have started a new quilt. The design is called Dear William, a tribute to William Morris, but as I could not find enough of the actual William Morris fabric I have decided to do it all in a symphony of greens. It is a hard slog, and a lot of fiddly cutting and stitching, but it does look nice. So far I have done seven out of nine blocks.

We did enjoy a very delicious lunch with Irene and Mike. He is a superb cook, and we were his guinea pigs for his new birthday present cook book. It is Dishoom, from the curry restaurant, newly opened here in Edinburgh.

We had thrice marinated and cooked chicken on skewers (they tasted like silk, so smooth) and dahl and prawns and so many other things. While we were waiting for the final preparations, Irene plonked down a ball of wool beside me and gave me an impromptu crochet lesson! ‘Pay attention now, and stop knitting, use the hook, not your fingers!’ Then she showed me how to make Swedish gnomes, I felt as though I had come to a Santa’s workshop! Fabulous.

So the dark wintery days are here, and walks along the beach are bleak beside stunning pastel sunsets.

Snowmen and glitzy lights are starting to compete against flashing trees in suburban gardens. I don’t remember such wild devil-may-care flamboyance in my young day. It used to give me a guilty pleasure walking past houses with their curtains left open, and I was able to get a glimpse of other people’s decorations and homely scenes.

We had Darcey to stay for the weekend. I had to laugh as she negotiated a very slippery pavement, white with frost. We crossed the road to the other side, which was reassuringly black and safe. She turned and screwed up her eyes and stuck out her tongue. ‘Good grief, Darcey, what was that all about?’ I asked. She responded, ‘I just gave the bad pavement my angry face, that will sort it!’ Indeed.

Dillon has turned two – imagine. Where does the time go? He is obsessed with wheels and trucks and cars. Easy to buy for!

This year on Christmas day, John and I shall be dining chez Gerry and family, which will be very nice. Lots of phone calls with Natasha and Nick and all of John’s family, so that will be good too. And then it will be a New Year, and we have just decided that we are going to sail down the Amazon River on what looks like a very rickety house boat. We are So So excited!

In the meantime we have an election (groan …), scandals with Prince Andrew, Strictly Come Dancing finals and warm winter evenings.

Till next time, adieu!

 

 

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Precious Days

Posted on October 25, 2019 by gaelharrison

Carnage again on the sea – three dead seagulls floating in the water and being pecked and devoured by their relatives. The seal is bobbing about and more birds are swarming above. Otherwise everything is still, grey and very cold. I was going to venture out for a walk along the coastal path, but I don’t have the energy. I am grieving, Nick has left and with him have gone the long summer months.

When he arrived home in February he was so ill with contact dermatitis, his body covered in red itchy lumps, and his hands split and bleeding from working with cement. An allergy patch test at the hospital showed all the substances he is allergic to and of course the prime offender is cement, so that closes the door on his work as a plasterer. As the weeks have passed his health slowly has been restored. In the early spring I felt as if I was doing the school run again as I drove him to the Edinburgh Climbing Centre every day for his course on rope access.

Between the various courses that he has undertaken to launch a new career, he and I have walked along the Union Canal to Ratho beside grasses and bushes that were slowly awakening, beside the old lime kilns in Charlestown, along the coastal path and through the Dalmeny estate.

Summer days and sporadic poorly paid work. His first rope access opportunity involved a drop from a 90 metre high building in Glasgow to wash windows, swinging precariously across the glass before dropping down to the next level.

He travelled to London to do core drilling in the Watford Tunnel. He has worked on a bridge in Montrose. He finally made it on to the new Queensferry Crossing bridge where he dangled above the Firth of Forth, in his element. Not a trace of fear.

John has been constantly at his computer these last few months, first preparing and frequently updating Nick’s CV, but the days and weeks were passing and there was just not enough work to sustain him. So he has gone abroad again to seek work.

It has been a summer of re-discovery and building of relationships. He has learnt to compromise and fit in with us, and we have got used to his insomnia, and his early morning waking, often sitting on the decking from 4 a.m. watching the sea. He saw fish jumping, and heard the deep throated breathing of the seal, so it was a surprise last week when he heard a similar sound coming from close to the wall. It was too loud for the seal, so he got up for a closer look. And there it was! A huge minke whale had surfaced and was swimming in front of  the house before submerging again, but he could make out its wake for quite some time. He made a coffee, and kept watching and was rewarded when it returned an hour later. Needless to say John and I were sound asleep and missed the whole show – including two shooting stars!

I have always loved fishing, from piers and off boats, but off the shore I have found it frustrating as I always seem to get snagged. But Nick persevered, and cast his rod and lure, the size of a teaspoon,  for hours at a time. I can see his face now as he ran up full of the joy of a catch. A  huge sea trout! It was the first of five, three got off, but two we ate with gusto! Half an hour in the oven, half an hour on the barbecue and served with lemon aioli. Oh my!

It was enough. He and John went off to buy some more fish hooks and came back with a belly boat that they couldn’t resist. We were all convinced we would be hauling in the mackerel, and each of us had a go, rowing out on the Forth, in the wake of big shipping, intrepid and hopeful. Nick caught one, and John and I – zero. Still, I think we were both secretly relieved as what would we have done had we caught anything? There was not a lot of space on Floaty Mac Boaty (as John named our ‘boat’) to dispatch a fish and still stay in control. Instead I liked the sensation of floating about and seeing the world from a different perspective.

Summer this year for me seemed to have a glow. I can still picture the Pittenweem Arts Festival, the hot day, the beautiful private gardens open to the public, displays of delphiniums and pink lavatera, roses dripping over walls.

We have had several lovely family visits here, with Gerry and her family, and also with Natasha and hers. We have enjoyed delicious meals together with the children in summer cottons.

John’s sisters have visited, also his son Matthew and his girlfriend,

and then his daughter Becky and her husband and little Jenson. It has been great for Nick to meet them all, and he has enjoyed spending time with all the kids.

We sailed on the Maid of the Forth out to the island of Inchcolm, and ate egg sandwiches looking down on the old monastery.

We walked in Dollar Glen and explored the river of Sorrows and Cares (!)

and met up with our old friends from St John’s walking group in Pitlochry.

We walked up to the Bealach of the Sermons and down to the Soldier’s Leap and along the wooded river bank back to the car. A fabulous day and good to catch up with so many ‘kent faces’.

Nick, John and I watched all the Clint Eastwood films and the Cohen brothers’ film, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs. Somehow the wild west seemed to dominate and I am often humming ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly!’ A portrait he made of me in my usual place!

And through it all, Nick sat with John and me, out by the sea wall or on the decking, his profile always out to sea, ‘Did you see that Mum, a fish jumped’. And he would dash for the rod.

I miss him walking about, miss his disparaging views of the news, his determination to get John and me out to the pub in the evening to meet his chums. ‘Come on you two, I have your names down for the quiz tonight.’ And we would go and we would have fun. Last night, after he had flown away to seek his fortune, we went again, as we promised we would. John and I sat with his friends and the quiz was fun (it always is). Myra told me how much she liked Nick, and so did Ena and Alan and Davey and Robert.

And Dillon and Darcey: ‘Where’s Uncle Nick?’ was always the first question.

He spent hours with them, playing at their pace and on their level. Lifting them high to grab an apple from the tree, the same tree that we collected the blossom from in the spring. He was there to push the swing, kick the ball, walk the plank, be the prince or just have a cuddle. I can still see his head bent over the toy box in Gerry’s house, with Dillon showing him all his trucks.

People will say the summer was not as hot as last, it rained a bit, it was a disappointment. But I see it all, through  eyes a little wet and blurred from tears. I see a tall lanky lad walking down to the sea, a rod in his hand, a hand raised, ‘Is dinner ready yet, Mum?’

It is that time of day, time for a brandy and a bag of crisps. In a minute I shall raise a glass and wish upon those stars that shoot about for good luck, and  wish lots of love to all my friends who may need it just now.

Cheers!

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Summer so far

Posted on August 17, 2019 by gaelharrison

I have been busy. Looking back at photos of this summer I see colour and smiling faces and trips and travels. I was so harassed at one point that I thought I would like to run away and book into a lonely hotel for two nights and stay in bed and read my book. I might have had to stay a fortnight as at the time I was reading The Magic Mountainby Thomas Mann, and it is HUGE. But a visit to the cinema on a rainy afternoon made me so glad to be alive. John and I went to see Marian andLeonard – Words of Love.It was lovely, sad and poignant, and we had to sit in the dark for a while to stop tears from falling. We saw the pair meet in Greece during the hedonistic days of the 1960s and watch their relationship unravel over the years, yet there was always something that brought them back together.

Ah – I do love Leonard Cohen’s music, and now when I hear Farewell Marianne, I have a face and the beautiful island of Hydra to bring the words to life. He describes his time there as creative, wonderful, and he felt as though the island was covered in gold dust.

Meanwhile John and I have been to Wales, and visited with Bonnie and Hazel, then he went on to Sussex to spend time with his family.

Natasha and the children and I  had a picnic on a Jurassic beach beside the footprints of dinosaurs, and boiled in the July sunshine.

Leo joined us to spend a morning going round a car boot sale and I espied a bread maker machine.

Well Natasha haggled and it was mine for £5! It was brand new, so I carted it off and that night we made the most delicious bread.

On the way back John and I drove to York, and were dwarfed by the Minster,

then drove on to Alnwick Castle and gloried in its gardens and beautiful rooms.

I loved the Poison Garden, full of dire warnings of the most evil outcomes of sniffing, touching and swallowing the most mundane of plants. Did you know that all green parts of the aubergine are poisonous? The castor oil plant is a source of ricin, a deadly poison with no known antidote. It is feared in chemical warfare. It was the poison placed on the tip of an umbrella used to murder the Bulgarian dissident. And Oleander! Apparently it is believed to be dangerous to sleep in the same room as this plant! I am in awe of such natural beauty, and am happy to respect their biological makeup, but really, I am not one to munch my way through a meadow or a garden. At the moment, I am waiting for my King Wa  plant to produce  three more flowers. I really thought it was done this year, but no… we have a curtain call. Such an exquisite  flower which sadly only flowers at night and is wilted by the morning. Natasha cut one of the blooms at night and put it in the fridge for Bonnie to see in the morning. So much beauty for such a short time.

We did walk around Culross, and up through the fields to the ancient cemetery,

then decided to visit some plague graves, and meandered through the fields to a wooded area.

Imagine our surprise when we came across a plaque announcing that it was on  this spot that the Scots, led by King Duncan, had been defeated by the Danes, and in revenge, the local people had poisoned the invaders with ale laced with deadly nightshade, which enabled Macbeth to enter their camp and slaughter all but ten of them. It was soon after this that Macbeth famously met the three witches and as you know, it was all hubble bubble toil and trouble, or so the story goes!

I did a two-day course at the University on Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Very intense but very good, as the lecturer was from Moscow and she told us about her school days growing up with bookshops only stocking the works of Lenin and so on. It was really fascinating. One of my fellow students was a High Court judge. It was very interesting to listen to his take on  the novel and at the end he was  going to give Raskolnikov twenty one years!

We have just had Natasha, Bonnie and Hazel up for a week, and it was magical. We baked, and visited, walked and talked.

We had Gerry and Darcey and Dillon over and the kids had such fun on the beach and in Deep Sea World. We went berry picking and then jam making and of course bread making.

I feel as though I am a born again Mrs Beaton! I have plans for my rhubarb next. I think I will attempt the ice cream. Last time it was so delicious.

 

We did go to Pittenweem’s Art Festival and enjoyed cruising around looking at art in every kind of venue – living rooms, kitchens (complete with the smells of a recent meal), hallways and courtyards. I even tried on an arty sort of dress in a lady’s bedroom! It was all just so intimate.

 

There were about 77 venues in all, so a lot of people had given over their houses for the festival. The paintings were all a bit ‘samey’ – sea scenes and harbours and depictions of the Cuillen mountain range. We were about to go home, but …. we came across a room full of paintings of flowers. And we were hooked! So we bought two prints by Gill Smith, an Edinburgh artist; they are stunning and fresh and full of colour.

John and Nick went off to the angling shop to buy some more hooks, as fishing has been such a success this summer. We have relished two huge sea trout (with lemon aiolli) and last week a mackerel.

When they came back, they had bought a small boat! A one man fishing craft, and so now we have a new dimension to our days!

I had my maiden voyage on a flat, sunny sea, and it was so peaceful. I rowed and dropped a line over and secretly was quite relieved that I didn’t catch anything, as I had visions of a mighty cod dragging me off to America. Little Bonnie had a go with the big fishing rod from the shore, and in minutes she was able to cast and reel in the line. We were all amazed. That rod is heavy. She said she would like a pink one of her own and then she would fish every day.

So that is me in mid-August. I might not be Leonard Cohen, but I can understand his thoughts. I have had a summer covered in golden dust.

Baby starlings, about fifty altogether!

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Mount Toubkal – Morocco

Posted on June 25, 2019 by gaelharrison

Mount Toubkal, the High Atlas Mountains, Morocco, Marrakech … wide blue skies, pink chunks of rock and suddenly the pages of a geography book have sprung into life. I am home and safe, and I cannot believe so much happened in just a week. I am as brown as a berry due to some lotion I bought on the plane. Two drops gives your face a glow, four a burnished glow and eight a bronzed healthy makeover. As I wore factor 50 the whole time I thought I would just add eight or nine drops – just to show that I had actually been in the sun. Well, you can imagine the result. I am certainly a deep bronze!

 

We had a brief time in Marrakech before we assaulted the mountain.

We met our fellow walkers; we were 13 in total, a mixed bunch, some very fit, some not so fit. One lovely girl from London quietly told John that she had not given the walk much thought. Her idea of ‘training’ was to burn the candle at both ends and enjoy a bottle of wine a day. I liked her very much.

Mohammed and Hamed were our guides, one in front and the other bringing up the rear. Our trek started at 1,600m. The initial climb was steep and the day was hot. The mules ambled sprightly ever upwards, laden down with our bags and detritus including a cooking stove and all the provisions needed for our banquets on the mountain.

We passed red clay Berber villages built into the hillsides; we passed neatly tended vegetable patches of potatoes, carrots, onions, lentils and beans and orchards of walnuts, apples and cherries. Agriculture is second to tourism in Morocco’s economy.

I gazed ever upwards at the High Atlas peaks, North Africa’s highest mountain range, known by the local Berbers as ‘Idraren Draren’, or Mountains of Mountains, a trekker’s paradise. They run diagonally across Morocco  for 1000 km and these saw-toothed Jurassic peaks act as a weather barrier between the mild Mediterranean climate to the north and the encroaching Sahara to the south. The peak we were going to attempt to climb, Mount Toubkal, is the highest of them all at 4167m.

The day grew hotter, and we stopped to nibble dates, figs and nuts, and to drink thirstily.  We climbed higher and left the domestic vegetables behind and now the hillside was dotted with gnarled juniper thickets. The smell was overpowering and the hard black berries carpeted the ground. The smell for me will always evoke the altitude sickness I suddenly experienced. At around 2,200m, I suddenly had the urge to retch, and I was so sick. I continued retching as I climbed and I felt overpowered by a headache and panic. I just wanted to stop, go home and never go back. Hamed put his arm round me and encouraged me to climb a little higher where we were due to stop and have lunch, and then we were to descend down through the juniper forest into the Azaden Valley and on to the next village where we were due to spend the night. If I could continue I would feel better, once I had some rehydration drink. I trusted him, and staggered upwards and I did improve and enjoyed the peace and shade whilst we all rested. No one else seemed to be affected.

Sure enough I perked up on the descent, and joined in the fun of the first overnight stay in  the most basic of hostels. We shared dorms, queued for two toilets, along with another German group, and brushed teeth alongside strangers.

The evening ritual of ceremonial tea pouring from silver tea pots began. This must be where the expression ‘high tea’ comes from. It was nice, mint and refreshing. I felt fine.

That night the altitude was 1,850m.

The following morning we trekked steadily up through the valley, towards the Tizi Mzik pass.

I began well, but as we got to 2,489m I became breathless, each step was an effort. I knew my limitations, and I knew I could not climb higher. The next stage was an ascent of 1,257m and I was struggling. Mohammed could see my distress, and agreed that I should stay behind at the next village of Aremd which has an altitude of 1,950m.

 

On the high pass we came across a stall selling freshly squeezed orange juice.

Oh my, it was so good. We posed in front of the most wonderful kaleidoscope of mountains.

Naturally, I had to restrain myself from launching into song. Julie Andrews is still deeply imbedded inside me! The hills are alive! And then it was down down down down, passing the hedgehog plants, spiny, domed bushes that burst into flower,

until we stopped for  lunch under the shade of the juniper tree. There were hot lentils, a massive platter of tomatoes, cucumber, olives, beetroot, peppers, almonds, arranged artistically with slices of melon for dessert.

Our new hostel was a modern gite set high up in the village. Looking over the balcony on the roof terrace I could see a captivating mix of terraced farming and stunning mountains. This sleepy village would be my home for the next three days.

The following morning I said farewell to John and the group as they set off for the Mountain Refuge high up on Toubkal, where they would stay a night before attempting the summit. The mules left, then the climbers and suddenly it was silent. Only me and the cook, another Mohammed, who was designated to look after me.

I read, washed some clothes, and then he prepared my lunch. My own tajine, salad, brochette, and rice. I felt like a queen in my tower! It was such bliss, silence, peace and no demands of me.

A young girl checked into the gite. She was full of smiles and joy. She befriended me in an instant. She was Camille, she was French and a textile designer. She was here to recruit local women to sew intricate local designs that she hoped she could interest the designers in Paris. Would I like to go for a walk with her? Oh yes!

We wandered down the crooked street and came to the outlying orchards where the cherry harvest was in full swing.

The paths through the trees were running with juices, and boys were hidden in the branches of the trees collecting the black fruit. Would we like some? Oh yes! We laughed at each other as juice ran down our chins. Camille was agile and young as a goat; in contrast I took my time balancing along thin walls, and clambered over loose stone dykes. She patiently offered me her hand, a stranger an hour ago and yet we were sharing this magical place with no fear or inhibitions. We gasped as a brown snake slithered past our boots, disappearing into the green vegetation.

Ladies gathered together after a funeral on the path, all greeting the widow who stood under a bower of apple, walnut and cherry trees. A little boy seized my hand then kissed it. Camille told me this is what youngsters do to older people as respect. Above the verdant  orchards, the High Atlas mountains loomed, huge and golden, framing the sky. Somewhere up there John and the group were slowly making their way to the Refuge before the big push tomorrow.

Camille pointed out the military post where hikers must submit their passports and show evidence of their group and guide, a sad reminder of the terrible beheading of two Scandinavian girls that occurred earlier this year in the next village. The continuing shame still haunts the local people, the suspicion that fell on all the local men. Camille knows about it as she arrived a week after the girls were killed.

Camille is very friendly with a local family in the village and is negotiating for possible business opportunities for her textile interests. She took me into a room behind the mosque, where some ladies were busy on sewing machines.

I was impressed with their intricate stitching, a far cry from  the rather tacky crocheting efforts that you see for sale. Baby clothes in crochet, in shades of purple and yellow.

Later we shared mint tea as the sun set over the great pink bulk of the mountain and talked with ease, like-minded spirits, regardless of age, time or geography.

Alone again, after eating my evening meal in glorious isolation, I listened to children laughing outside, and watched women climb on to their roofs to water their plants. The sky turned white and pink and the palest blue. Night was falling. My thoughts drifted again to the refuge, no thick lush vegetation there, no paths stained black with the juice of cherries, just the hard relentless rock and dangerous scree.

The following day I read and dozed. The great mountains drowsed with me, silent sentinels of human endeavour. John  would be up on the summit, I keep looking up at the hard slab of rock, pink in the midday sun as I ate my beautifully prepared lunch.

Mohammed loaned me his two sons, aged 11 and 9, to escort me as guides down to the waterfall. We set off, me in hiking boots and the boys in flip flops. I try to entice them with my fluent French, ‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’ and that was the end of communications. Mustapha and Omar.

We wove our way down through the uneven track through the village, me wishing I had my poles for support, then we took a path consisting of giant boulders and somehow I jarred a knee. Oh dear me. My group are hiking high in the clouds and I hurt my knee… Oh the shame. I gave up my dignity and slithered down on my rear end, the boys watching the whole performance with wide eyes showing not a whit of compassion.

Anyway I viewed the waterfall and the lush trees and the heavy canopy. It was a right old playground, with mattresses strewn around for afternoon reclining, and lots of orange juice vendors to keep everyone hydrated beside the cascading waterfall.

My two young friends had little to say. I must have been overwhelming for them. When we reached the bottom I just hoped and prayed that I would be able to climb up with dignity, and I did, surprisingly! The knee felt stronger on the ascent, so fewer dramatic manoeuvres were required to overcome the boulders.

I returned to my roof top eyrie and kept up my mountain watch. The mists suddenly developed into thick cloud. Toubkal was covered in a  thick veil. It felt cold and windy, black birds circled around. I hoped John was OK.

Camille has gone, and I had another wonderful banquet on my own. I felt echoes of my life in Vietnam when I spent solitary days in Tien Yen, in a self-imposed confinement. I quite liked it. Though maybe not for too long.

And  they all returned! Safe well, sunburnt and tired. Even our London wild child made it, cajoled and bribed by Hamed to the top.

Three others did not make it, the scree and wild terrain was too off-putting, but John did, and was exultant to stand and pose with the conquerors. He was so happy with himself, and quite rightly so.

He said the downward descent was treacherous. The going was rough and loose  and the scree so dangerous that even the nimble youngsters fell once or twice. John did come a cropper; he lost his footing in the grit and scree, and tumbled off the narrow path and over the edge, but fortunately he landed on a big boulder, and was saved from plummeting hundreds of metres. Alison, who was behind him, later congratulated him on his  aerobics as he flew horizontally over the precipice!

Everyone was quiet and subdued at dinner; they had all pushed themselves, and all had found it challenging, and all had survived to tell their tales. I smiled happily, and told them about the snake I had seen. They were very enthralled!

Hamed told us about the marriage markets in Morocco, where country people gather to eye each other up and sign contracts for husbands and wives, and possibly buy and sell some sheep or goats. ‘You just look around and if you see a girl who is very beautiful or has beautiful eyes, then you go and talk to her father and then you sign the papers.’ Talk about the 30 second rule of attraction… you apparently can tell if you are physically attracted in the blink of an eye.

 

And the mission was accomplished. The bags packed, the tips paid to muleteers and cooks, and the minibus took us back to Marrakech.

Suddenly it was noisy, busy and the obligatory visit to the Medina and the souks were such a contrast to the almost aesthetic purity of our mountain retreat.

We ate with some of the group, the others were off at a hammam,

then we went to haggle for the last minute souvenirs in the now dark Medina square. It was edgy, frightening, aggressive. Yet there was a wonderful confusion of noise and colour; streets alive with drummers, musicians, snake charmers, beggars, and blind men. One lady had her dying husband draped over her legs with a begging bowl in front of them. The only thing in the bowl was a packet of cigarettes.

Could it be that we were there just a week? We are home now, and my dry skin is covered in Argon oil, the boots and laundry are all clean and put away. My new Sahara Blue scarf is in readiness for another adventure, as I have been taught how to wrap it around the head in a turban in the fashion of Lawrence of Arabia. Who knows? A camel ride in the desert, or a walk in the high Himalayas? Dreams do come true!

 

 

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The Outer Hebrides

Posted on May 18, 2019 by gaelharrison

‘Away in the west land I’m longing to be,

Where the steamer leaves Oban

And passes Tiree

Where the sweet purple heather blooms fragrant and free

On a hilltop high above

The Dark Island’.

 

On the first of May we sailed away from Oban, five hours it took by the MacBrayne ferry, over the Minches to the Island of Barra. The sea was like blue glass and we idled the time with binoculars sighting landmarks we recognised from other trips: the Morven and Ardnamurchan peninsulas, Mull and the distant shapes of the mountains of Skye. I stared at the sea as ripples of spume broke into white froth, hoping and hoping to see a whale or a porpoise… but there was nothing, well, nothing that I saw. We drew into Castlebay in Barra and, looking about, I saw a smattering of houses dominated by a large RC church built above the harbour.

The tiny castle on its island was perfect in the evening sun. I remember a few years ago that the BBC did a series about an island priest and we got an insight into his parish and all the activities that went on. I know he used to enjoy putting his golf ball along the passage way in his manse on an evening. It was wild entertainment.

John and I settled into the Dunard Hostel overlooking the sea and went looking for a meal in one of the two hotels.

 

Afterwards we sauntered back, appreciating the Post Office, the very one filmed in Whisky Galore, then marvelled at a purple Maclaren sports car with a very low undercarriage. A man came out of the Pub so I asked him if he was Bob. The number plate was BOB69. He told me that Bob was still having his pint, but yes indeed that was his car, and the owner of the hotel had a red Ferrari. I noted the uneven roads and the potholes. We then came to a great blue lorry parked down by the pier next to the ferry. On it was written ‘Screen Machine’ and it was the travelling cinema that serves the people of the Islands and part of the Highlands. How exciting our time was going to be, so much entertainment that we had not envisaged.

I have always wanted to visit the Outer Hebrides,  and have always been drawn to the music and the plaintive sounds of the minor key that the tunes are composed in. When you meet an islander on the mainland, they tend to have a wistful look in their faces when they talk of their own special island. Well, we made it at last, and we were breathing the air on a beautiful spring evening, and we had plans to walk as much  as we could.

The  following morning we stood by the bus stop for Vatersay, and I casually enquired of the local policeman if this was indeed the stop. He was very nice, and told us there was little crime, and he was enjoying his secondment from Dundee. The bus arrived and I asked for two tickets to Vatersay. ‘Have you booked?’ came the question. I looked at him with some surprise. ‘You have to book the night before if you want to go there.’ I looked around the empty bus, and reluctantly got off.

So we walked. It was delightful, the air was fresh and the noise of sea birds kept us company for the four miles it took, including crossing the causeway to Vatersay.

We passed the remains of an old military plane that had crashed on a hillside, killing three of its nine men crew. The fuselage and wings are still as they were, and a memorial stone.

We met the black Hebridean sheep, and cows and then we saw our first beach of brilliant silvery white sand.

The sea was turquoise and royal blue, and deserted.

We finally made it to the Community Centre, and were thinking of how to get back, for obviously we hadn’t booked any public transport. But just then, along came our friendly PC and his partner in the panda car. ‘Just you hang about while we have our cake and coffee and then you can come back with us, handcuffs are optional!’

 

I watched the other tourists’ faces as we were summoned later and put in the back. It was great, we whizzed along, learning all sorts of facts about the island, and Compton MacKenzie and Whisky Galoreand were deposited in front of the hostel.

The afternoon was free now to explore North Bay and the airport, and we watched the little Logan Air twin monarch take off for its daily flight to Glasgow. We had a chuckle at the baggage reclaim section.

We walked across the dunes behind the airport and it was like being dazzled by snow. A sweet German woman told me she was so happy she just wanted to jump for joy. I told her she should and so she did, giving little skips, like she was on a pogo stick.

We drove to the northern tip of Barra to the cemetery of Eoligarry where Compton Mackenzie is buried. The sea beckoned, the turquoise tones, the machair running down the hillside alive with yellow primroses, it was all just too beautiful.

And the next day we sailed away, over the Sound of Barra to the island of Eriskay. I was looking for signs of the SS Politician, famous  for the cargo of whisky that it had on board during its fateful voyage on the 4thFebruary 1941. We bought the book, Scotch on the Rocks, written by Arthur Swinson, which is the true story behind Whisky Galore, and learnt of the struggle of the excisemen trying to prevent looting. But was it looting? It was really saving the whisky from certain loss for ever. A good read, but disturbing.

I did ask a man if he knew Donald MacKinnon.  He said he knew about fifty, just which Donald did I mean. So I explained that he was an old friend from the Hebrides Pub in Edinburgh, such a good friend that when I left for Vietnam I handed him my car keys and he promised that he would sell it for me. ‘Och, that Donald, yes, he comes up all the time, that’s his mother’s house up there, and that’s Christopher’s house there and his cousin lives over there.’ I was glad that the policeman didn’t drop us there, as everyone would have known about it and reported back to Edinburgh!

And then over the fabulous causeway to South Uist.

We spotted the Screen Machine lorry parked on the ferry. It was going on to the Borrodale Hotel in Daliburgh for its next show.

We hoped that maybe we could catch up with it soon. Instead we took in the fields of peat, the stacks newly cut and piled up to dry, and I read that in 1989-2002 the archaeologists had dug up two mummified bodies that had been preserved in the acid environment of the peat bog. We were lucky as we went tramping across the dunes and machair that there had been no rain for weeks. As a consequence the ground was springy and dry, and there was no fear of being sucked into these black bogs that have claimed the lives of many a cow and human alike.

Instead we saw lapwings and their fluffy babies, and above, the noise of peewits, gulls and starlings. The fields were covered with yellow flag irises just about to burst open, big daisies, little daisies, buttercups and dandelions. There was often a chilly breeze but the sun shone continuously. The sea, the constant sea with the long white sandy beaches was intensely blue.

We found an ominous large lump in the sand, so we both gave it a push with our boots. It was spongy and soft. Then I noticed a piece of paper nailed to a post on top of the dune. I clambered up like an agile goat and it said how this was the body of a sperm whale that had washed up on the shore and it was to go eventually to the Museum of Scotland, but the local people were monitoring its decomposition. No one must dare to touch it… dreadful diseases could be transmitted. Oh well.

We had planned to tent that night. We had our sleeping bags and planned to cook salmon steaks on the little barbecue bought in the Co-op in Barra. But the wind freshened and the sky darkened. It did not bode well. We walked on, thinking we could find the Gatliff Hostel in Howmore.

We rounded a corner and came to an open field, and there was a MacBrayne’s bus and a bridal party lining up for their photographs by the Atlantic ocean.

Whales and brides, and baby lapwing chicks, oh – and Flora Macdonald’s house (she who rowed Bonnie Prince Charlie over the sea to Skye). It was quite a day.

The hostel was warm and welcoming and we joined in the general camaraderie. Then after our salmon dinner we retraced our steps to go to a film show/talk/ceilidh at Daliburgh in St Peter’s Village Hall.

The place was packed, the majority of the voices spoke Gaelic. The organiser, Fiona MacKenzie, wore a long sparkling black waistcoat, and we were ushered into the packed hall.

It was the best evening ever. We had no expectations, other than that it was to be photographs and a film called Solasmade by a lady who had once lived in South Uist, and we were there so we should attend. Now I am obsessed by that special lady. Her name is Margaret Fay Shaw, and she lived to the age of 101. She was a young American woman who settled in the Scottish Hebrides in the 1920s and made films, and took photographs of life in the islands and recorded the music and songs of a way of life. She married John Lorne Campbell and they lived on the island of Canna till they both passed away. After the film that was peppered with music and Gaelic songs, the audience were hushed, and many were delighted to have seen relatives known only as old folk, as young people in their prime, laughing as they collected the seaweed and cut the peats and crooned lullabies to their children.

We were treated to a ‘strupach’ and I met a lovely lady called Patsy who told me more and more about Margaret and Fiona who has done so much work to get the film released with the National Trust. I would have loved to stay and dance and listen to the music at the ceilidh but we decided to return to our bunks in the hostel. It was difficult to climb up quietly when sharing with four other people!

That night I lay listening to the noise of the rain on the  roof and windows and the sharp cries of the corn crakes. Timeless sounds.

Canna House, 1975

For John and Margaret by Kathleen Raine

 The cards that brighten the New Year,

A Christmas-tree grown in the wood,

The crimson curtains drawn, the owl

Whose porcelain holds a lamp to read

The music on the Steinway grand

Piano with its slipping scores

Of Couperin, Chopin and Ravel –

John and Margaret Campbell made

This room to house the things they treasure,

Records of Scotland’s speech and song,

Lore of butterfly and bird,

And velvet cats step soft among

Learned journals on the floor.

 We drove north to Benbecula, and over the causeway to North Uist and the Lochmaddy Hotel. As we drove I couldn’t  help thinking the road and scenery were like fine lace lying on  perpetual water. We skimmed across sea lochs, pools, freshwater lochs and it was just all so watery, and then round a corner there would be the glittering sea lying waiting again, a reminder that it was not far away. Dotted around were crofts and stone houses, seeming to have been built with no rhyme or reason; there didn’t seem to be a village as such, but occasionally a school or post office and a dismal Co-op signalled an area of importance. Where were the clothes shops? Where could you buy a new red T shirt? There were notices on the wall of the Co-op advertising Bingo, and Pub Quizzes, ‘Eyes down at 7.30!’

 

Imagine our surprise seeing a sign advertising a bear in the Langass Woods.

The islands are not renowned for their trees, as nothing will grow on the acid soil, but the Forestry Commission have persisted and they have got quite a little forest of connifers growing well.  Amongst it all is the grave of the grizzly bear, Hercules. I couldn’t believe my eyes, as I had taught the Robin children in Dornie way back in 1987 and knew the family quite well, and had heard about their pet bear. I felt quite proud to have finally met up with him, in his final resting place.

Through the forest and up on the peaty moors we reconnected with our ancient past, and stood in the stone circle of the second millennium BC which is named after the Gaelic hero Fionn MacCool.

We stepped gaily down through the springy grasses and came to Barpa Langass, a Neolithic chambered cairn which is 5000 years old. I took a moment to think about how these ancestors might have lived and breathed on this very soil. How did they survive with no shops, nowhere to get a red T shirt? Hard times indeed.

After settling into our hotel we decided to double back to the Dark Island Hotel in Benbecula as we had spotted on our way that the Screen Machine was now parked outside.

Being Saturday the film that evening was Fisherman’s Friend. We arrived with time to spare for a quick drink in the hotel’s rather shabby bar with sticky tables, and then on to the night’s viewing. Oh my! The sides of the lorry extended outwards and inside was plush and proper with a huge screen. We were transported with all of the cinema magic to Cornwall and the happy story. What a treat. On the drive back we were quite euphoric, and felt very familiar with the road, and the ancient stones and the turn off to the bear. An owl flew up at us as we crossed a watery causeway. It was a good night out.

Our stay in Lochmaddy coincided with the Sabbath, and even though we are now in 2019, it was as though we were in another century. Everything closed. It was a day to reflect and look at birds, so that is what we did.

We drove over to Berneray, and found the most perfect jewel of an island, with exquisite beaches and sand dunes that might have come from Arabia.

On our way, a short eared owl suddenly flew up and sat on a post next to our car.

John was in bird heaven, as he quickly snapped his prize. And later we met a very dedicated ‘twitcher’ with a massive lens who taught us the finer points of watching a skylark at play.

I lay on my back on the machair and watched the bird fly up and up to the clouds making a huge racket (song) then when he got as far up as he could,  he suddenly put out his wings and parachuted down then ran about – such a proud little thing,  marking his territory. Vaughan Williams wrote the music depicting the skylark, The Lark Ascending, and the violins were set the difficult task of recreating the sound of spring.

 

And John took snaps of redshanks, lapwings, curlews but kept hoping  for a glimpse of the elusive golden eagle or sea eagle.

We set sail from Berneray to Leverburgh in Harris crossing the Sound on a beautiful calm day. There was hardly a ripple, but still no sign of whales or porpoises. We drove to Rodal, once a thriving tourist spot, but now the remains of St Clement’s church is all that is there, and a van selling lobster sandwiches and fish soup. A very pushy local man (with a Yorkshire accent) cut in front of me, and ordered the last two sandwiches, all the time talking loudly about being a local and tourists. We got back in our car and made up our own sandwiches of pate and tomatoes from the Co-op in Solas on the north coast of Uist. I was a bit cross.

But the mountains of Harris and sparkling white shell beaches of Sheileboist and Losgaintir made up for the initial fray of bad manners that we encountered. The views were breath-taking, and we walked out on the sand and marvelled.

Peter May, the author, has written some very good stories of the Hebrides, including the Lewis Trilogy and the Coffin Road. We thought, as the day was dry and the sun was out, that we should try and find the said road and try and walk some of the way. The Eastern side of South Harris has shallow soil and rocks. Some of the displaced population from the west side settled here after the Clearances, trying to eke a living on this side of the island. But when they died, their coffins had to be carried along the track which is now called the Coffin route back to their home land and back to the deep soils of the west. We set off from Likisto and clambered up the hill, and over the moorland.

 

The day was warm and the going was not particularly easy. A lot easier without carrying a coffin I am sure, but still. We enjoyed the walk, and went as far as was safe. If we had attempted the whole thing, we would have needed a bus or a lift to take us back, and time was marching and we didn’t want to risk a bus! I did enjoy the novel bus shelters!

We slept one night in Tarbert, and set off the next morning energised and ready to find the golden eagle. We drove along by Loch Seaforth, clambered up hills in the freezing wind, alone with only the dark looming mountains around us, but no eagles.

We drove north to Aline then Laxay (the salmon river) and finally came into the virtual metropolis of Stornoway, the capital of Lewis. First stop was the Co-op, to stock up on supplies. We ate in a pub, perused shops that sold clothes, and there were restaurants and colleges, big supermarkets and churches and of course a fabulous harbour. It seemed strange to see such a wealth of choice.

But then we were off again, we were heading west, over to Uig, over to the pod in Mangersta that was to be our home for three nights.

The evening was dark, the wind was whirling about and rain splatted  the windows. It did not bode well, but inside our little modern cave it was cosy, and our hosts, Tosh and Jed, had thought of everything.

The next morning, the wind was gone, the sun was out and we were off exploring. Oh my.

A glen secluded from the world, with perfect beaches, rock structures and the baaing of lambs. We asked Tosh where we could find an eagle, to which she replied, ‘Oh they are everywhere, just walk over there and you should see them.’ So we did, clambering over the spongy grasses down to the rocky cliff edges and suddenly there they were, two swooping birds flying very high above us. John was in heaven.

The next day we found the beach where the Lewis Chessmen had been discovered way back in 1832. Artists have had fun representing them, and we enjoyed all the different statues in all the different places, made from wood or cement. Of course the real ones are in the British Museum and the National Museum of Scotland.

Sitting on the step of the pod, having an evening ‘sundowner’ we espied a crow making a terrible din. Looking up we saw why. The golden eagle was swooping across the sky at him, and it was quite a dramatic moment. We had prime seats and didn’t have to walk an inch!

Tosh’s neighbours are extremely talented, making signs and sculptures

but best of all the bothy built into the rocks. It is camouflaged and beautiful. Inside it has the feel of a Mongolian yurt, as it is built in the same design. I would not really like to venture out in the dark, the fall would be fatal. But the setting is magical.

We were sorry to leave but we still had the standing stones of Callanish to see, and the Pictish broch and the Harris Tweed weavers, and the lighthouse at the Butt of Lewis. All this we saw, and the sun shone but sometimes a black cloud glowered and threatened but only added atmosphere to the day. We had only seen two evenings of rain in two weeks.

I like the above picture…I look as though I am doing line dancing with a very attentive chorus behind me!

The weavers weaving their tweed have to have their looms in a shed next to their house, or it is not classed as the Real Thing. We learnt all about it from  the very devoted wife of Norman, the chief weaver of Carrloway. She was so enthused with her story and product she did not see a cockerel and hen make their way into a display box and lie courting amongst the profits. We had a laugh as they were shooed out clucking and squawking and quite annoyed that their afternoon sleep had been disturbed.

At Ness, which comprised of a group of croft houses at the top-most end of Lewis, we decided to walk around the rocky coast to see the lighthouse. On the way we saw fulmars and herring gulls, curlews, starlings and crows.

The place was alive with birds and bird watchers. Exhausted we walked back along the road, and met Iain, or Bucky as he is known. He makes everything, black houses, motorbikes,  fancy statues etc. out of wood, and he very kindly parted with a necklace of fishing buoys that I asked for. I have plans. John just raised his eyes.

Later, back in Stornoway in the Lews Castle gardens, we met a lovely man walking his dog. He used to drive the Co-op van up to Ness, and he knew Bucky well. He looked at us both and told us to be happy. ‘You just never know the hour,’ he said, ‘my wife went out last year on a Monday and came home on Tuesday in a box.’

So yes, we will heed his advice, but it was with a heavy heart that we boarded the ferry in Stornoway for Ullapool and watched the islands recede. Images caught on camera will keep the memories alive, songs of long ago now have real meaning, and somehow I feel rejuvenated. The islands have worked their magic, and I feel richer for having visited them. I would go back tomorrow.

 

On our front doorstep we have a small memoir…the king and queen of the Lewis Chessmen!

 

 

 

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The Sea

Posted on April 7, 2019 by gaelharrison

I have been thinking a lot about the sea lately for one reason or another. For the last half an  hour a little guillemot bird has been causing us concern. It is bobbing on the waves, and the sea is wild and there is a strong wind, and above him we see the herring gulls, circling in menacing circles. They swoop as one, and fight each other as they attempt to pluck him from the water, but he dives and evades them each time. It is awful. Why can’t he get to the shore and we can save him?  The gulls usually pluck starfish from the broiling sand as the waves recede, leaving the creatures exposed, and then attack each other to get possession of their trophy. But a guillemot? That seems so cruel.

We were in Wales a few weeks back visiting Natasha and family, and along the Penarth coastline, long ago, the Jurassic creatures were known to prowl.

On Hazel’s second birthday,

after an elegant afternoon tea which followed an intense ice skating lesson,

we meandered along the beach, down by the pier, picking up fossils and ammonites.

I could recognise the odd familiar shape, but for serious searching you need the eyes of Natasha. She can pull a four leaf clover out of a field with just a glance, so on a stone-strewn beach it was natural for her to find part of a tail of a plesiosaur which was later confirmed by the Cardiff museum’s palaeontologist. Just the day before our visit, Leo had a letter from the same department confirming his find which he had submitted as being the actual poo of an ichthyosaur, only 200 million years old.

I could make out limpet and mussel shells. I felt like that lady in the poem, seen from a train, walking through a field wearing gloves, missing so much and so much!

John and I have been tramping the paths by the surging sea, and revisiting the east coast pathways… you are on the right path if the sea is on your right.

 

Fields are brown with the earth newly turned, lonely benches invite you to take the weight off your feet for a minute, and buttery yellow sands give way to manicured golf courses, defying the vicious salt-laden winds.

Pale grasses grew thick and high by the sand dunes, and I had a flash of memory of the safari trip in Botswana when the same sort of grasses disguised the colours of the lions.

We are lucky that we can walk along with no fear, our eyes trained on wild orchids and the burgeoning colours of spring.

Village life has been inviting. We went as guests to the annual curling ceilidh, held in the Masonic rooms, where Robert Burns’s portrait,  in full mason’s apron and fancy get-up, stood beside that of Her Majesty. It was a fun evening, with a bit of dancing to the ceilidh band, whose members, all over seventy, could have jumped out of the pages of The Highland Games. John is now full of trepidation, as he was being urged to join ‘the curling’ next season. Can’t be that bad, a bit like ten pin bowling I would have thought!

Long ago when I was young (ha ha) I had a swain, a couple of years older who left for Australia and left me heartbroken. I think I was about fourteen. He wrote me poetry and letters over the years and became a doctor and then a psychiatrist, and made quite a name for himself in northern Queensland.

Well, he has written a book, which he sent me and I have been like an armchair traveller as I lived his ocean journeys on board his kayak as he paddled the Great Barrier Reef over the course of twenty years. I watched the lights twinkle from lonely lighthouses, sat on beaches where giant crocodiles slept among the mangroves, and felt the pain of his reminiscences of his father and some of his patients. I learnt of a new hero that influenced  so many boys growing up in Australia in the 1950s and 60s, Jack Idriess. I tried to buy his books (a very prolific writer) but these are now out of print and the only copies available can be bought at an extortionate price.

I had never really thought of the Coral Sea, or the Torres Strait but now I feel as though I know them as intimately as Captain Cook, hence my earlier reference to thinking about the sea, not just as a constant changing backdrop to my life but as a living moving force.

My old friend’s book is Vicarious Dreaming, by Ernest Hunter. I do hope it becomes available outside Australia:

But bad weather leaves no space for reflection, just attention – to balance, to the shifting centre of gravity as the kayak is overtaken by following swells, to remaining true to the compass bearing against the sea’s pull to port, to glimpses of low coast through the rain, to the slowness of time – elapsed time; it’s hours until the bauxite-reddened cliffs around Sharp Point appear between the squalls.

Here John knows a lot about gravity. He fell off a ladder on Monday and ended spread-eagled on the decking, with a deep gash on his ear and a very sore rib cage. He was quite stunned, and confused, but made a good recovery. Nurse Me, coped well and didn’t faint at the blood this time. I just was horrified at the swelling of his ear; it looked like a purple plastic toy that he had glued on. Fortunately he is well again, but has been banned from ladders for ever. He affects deafness at these announcements and talks about summer days when everything is sunny and DRY.

We went to see Local Heroat the Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh yesterday. It was wonderful: a brand new score by Mark Knoffler, with new songs added to the already haunting original melodies. The play more than made up from the dire Vegan lunch we had subjected ourselves to earlier. Oh God! Beetroot burgers held together with some wallpaper paste which tasted of very old oil. Mine was teriyaki tofu which tasted burnt and was as tough as old leather sandals. I am still shuddering and John is still cross that we had to pay for it. We left three quarters of it. ‘Did ye no like it?,’ asked the waiter. ‘Not really our thing,’ I said, politely. Why are we so polite? What a waste of money –  but not all was lost. Earlier in the day we had gambled on the Grand National, and like true amateurs, we put our money on the Favourite which won. Sadly we didn’t bet £100, but still, we walked away winners!  Then we went home and I made an omelette out of a goose egg; now that was something  worth eating… absolutely delicious!

Irene and Mike came for lunch last week, and she gave me a CD from the troubadour  that plays in all the pubs around Edinburgh and Fife. He is a Scottish Chinese chap called Andy Chung, and Irene and I have such happy memories of him strumming his guitar and making us cry to the tunes of Dark Lochnagar and the Fields of Athenry. Irene then got out her phone and playedThe Wild Geesesung by Jim Reid:

Oh tell what was on your road, ye roarin’ norian’ Wind,

As ye cam blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?

My feet they traivel England, but I’m deein’ for the north.

My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o Forth.

 Far abin the Angus Straths I saw the Wild Geese Flee,

A lang, lang skein o beatin wings wi their heids toward the sea…

And finally, on Monday, I actually sat down and read my unfinished manuscript, The Fish in the Tree. I was mad when it came to an end… I just wanted it to go on – surely it must be a sign, I must get on and figure out what happens next!

But it’s the discipline of writing. How does a fierce writing programme fit in with looking after Darcey and Dillon, going to Pilates, going walking with John, sewing, reading the biography of Samuel Pepys (fantastic), and all the other distractions that come my way? Perhaps there is a time, or maybe it’s past. Have I have missed the boat or will it come again?

Ernest wrote half autobiography, half biography of Jack Idriess, and somehow linked it all to the sea. I shall finish with his thoughts:

Oceans warped by forces bent across time and space tightening their tidal embrace. Entwined with currents, driven by winds, checked and channelled by geography – its movements are different everywhere. And not – the sea comes in; it goes out. It’s the same with memory, the flow determined by intersections, coincidences and the submerged terrain of shame and denial. And like returning to familiar islands, recollections are always different, memory never revisits in precisely the same way. But like tides they go back and forward, back and forward – and back again.

 The book that I WILL finish (one day) may not be the same one that I previously started to write. My inner tides go in and out, and my memories do shift, but it sits inside me, and it wants to get out. I will just have to judge the time.

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