Tales from the Gael

It’s just a day. I’ve been thinking about that expression a lot lately. Monday morning for us folk who are retired is just another day, a day to wash the sheets, maybe give the place a hoover. But a few years ago it meant a new working week. School life, routines, assemblies and all the stresses of the classroom. John is happy that he has no documents to prepare, no horrid meetings to attend, nor any of the trials involved with difficult clients.

Every day is just wonderful.

I look at people on the street and wonder if on this particular day they might have a driving test, an exam, an interview? I remember being in the graveyard in Kingussie and noticing that on the 2^nd December, but five years apart, both my mother and her mother passed away. I am always particularly careful on that date.

And just recently on the 27^th November, my daughter Geraldine gave birth to Dylan Alexander O’ Riordan. A lovely big healthy baby, 10 lbs 11oz.  It had been a pregnancy from hell, nausea and vomiting for the whole nine months, but as I cuddled him in my arms, he was completely oblivious and seemed happy to have finally arrived. Gerry is just so relieved to be able to relish a fish pie or a cup of tea.

And just last week I had a day from hell. My heart was going like the clappers; I was convinced anyone interested could actually see it through my jumper. It was the day of the tooth extraction. I walked down Princes Street, and browsed in Waterstones where I saw Nigel Slater close up signing his new book, and no one knew that in twenty-five minutes I would be in THE CHAIR.

The whole procedure took forever. I tried to be a Yogi and lift myself up out of the present and fixed little granddaughter Hazel’s face in my mind’s eye.

I did wonder at the drill. Had he got the wrong tooth? More minutes passed. More focussing on Hazel’s face.

Finally, I was raised up and told to bite a swab. It had taken forty-five minutes, and he had to admit defeat. The tooth was out, but the mighty roots had calcified themselves into the jaw bone. The drilling was him trying to get at them. It would mean another visit, but probably in the hospital next time. I staggered home, traumatised. The pain was fine, it soon receded by the next day and soon I felt very good and glad that the big abscess and all its poison had been removed. I was quite ecstatic really, until this morning. There is new swelling. The evil roots and their bacteria are up for more action. I have an X-Ray this Tuesday, so hopefully something can be done, but I am praying I won’t be out of action for Christmas.

The precious days of Christmas this year are to be celebrated chez nous. We shall have Natasha and her family and Gerry and her family for the day and I shall be cooking. I do not want to look like a strange woman with a sling round her jaw. Natasha rang to say that Bonnie was to be a goose at her nursery nativity, and here she is….very goose like!

England is covered in snow, but here in Fife, we have just freezing temperatures and silver frost. John is busy painting doors, and I have been doing my elephants. They are finished, except for the binding. I am quite pleased with them.

The days run into each other, and I couldn’t believe that on Friday I was dancing the night away with my ladies of the Art and Craft club here in the village. A year has passed since we did exactly the same thing, in the same venue, with the same singer. This year Isla, our very own belly dancer, shone like a star as she gracefully shimmied through the throng of other women’s bowling groups and painting clubs.

There was hardly a man to be seen. But we hummed to the tunes that brought back memories and I struggled to read a long-winded verse, tattooed on the back of a large woman dressed in red. Another day.

But for now I must go and make a mushroom pie with brie.

Then I shall gargle with salt water.

Already the light is fading, and the frost from the morning has remained to the evening. It is minus 2, but I must take heart for in that graveyard in Kingussie it is minus 12.

December days.

We are so lucky not to have to go and harvest the rice or bash our clothes on a rock in the river. We get up and plan our day, quietly ignoring the finger-marks that need wiping from the kitchen cupboards, or the dust that should be rearranged in the sitting room. We have choices. We can clean and of course we do, but we can also go out and about. We can walk, we can take an exercise class, we can read and of course some of us can sew. Hours pass, as does time, but there is always something we should have done.

One of my weekly choices is to go to the University on Friday mornings and for two hours I listen to James Ellison talk about literature. He spins meanings and associations and understanding into texts that I had read, but had totally misunderstood. A gentleman beside me (he looks like a retired teacher, but who knows?) comes prepared with pencil marks scribbled by the poems set for the week. There have always been students like that. I have tended to avoid them.

Since yesterday, I have been quite melancholy. For two hours James talked about T S Eliot.

We were focussing on his great masterpiece, Four Quartets, and in particular Burnt Norton, a beautiful house near Chipping Campden.

For two hours my mind did not wander once. Beautiful words with such complex meanings. And at the end I had learnt about Proust, Dante, Buddhism, St John of the Cross, and that the word ‘sense’ in poetry is actually a key philosophical word. We think we only know things through the five senses but in fact there is also a transcendental world.

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden.

I think the poem was all about redemption, like that story we once read called The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

We listened to Burnt Norton on You Tube – Alex Guinness was reading the Four Quartets. Oh my, it was like liquid caramel.

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,

And time future contained in time past.

Reading these poems from the dizzy heights of the age I am now, and being coached on their hidden meanings, I can bring my life experience to the exercise. James told us how a fellow called Henri Bergson described how we carry our memories with us rather like two film spools linked together, one threading on to the other.

Yet we are constantly changing our perceptions.

How different the words would be to my eighteen-year old self.

On a lighter note, a few weeks ago I was asked to give a talk to the neighbouring village about my quilting journey. I made a great effort and went into Edinburgh specially to buy boots that would accommodate my swollen ankle and ‘go’ with my new jazzy coat.

I thought I’d make a bit of an effort. The evening was great, I felt like one of those gully gully men that entice passengers on ships to buy from their suitcases. I had about fifty quilts and cushions and hangings, and the ladies were quite stalwart and sat through the lot. I even talked about my books and sold a few. Came home as high as a kite and John had to talk me down to reality with a Cherry Brandy.

I have been busy making a quilt for the expected new baby. It is nice and I had better get a move on as time is marching!

Darcey had a good day with us on Wednesday. A walk that would take me about fifteen minutes ended up taking about two hours. We stopped for coffee and cake then meandered through the leaves and up some steps. She really is delightful. ‘Come bird, here is your feather, come and get it.’

And now I have another choice. Should I go out and walk in the sunshine or sit down for a while and read. There is a seal bobbing about in the waves.

I think I shall sit a while and maybe have an epiphany.

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Sounds Buddhist.  A cup of tea I think.

Italy Part 2 – Sicily

Monday morning and off to the station. We joined the throng of commuters as we rushed to catch our train heading to the Ionian Coast. This is Sicily’s most popular tourist destination. We had no idea what to expect, but after the Amalfi Coast, we expected it to be more touristy that busy Palermo.

The train pulled in to Taormina station and we looked about. No sign of a town. So into a taxi and away we went, up, up and up and round so many snake bends! The town sits on a terrace of Monte Tauro, overlooking the sea, and is so beautiful. It was wealthy, touristy, and also sporting a very grand Greek theatre that has Mount Etna framed in the background. We hauled our bags through the pedestrianised Corso Umberto and climbing ever more stairs we finally found our three storey holiday house.

But here in this beautiful place was where we were meeting up with Natasha, Leo, Bonnie and Hazel. We had a fabulous reunion over salad and pasta then wandered about eating ice cream. Bonnie was desolated after leaving her last ‘holiday house’ as it had been on an olive farm and the house had come complete with five cats and a whole lot of kittens!

Hazel was very pleased to have more arms to cuddle her, and that evening Leo cooked dinner using giant mushrooms bought fresh from a street stall. So much nicer than the bandits who served the sardines.

We had to take a cable car down to the beach, to Isola Bella, set in a stunning cove.

Unfortunately, it was comprised hard round stones so not the best for lounging on. Still we ate our picnic, and Bonnie thought it was good idea to try and bury me in stones. She said I was a bit like a bouncy castle. I tried not to be offended. Leo did say that I would leave Scotland like me and end up like an Italian Nonna.

He and Bonnie ventured into the water, and Natasha tried snorkelling. John and I played with Bonnie and watched sleeping Hazel.

The following day was my birthday. And for the special day we had booked a tour of Mount Etna. No way were we allowed to go to the summit (as we did in Vesuvius) for Etna had had an eruption in March this year.

But we went with the most amazing guide, a geologist and historian, in a jeep up to the lava flows and the craters. We saw and learnt so much. He stopped and spouted all his knowledge, then as we climbed higher, he pointed out rocks and related history of each lava flow. We climbed all day, Leo with Bonnie on his shoulder and Natasha with Hazel strapped to her chest. I was exhausted just by myself.

At one point, John marked a point in the lava with a cross. He called Bonnie and she started digging. Could this be the famous treasure of Etna? She dug some more, and yes –  she found it. Three small pots and urns from bygone days. She was amazed and guarded them with her life, then later filled them with lava and small black crystals. It is good being three and a half!

My birthday lunch was in a lovely mountain restaurant. We ate delicious pasta and drank some wine. Then later at home Natasha brought in a cake and they all sang for me. It was a good day.

The next day we explored the Greek Theatre, built in the 3^rd century BC.  I had Hazel to myself for a while, and set her down on an ancient column, the old with the new, and wondered about life and its passing. She has so much ahead of her. And this theatre has seen so many performances throughout the centuries. Hard to take in.

Maybe it’s better just to go to a café and eat cake and drink coffee.

Sadly we had to part. John and I had to return to Palermo to catch the ferry back to Naples, and the little family had to return to Wales. But what a special place to share some time together.

Our last day in Naples saw us on the Metro making our way to get the open-top Hop-on Hop-off bus. The highlight of this tour was the stop at Capodimonte. This colossal palace was once a hunting lodge for the Charles V11 but now its it a fantastic museum. It houses the Farnese collection, and we saw Botticelli, Caravaggio, Masaccio and Titian. The latter made me gasp; it was Mary Magdalen. I remember just starting the Open University and my very first essay was on this picture. And here she was, unexpectedly, like an old friend!

We saw Belgian tapestries, holy families, amazing rooms, one even done out totally in porcelain. It was all just too much, too big but I am so glad we saw it.

Coming back through the maze of streets, our bus stopped at a red light. I yawned, and suddenly I realised I was being watched. A delightful man was leaning out of his balcony and mimicked my yawn and we shared the moment! Nice.

We are home now, and I am so pleased to be back on my own pillow, and am relishing being able to just drink water from the tap. I do not want another pizza, or a sandwich made from great chunks of bread, for at least a year,  But I must admit I was enthralled with the last room we had in Naples, and may have plans to recreate a bathroom perhaps in a more flamboyant style!

So my jigsaw collection of tickets can be stored along with the guide books of all the great sights, and although it was just two weeks, I think we gained a window into another world. Arriva derci!

Italy Part 1 – Naples and the Amalfi Coast

I have just given up salt & vinegar crisps, American giant marshmallows and all other sweet things, and stepped on the scales this morning and NO CHANGE. What is the point?

I came back from two weeks in Italy, full of bread and ham and pizza and Prosecco, and was secretly wondering where the great Mediterranean diet was actually hiding. The only time I had a bread- or pasta-free meal was the complimentary platter we received outside the Opera House in Palermo in Sicily.

We sipped our drink, thought about the Godfather, talked to a wonderful elderly couple, and nibbled olives and ham and roasted peppers. Behind us the fabulous staircase glimmered in the street lights.

I thought our random companions might be lovers, or an estranged couple meeting one last time. He was Sicilian, she American, but there was no romance. Their fathers were brothers, one emigrated, and one stayed put. The cousins only met in 1979 when her mother died, and her father told her of the family she had in the old country. Now the cousins meet up every two years.  We watched them walk off arm-in-arm, swallowed up in the crowds and on into the darkness.

My birthday holiday was amazing. Forget Michael Palin, or Phileas Fogg. When I got back home I tipped out my handbag and the tickets for the proverbial trains and boats and planes all looked like pieces of our holiday jigsaw. Not the chauffeur-driven limousine for us, oh no. We clutched overhead handrails on the Naples-Sorrento train at rush hour, we zipped across the Bay of Naples on a ferry, traversed Sicily on the train, buzzed about in busses and taxis, and took the huge overnight ferry from Naples to Palermo. We even dropped to the depths of Naples and got on the Metro.

Naples was gritty, dirty, full of intriguing alleyways, picturesque with household washing hanging out of windows. Graffiti was everywhere, even covering trains and platform signs. Some were just glorified scribbles, some were sending messages and some were downright fantastic.

Please note what is written above John’s head!

That first night I couldn’t stop humming Peter Starstedt’s ‘Where do you go to my lovely?’ as we picked our way through the rubbish to the fabulous restaurant which had giant murals of Sophia Loren.

We ate pizza which was delicious, but I couldn’t help ogling the diners on our right. They had a plate made out of pizza dough, filled with shellfish. I looked at the menu all in Italian, it looked like double Dutch to me. The following night I did order it (courtesy of the waiter) and it was vaguely disappointing.

Prawns were mushy and there were only two little Vongole shells but the sauce was nice on the spaghetti. First hint of letting out the waistband.

We did love wandering through the labyrinth of streets, seeing churches, art, miniature Neapolitan nativity scenes created in Christmas baubles, and whole houses and animated scenes created out of cork.

We had just bought a ladle made from olive wood when I saw a coffin just behind John’s shoulder. We were suddenly caught up in a funeral. It was quite traumatic. We were swept along to the Piazza Maggiore or somewhere, the streets were so narrow, the mourners so many and all sobbing, and us like two colourful imposters stuck in the middle. The march seemed to go on forever.

We loved the veiled Christ in Cappella Sansevero by Guiseppe Sanmartino. The marble is so realistically carved, and so intricate, you almost expect to see the veil lift as Christ inhales and exhales. Oh my, and the fisherman with his net. It was just so amazing.

The train to Sorrento was like a cattle truck. John was clutching his wallet and I was treated to several smelly armpits as more and more of the city’s workforce piled on. It wasn’t until after ten stops that we finally got a seat.

Sorrento was buzzing with tourists. It was like another planet. We decided to visit the church of San Francisco, only to be caught up in a wedding. It was obviously a very classy do. John admired the black Maserati car and the guys in blue suits and sunglasses guarding it. I admired the super-high heels and high fashion that fluttered around the bride. In the old days we wore veils on our heads, but today it seems the fashion is to wear a micro-mini skirt and a matching veil that falls to the ankles to protect the modesty of one’s knees. How those elegant creatures walked on the cobblestones I do not know – but the drone does, as it was filming everything.

And of course we had to climb Vesuvius and visit Pompeii. The hike from the bus is about 820m. We tasted the sulphur and saw the rising gases. It was quite dramatic, and the crater is quite ominous. The day was clear and we saw the beautiful island of Capri swathed in mist and the whole sprawl of Naples and the Bay of Naples at our feet. Coming down was quite hard. I didn’t expect to be doing this on my recuperating ankle!

It was rush, rush, rush through the umbrella pines to join the tour of Pompeii. John was struggling to make a ham and cheese sandwich which we gobbled on the ancient roman roads, avoiding the ruts of the iron chariot wheels.

It was so normal, the houses, the shops, the ovens, the lupanare brothel with the ‘menu’ of what you might expect in each room. The beds were stone and very hard, obviously not meant for a whole night session. (Perhaps they had straw mattresses back in the day?)

We saw the plaster moulds of bodies, all curled up and seeking refuge from the eruption, also an exquisite gold bracelet. It was quite moving.

A better guide might have brought the experience more alive, but it was amazing. All preserved in ash from 79AD. And the human history showing us that we haven’t changed that much really.

Afterwards we were glad to slurp Prosecco back in our room in Sorrento. The ankle was swollen but holding up.

The isle of Capri beckoned. So, off we went on a trip around that fabled island, seeing the green grotto, the white grotto but not the blue. The sea was turquoise, the millionaire’s mansions and the magical limestone rocks were all familiar as if we’d seen them before. I think they are used a lot in advertisements.

Capri itself was busy busy, and the shops very very expensive.

Cruise ships had disgorged their passengers en masse so we shared the views, the ice cream and the beautiful gardens of Caesar Augustus with people from all nations.

Ana Capri, further up the island and accessed by a series of S bends, by contrast was quieter, and we ate an ice cream cake in peace, (waistband ever expanding). It was gentle, and the Villa San Michele had the most stunning views. Walking back, we were met with a black hearse. It was a rectangular box with glass sides, rather like the Sleeping Beauty’s resting place. The villagers had followed the hearse and all the shopkeepers came out and taxi and bus drivers stood and paid respect. We too stood. It was quite powerful. The coffin was removed and taken by a more modern vehicle to the jetty where presumably it would be going to rest on the mainland somewhere. So –  two funerals and a wedding so far.

Back in Sorrento as we cruised past the endless shops selling Limoncello and fridge magnates, we suddenly came across an exhibition of the paintings of Marc Chagall, a Russian-born painter. I loved his rich colours and his fantastic animals and his dream like pictures.

The massive ferry we got to Palermo was like a cruise ship. We had en suite rooms, decks, just everything. As we set sail from Naples a huge flock of seagulls chased the ship, dive bombing in clouds into the froth of the breaking bow waves. I have never seen anything like it. Maybe fishes were rising to the light? Whatever – it was a splendid dinner time for the birds.

We did meet a gentleman who refused to fly. He went everywhere by boat, ship or ferry, and has done for the last thirty years. To get to the wedding he was here in Italy for, he had to get the Queen Mary from New York over to Britain first. This required full dinner jacket for three nights of a seven-day cruise. Well, from what I could see, no dressing up on this ferry was required!

Palermo was once the grandest city in Europe. It is a fusion of Arab, Norman, Byzantine and Renaissance gems. We walked and walked, crisscrossed the gridded streets, entered churches with exquisite murals on the ceilings, got lost in the dusty web of backstreet markets. I thought I was in the Middle East.

Huge blocks of real estate are given over to the Carabinieri.  There seems to be a huge police presence and we are told that the Mafia has no longer such a stranglehold of the country. Although organised crime lives on, the thuggery and violence of the 1980s has diminished. We walked for what felt like miles in the hot sun. We reached the Catacombe dei Cappuccini and saw the mummified bodies and skeletons of 8000 people who had died between the 17^th and 19^th Centuries. They were placed according to their earthly power, gender, religion and professional status.  We saw a section for lawyers, priests, children. There was even a section for virgins.

Both of us felt shell-shocked afterwards. John said there was a lot to be said for cremation. I was just horrified by the state of the jaws and teeth.

For light relief we decided to go to the Puppet Show. John was quite growly about this, as he didn’t want to watch some kid’s show. It was a family affair; the grandfather, then the father and now the son and his son all make and perform the knightly tales of valour and bravery. To me there was a lot of violence and swords and killing and beheading. Very chivalric stuff. John was agog and totally loved it!

We came out and had to sit down and eat a ‘cannoli’ cake. It was just so exciting.

For me, the highlight of our stay in Palermo was not the delicious street food, not the fun of strolling along the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele and the Via Maqueda, but the day we bought bus tickets and struggled with three busses to get to the church at Monreale.

We had no idea what to expect. We only went because ‘the cousins’ had recommended it that night by the Opera steps.

It is a masterpiece of the Norman era (1172-1176) and comprises Byzantine, Romanesque and Arab architecture. It is considered one of the most beautiful churches in the world. And it is. We arrived at Monreale in time for coffee and cake (of course), then wandered over and stayed for the whole of the Mass. The church was full, the tourists were huddled at the back, and the sun shone on the 46 massive gold mosaics depicting Bible stories. Ahead was a huge, majestic image of Jesus that dominates all, His eyes following everything and everyone. I felt very emotional for the whole of the hour I stood in that place, looking and listening to the music and the service. I needed a tissue.

Later we bought a book, and read about the plans of the church and what the stories were depicting. Obviously I recognised the baptism of Jesus, Joseph’s dream, Noah and his ark, the miracle of the fishes but what was this, the ‘healing of Peter’s mother-in-law’??? I don’t know that one.

The beautiful Arabic writing and patterns were superior to anything that I have seen in the mosques in the Middle East. What a fabulous find.

We found a restaurant selling ‘traditional Sicilian food’, so we chose pasta con le sarde. It was awful. Literally a can of sardines between us on a bowl of spaghetti and a bill for 24 euros. Sort of thing you might feed your cat. It is supposed to be the national dish of Sicily. Maybe one day we will taste it cooked properly.

We did feel that we were being ripped off a lot on this holiday. Still, the church was magnificent.

Good grief! September is nearly over already. I have just hung out the washing and was distracted by so many spiders’ webs. There are sticky cotton messes in window niches, long ambitious threads across the roses, daring works of art blowing across the covered decking…  I read in my wonderful magazine that these orb webs are among the most advanced spun by garden spiders. They are made up of concentric circles, and the female sits down in the centre of the web, waiting for something delicious. The male tends to build a smaller zigzag web nearby. He attracts her attention by plucking at the silk on her web. They mate, and the female builds a cocoon in which her eggs are laid. She protects the egg sac until she dies in late autumn; the spiderlings hatch the following May. Sort of makes me think of that lovely story, ‘Charlotte’s Web’.

All this while gingerbread is baking, and the rich smell of brambles are bubbling in their own juices, all set to be made into a syllabub. If I were a lady from the ‘olden days’, I suppose I would be bottling. Instead I have been quilting and sewing and finished my latest applique cushions. A ‘B’ for Bonnie and an ‘H’ for Hazel. I still have to do two cushions for Gerry, but she is still not sure of the name for the new baby which is due at end of November. The name changes with the weeks!

I did enter two quilts into the village show and happily won two first prizes, which was nice. There were so many beautiful paintings, as well as jams and tomatoes and all the other things arranged daintily on little plates.

The house is littered with left boots. To compensate the height of the Moon Boot I have been wearing all my other collection. Now, at last I am Boot-free, and just wear a bandage for support. It has been a funny six weeks. All I can say is thank goodness my break was uncomplicated and has healed not too badly. I still limp and the ankle is still very swollen, but it no longer hurts. I suppose I shall just have to be patient for a few more weeks.

This coming week I have to be fairly independent of John, as I have my new autumn classes starting at the University – 1930’s Literature, and on Wednesday I have to show my quilts to the next village’s quilting group. I didn’t realise how many I had! Also, how to go about it? I have decided to read from The Moon in the Banyan Tree, as it sort of sums it up on page 166. It was the beginning of my passion:

The quilt is finished! I sat all afternoon unpicking the newspaper hexagons that formed the patterns for the slippery silk….it has been more than a hobby and more than a means of keeping sane.

 Anyway I have most of them (some I have given away), and can chat about my journey and all the fun people I met along the way.

John has been amazing, and has been master chef in the kitchen. I have been the talking recipe book, shouting instructions, a little like the domestic Fuhrer: ‘Chop the onions, add the rosemary, stir this, put that in the oven!’ And with quiet confidence he produced a brilliant lunch for Irene and Mike, who came to visit ‘the invalid’. I think they were expecting egg and chips, John’s favourite stand-by. I sat about like Lady Muck and enjoyed the fizzy wine. There are some benefits!

Irene brought along samples of her amazing new hobby. Stone painting, on stones found on the beaches of Findhorn. She started with dots, then went on to dogs and animals and then made a great attempt at my three little grand daughters. I told her she should go to Udaipur in India and study with the great masters who specialise in miniatures, painting with camel’s eyelashes.

I was a little alarmed when John decided to order new kitchen windows and three new doors, but he pointed out that I had been gadding about in sunny Australia when the winter storms lashed us in February. He is now ripping out some of the floor boarding in front of the sliding doors, and replacing it, all set for the window chaps when they come. The house is covered with dust.

The hallway carpet has been ripped out, furniture is piled up, and the King Wa plant is now lurking behind the sitting room door. I feel as though we have just moved in, and on top of all this confusion we have bought a new painting from Vietnam. It is so vibrant, obligatory sunglasses might have to be issued on entrance. Actually it is still at the framers. It is about 4’ x 4’, oil on canvas, by Duong Ngoc Son; when we get it back we may have to rearrange the room.

Last week it felt as thought we were doing B&B. Marie and Bakar from Kuala Lumpur came to stay and it was so nice to catch up and sitting chatting, I could just see us back in Hanoi. I was so lucky to have them when I was writing Where the Golden Oriole Sang, as they took me back to so many of my old haunts in Malaysia, searching for a past that sadly had been developed into new towns and highways. We had fun searching, and it was good to see them poking around the graveyard of Dunfermline Abbey.

Then we had a visit from Kelly and Bob. We have no history but they are Canadian friends of a friend and they were seeing as much of Scotland as possible, and so we took them to St Andrews and posed by the R&A Golf course and they were quite taken with the old town.  Nice to spend time with and now we are back to ‘auld claes and porridge!’

Darcey came striding in on Thursday and made herself at home. She pointed to the music and danced to the sounds of the sixties and spent the day ordering me about. ‘Ganny what ya doing?’ Naturally I was at her beck and call, hobbling along behind her, photographing red admirals in the garden.

Bonnie seems to love her nursery school, and Hazel can roll around the floor and is going to win the ‘Miss Smile a Lot’ competition. Here is a portrait Natasha painted of Bonnie.

I can’t wait to meet up with them in Sicily in October. With my gammy leg, I think I will be looking after them whilst Leo, Tasha and John hike up Mount Etna. Perhaps a pizza and ice cream might while away an hour or so! Hope my leg is not so swollen. I have bought ankle boots, (online) from Doc Martin, but they are a cheap and nasty version and such a bright colour of wine, and very unforgiving. I had a trial walk yesterday and had to spend the night recovering, with my foot raised about three feet in the air.

Just thought I would add this one of Bonnie playing Hide and Seek, and another of her acting as though she was just off the croft!

I was horrified the other night, as we watched bits of ‘Gogglebox’. They showed the new programme on Channel 4 of the new ‘Blind Date’, where a girl had to choose from six naked men, but just from the waist down. The head was behind a screen. There was a prolonged shot of the six willies. It wasn’t till the girl had made her selection that she eventually saw the face. And believe you me, she would not have chosen the thug-with-no-neck that she did.

I suppose it was shocking when we first saw the musical, ‘Hair’, back in the sixties. I remember seeing a clip and everyone gasped!

Now, I shall get off my high horse, and make some pancakes for lunch. We bought some caviar in Denmark (before the Great Fall) so today might be the day to recreate our lunches from Kiev. I used to make them for John when I met him off the Metro. He used to eat them on the steps of the Opera House, and wash them down with a wee dram in a water bottle. Then he would sleep through the whole of Swan Lake!

So cheers to the mellow month of September, for brambles and spiders and apples and leaves flecked with red flames.

Fare thee well!

What a week! We set off for a ten-day holiday to Copenhagen, Helsinki and Stockholm last Monday as a treat for John’s birthday. We had the guide books, the hotels, ferry and planes were booked, and all I can think of is Robert Burns’s words:

‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft agley’ ….

We ate well the first night, and drank the good Danish beer, and the following morning we hooked up with a Red Guide lady who took us for a two-hour walking tour of the old parts of Copenhagen.

We saw the old medieval parts of the city, a church to St Peter,

fabulous pastry shops,

and a flower shop that costs you 40 kroner just to browse! It is responsible for the ‘arrangements’ at the Palace.

Our guide was fun and we really enjoyed it all; the changing of the guard was worrying, as the guards didn’t look much older than Bonnie.

At twelve we said goodbye to our guide, and went to find some water.

Just past the Nyhaven port hubbub I spied a corner shop, and nipped down the four or five stone steps to the entrance. I slipped and fell, and heard a sickening snap. I knew something horrible had happened to the ankle. John demanded ice and water and soon I was sitting on an upturned crate and waiting for transport to the A&E. X-rays showed a clean break and I was fitted with a Moon Boot and crutches and that was that. Five weeks for it to heal apparently.

How horrific, how sudden and how annoying.

The next day we tried to soldier on (such a trouper), and went to the Glyptotek museum.

I was able to borrow a wheelchair and the first room we visited seemed a little ironic, it was full of Degas’ statues of dancers in all sorts of impossible positions. I looked down at the boot and sighed.

Later we had to get a metal ramp to wheel me down some steps to another part of the gallery. John valiantly pushed and manoeuvred me down, bearing my great weight. ‘Am I too heavy?’ I asked, a little concerned about his hernias. ‘No, you’re fine, it’s just the boot that’s heavy.’ Hmph.

We met another wheelchair-bound lady. She asked me if I was a professional, as her chair had breaks in the handle and all sorts of gizmos to help her husband. I told her I was just a learner, and it was all very new.

It was too hard, too sore, and the prospect of the forthcoming cities and ferries was just too daunting, so we booked a flight home. The airport was amazing, kindly porters, and I felt very looked after. Just the general public were a worry, as they bashed into my leg in their hurry to pass. I took to fending them off with my crutch.

I was told to sit by the window in case there was a need to evacuate the plane. ‘We don’t want you hindering other peoples’ way to the exit.’ Quite. Funny what you learn when you are temporarily disabled. I shall be kinder in future.

And so we are home, and John had a lovely birthday here, with a delicious lunch out at the Wee Restaurant (2 Michelin stars) and we sat out in the sun afterwards. It was a lot cheaper than Denmark, where a cup of coffee cost £10.

I have been reading lots, to compensate for not being able to sew. I was enthralled with The Children’s Hour, a novel of the 1930s by Lillian Hellman, set in a girls’ school. The villain was a fourteen-year-old girl who was so bad, so evil, that she totally destroyed people’s lives. If I had watched it live, I think I would have leapt on the stage (minus crutches) and strangled her. Now I am now reading Scoop by Evelyn Waugh. So funny, and such irreverent satire. Funny as I came across the description of a serving boy, with ‘a face of ageless evil’, could have described the child from the last book.

I am a little concerned as I am booked to do a further sewing class in September, learning how to draw with my machine. I absolutely loved the last one, when I learnt how to do a rose and a lady. When I got home I did a cottage and a hare and joined them altogether and made a cushion. I am really pleased with it. I so want to continue.

My little Bonnie is to start nursery on the 8^th of September. She has to wear a uniform in Wales, and Natasha sent me a picture of her in her new get-up.

So grown up, I just wanted to shout Auden’s famous lines from Funeral Blues:

‘Stop all the clocks!’

She is only three and a half. I like Bonnie best in her T-shirts and leggings and her strawberry dress.

Hazel is just happy to smile, and survives her camping weekends wrapped up in a blanket as her mum and dad wrestle with putting up the tent.

And Darcey had her first conversation with Gerry:

‘What you doing, Mumma?

‘I’m loading the dishwasher, Darcey.’

‘Oh wow!’

The end!

Finally – some shots of the King Wa, as we knew it in Malaysia. We did go to the Botanic Garden and an expert gave us its Latin name.  It is Rhipsalis mesembryanthoides and originates in Brazil. It has done us proud, producing 14 flowers and there are three more buds ready to open any night now. The smell is AMAZING. If I was a moth I would just throw myself at it, with careless abandon, and die in ecstasy!

I have been feeling a little like an Edwardian Gentlewoman these last few weeks. My friend Marion recommended me to buy The Landscape magazine. It is issued just four times a year, and in it you can learn about walks, events, recipes, customs and all sorts of delights. I have come a long way from Jackie, then Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire and latterly Good Housekeeping. All suited the mood at the time, but now I like learning how to make elderflower cordial from the flowers I harvested on a sunny day, and making tea after lopping the heads of nettles. Yesterday, thanks to an article in the latest edition, John and I drove north to Edzell in the county of Angus. We had a mission to visit Edzell Castle; we came across it easily, the red sandstone ruins stood out from the gentle undulating farmland surrounding it.

We walked down by the beech hedges, passed a glorious copper beech in all its solitary splendour and came into the most beautiful garden.

Sir David Lindsay created this work of art in 1604, just a year after Elizabeth died. He was obviously a renaissance man, for the four walls of the garden are adorned with carved panels all depicting learning. Liberal arts, planetary deities, cardinal virtues. I snapped just a few. I presume that a quiet walk around the intricate design would help to focus the mind on higher things.

We climbed up and viewed the garden as Sir David would have seen it as he arose each morning. Beautiful symmetry, chequered wall boxes cascading with lobelia. Roses, bees, fresh cut grass. It was sublime.

We then walked to the Gannochy Bridge and through a small blue door. We came upon a path that follows the North Esk River.

Here we entered a fairy forest of beech and birch, bird song and multiple rock types, including sandstone, volcanic rock and granite.

Humans are dwarfed, mere specks, and we kept carefully to the path where signs marked the places to watch the salmon leap. The pools of water were dark and brown, the waterfalls rushing and the sheer drops were not for the faint-hearted. We finally came out of the trees as the path curved under the cliffs towards the Rocks of Solitude. The river is almost soundless. It was wild and silent.

We walked back, lost in our own thoughts, mine of a long forgotten poem that seemed quite apt:

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the grey trout lies asleep,

Up the river and over the lea,

That’s the way for Billy and me.

 Were the the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest …

 By James Hogg

We left the wild untamed river Esk, and the town with its atmospheric ruined castle, and called in to visit my mother in Forfar. She was alert and happy to see us, but her eye was on Wimbledon and she gave us all the updates. At 93 she has her finger on the pulse. I mentioned where we had been. ‘Oh yes. That would have been nice, but did you know that Andy Murray is to be a father again?’

I am just back from a visit to Wales. I did mention to Natasha that I had read in ‘my’ magazine about ‘nature’s pavements’ and how there was a very good example of this distinctive limestone pavement in the Vale of Glamorgan. ‘Could we go?’

Well, I was barely out of the airport, and just had time to kiss Bonnie and baby Hazel, before Leo had us motoring off to Nash Point. We walked in total over six miles, passing the lighthouse, through woods, and finally down on to the Jurassic coastline. It was amazing.

The next day we went mushroom foraging, with an app on Leo’s phone to help us identify the various species. Having a mission does keep everyone interested, and we found the possible ingredients for a risotto. Bonnie was much more interested in dragons’ caves and hobbits’ huts, but we all breathed in the air, and it was just so nice to be out in the soft Welsh woods. The mushrooms that we gathered turned out to be seething in maggots!

I did lots of Edwardian granny stuff, that probably hasn’t changed for hundreds of years. We read stories, sang songs and Bonnie would get up in the morning, rush through to her mum, lie beside her until a suitable time before she was to wake Granny. ‘I have laid still for 4 minutes; can I go to Granny now?’ She dutifully bounced in at 6.25, with ‘Let’s play, Granny.’

Hazel is growing like a beautiful little mushroom. Full of smiles and happy to let the world fluctuate around her.

She dutifully lay under a tree whilst Natasha painted the Penarth Pier. I too painted the pier, but I would not say I was quite in the same class! Still it was fun, hot and sunny and I felt such a lady with my oil paints and my rag and the delicious smells of paint and linseed.

John has been the host with the most. First with his two sons, Matt and James, who came up for a long weekend.

Both are mad keen cyclists and are all set to take part in the Etape, the leg of the Tour de France open to amateurs each year. They have to be mighty fit, as needless to say their section is in the Alps. They enjoyed being here, cruising the streets of Edinburgh, and visiting the exhibition of new photographs of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s voyage and journey across Antarctica. I made them a special cake, called the Paris-Brest, a choux pastry delight with Chantilly cream. It was originally made in honour of the Tour de France.

Whilst I was away his two sisters, Libby and Rosie, and Rosie’s partner, Pete, came to visit, so he was the chief tour operator.

From his phone calls I think the main excitement was the launching of the new air force carrier, the Queen Elizabeth, built in Rosyth. When it finally came under the bridges, it was midnight and accompanied by Sea King helicopters and there was a right hullaballoo. He said it was quite a spectacle.

I will see Gerry and Darcey on Thursday. I have been taking Darcey to the village play group, and bonding with the other mums and grannies. So far so good. She likes it best though sitting on the beach, in a tyre, lining up the stones and having her own magical time with the seagulls and terns for company.

I was confused seeing Kris Kristofferson playing at Glastonbury. He was my heart throb and it saddened me to see him singing the old songs in his old voice, cracking. I was quite sad. He is 81. How did that happen?

Our garden may not be mathematically perfect or have plaques to Grammatica, Rhetorica, Arithmetica, Musica or Geometria, but it does have lots of plants with Latin names all growing in profusion, and exuding colour.

Now I am off to make Antonio Carluccio’s signature dish, Penne Giardiniera. It is really penne with spinach balls. Very tasty.

Outside it is raining. I am so pleased. After yesterday and the long walk, I am tired. It is good to stop.

The Rocks of Solitude. How lovely is that?

My toe hurts Betty, My toe hurts Betty, My toe hurts Betty, My … is the song of the wood pigeon. I learnt this from a fellow walker, Peter Kenny, a Shakespearean actor, singer and voice-over for audio books, who obviously has the ‘ear’ for bird chat. We met over breakfast at a B&B in Gairlochy; he, with his two companions, had walked the West Highland Way and continued straight on to the Great Glen Way. We met them several times over the next few days until a final drink together in Drumnadrochit. There, he listed the birds he had seen on the path. John and I were astounded – he listed almost the complete content of the bird book companion guide. We had seen a stone chat, a few tits, a blackbird, a song thrush and a pheasant.

Some people have the eye and the ear, and a fast lens to record. We did see, on the shores of Loch Lochy, some attempts by bird lovers to create little feeding stations for birds, and John was lucky to snap a tiny little mouse helping himself to breakfast.

This walk was different from the West Highland Way of last year. It had its own beauty and challenges, and it was long. Sometimes it was a little boring as we tramped through dark corridors of pine trees in the rain, or along stretches of the Caledonian Canal that went on for miles and miles. I kept remembering Robert Frost’s poem, The Road Less Travelled, for we saw very few people as we trudged along: the odd cyclist, the odd walker, but mostly it was quiet.

We left Fort William in the drizzle, the mighty Ben Nevis obliterated by cloud, but we had a spring in our step. It was good to leave the houses and town behind and smell the grasses and pungent coconut odour from the gorse. The drizzle grew heavy and we stopped in Caol to put on our rain gear. We hung about as we watched the local primary school out on a ‘field trip’ with their enthusiastic teacher drawing attention to the signs of the shops. ‘Can you read that one, Hamish? Yes, that’s right, it says hairdressers, and now what about that one?’ and so on. We got to the end of the row and we saw ‘Alcohol Counselling’. Never mind the rain, I had to see how she would handle that. She was very good. ‘Now, this is where people go if they want to talk about drinking alcohol a little bit too much.’

We left the little group and on we went to the start of the Caledonian Canal, built by Thomas Telford between 1803 and 1822.

It was built to allow safe passage for naval vessels at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. It was a through route for trading vessels, allowing a short cut through Scotland. We approached Banavie and Neptune’s Staircase, which is a series of eight canal locks.

We hoped we might see a boat passing through and we were lucky as we saw the tall double masts of a large yacht. As we got closer we saw that it was the Beluga 2, registered in Hamburg.  It had a rainbow painted on the front and the crew were casually dressed and happy to wave. It was the Greenpeace boat.

They are on a research expedition documenting the impact of plastic pollution on some of the UK’s most precious wildlife like puffins, gannets and basking sharks. We walked further along and came to the Moy Lock.

The path meandered along the canal, and we spotted the odd heron, and swathes of bluebells and apple blossom heavy with raindrops. The smell was intoxicating. (Should I go for counselling!)

Quite weary after our first day of walking, we were glad to reach Gairlochy, the heart of Clan Cameron country. We read a plaque on the bridge.

It was here that the new recruits met to start their Commando training. The land was wild, the Cameron house at Achnacarry was made over to them, and the young lads no doubt have their own memories of weeks spent climbing and crawling in ditches and turning into human fighting machines. One lad remembers: “Past Spean Bridge Hotel, through the village to the bridge and over the river in pouring rain and on we marched until our boots drummed on the bridge over the Caledonian Canal with the pipe and drums playing. Then up a back-bending, stamina sapping incline. We climbed so much I began to wonder if the hills in this part of the country went up on both sides.”

And we do it now for fun!

The next morning, we ate black pudding and fried egg, our first walker’s breakfast, and set off to visit the Cameron House Museum, but in true tourist fashion, it didn’t open till 1.30 p.m.

So… on we went to view the bridge that was made famous in the Rob Roy film.

It was OK, but quite a detour, and one that we could have done without, as we still had the main part of the route ahead of us, and the rain was getting heavy. We walked along the shores of the beautiful Loch Lochy, then we started to climb up into the forestry of Clunes. We rose high, then dropped down, then up again.

We did pass a fellow, in his late 70s, who was doing the East to West challenge, using different routes. He did wild camping, crossed over the hills from Clunie to Drumochter, and talked about camping in the isolation of Cape Wrath. There are some very dedicated people about. We marched on. The road was enclosed by walls of black pine trees, mighty and tall, the interior a perfect place to dump a body, if you were so inclined.  We were relieved to find a log suitable for eating lunch. Finally, we dropped down to Laggan Locks, and amazingly a piper was playing. Was he welcoming us? We had been looking forward to eating at The Eagle on the Water, one of only two restaurants in the area, but guess what, it was closed on Tuesdays. We ate last night’s sushi and a sandwich. Not the best day.

Another breakfast of black pudding and egg and tomato and we were glad to leave the rather damp B&B. The sun was shining, the day was warm and we walked along by Loch Oich, first on the old railway track then on part of General Wade’s military road.

Then finally back to the canal, where the road went on and on in a blinding white line.

John was on a mission to find a commemorative bench to have lunch, rather a grizzly idea, I thought,  hoping someone might have died so we could have a comfortable place to eat our ham and cheese sandwich! It was good to get into Fort Augustus, and have a coffee, and idly watch the trippers who were coming in their droves from boat trips on Loch Ness.

Our hotel was amazing. A Michelin chef, who served soup and sea bass that was out of this world, flavours so subtle, so perfect.

In the rooms were towels so white and fluffy. As I sat in the lounge, savouring the quiet, and relishing the rest, I noticed that the curtains were in ribbons. Heavy velvet that had slowly disintegrated over the years. Maybe they will be in the budget for next year’s improvements.

Fort Augustus to Invermoriston was the best for me. The day was warm, the sky blue, and just a black cloud threatened the party, but it soon blew away.

We had views of Loch Ness, sat and ate our lunch in the sun and met about three people all day.

The hardest part for us both was the descent.

It was hard, windy and steep. My toes felt crushed. John’s injured toe was causing him agony,

and it was with relief that we came to the ravaged remains of Telford’s bridge spanning the River Moriston.

We were glad to have a beer later in the Glen Moriston Hotel. I remember passing this junction in the road hundreds of times during the period of my life when I lived in Glenelg. I never thought that one day I would arrive by foot, and sit and watch the traffic. In this old Inn, Samuel Johnson and Boswell also nursed a dram contemplating their trip to the Hebrides. I missed my Michelin chef. The meal was horrible.

In the morning we passed the last clog shop for 53 miles (!) and took the path up and up through the woods, up to the tree line and beyond. We saw little wildlife, only a deer and a pheasant. Our ‘twitcher’ friend later told us all he had seen. Oh well.

We crossed a troll bridge, and posed in a circle made from sticks and climbed a steep ascent. I was idly thinking of what my famous last words might be as I puffed up the hill, when I was shocked to see John break into a jog. He was quite proud of himself. We both had a sit down at the top.

Coming down towards Drumnadrochit we passed blaeberries growing in abundance, wood anemones, yellow flowers, and banks of primroses.

At last we arrived at Drumnadrochit. Our feet were sore, John’s in particular. We decided to call it a day. The weather had turned, and heavy rain was expected and we didn’t relish another 31 km across the hills with no views.

The Drumnadrochit Hotel was a dump – accommodation reminding me of the staff quarters of hotels I worked in back in the 1970s: black mould around the tiny window, the shower with no fan, etc. In one review we read later, someone said, ‘It’s fine if you are blind and deaf.’ Quite.

We whizzed to Inverness on the bus, and wandered about under our umbrellas. It was nice to revisit this highland city, and sit in cafes and sip frothy cappuccinos.

In the evening we took a stroll down along the River Ness, and came across crowds of people filing into the Eden Court Theatre. We went along just to see what might be on. Before we knew it we were buying the last 2 tickets to a show. We didn’t even know what it was. It just seemed quite spontaneous at the time. It turned out it was ‘Remembering Fred’, a song and dance tribute to Fred Astaire, and starring Aljaz and Jeanette from Strictly come Dancing. Oh my goodness, it was amazing. She was like liquid mercury, I just couldn’t take my eyes off her and he was fantastic too, and so comical.

We walked back along the banks of the river, quite ecstatic. It was a wonderful end to the trip.

In the morning we went to catch a bus back down to Edinburgh. The bus station was full of Americans who were off a cruise liner, and were trying to organise sightseeing trips. John and I were quite bemused watching their frustration with the broken change machine for the public conveniences, then seeing their disgust at the dirty facilities. Outside all the smokers were lined up so it was more preferable to huddle inside to wait for the busses. Just as I caught an American woman’s eye, we both turned and saw a man seated outside tip a bottle of J&B whisky to his mouth. Cheers! Oh dear. I do hope she will also manage to see the rowans and hazel and birch trees that line the rivers, the bog cotton on the high hills, and hear the sound of the cuckoo and smell the rich smells of gorse and apple blossom. I wanted to tell her to get out and walk. I hope she will.

And so we are home. We did it, well most of it. And the sun is shining and we have lots of time to let our feet recover before the next challenge, whatever that might be. I wonder if we will ever watch the sun set or rise at Cape Wrath?

Final note, loved this outside the Buchanan Street Bus Station in Glasgow, a reminder to us all, Time is not just marching, it is running away with us!