Life. Changes. Everything...

So a new year arrives and we look ahead with renewed anticipation but no clarity of vision for who can truly predict the future. New Years resolutions are made and quickly broken but life moves on in its inexorable course for better or worse, for richer or poorer. Things change and things stay the same.


Things have changed for us recently. We've made decisions and brought to fruition plans to make the present easier and the future better by selling up and downsizing from a large detached house to purchase outright a small, semi-detached house at the top of the village we've lived in happily for nearly fifteen years. No more mortgage payments, no more stress and worry about making ends meet and no more hefty bills for heating such a large house from liquid petroleum gas, which had proven to be fiendishly and painfully expensive. Many Winter nights in our last house we simply couldn't afford to heat the place and instead added layers of clothing and climbed under duvets together to watch TV from the couch and venture out from the warmth only when necessary. It's wasn't a comfortable or dignified way to live but financially we had little alternative. But that is behind us and life moves on.

Of course there are small sadnesses in leaving the place we'd spent nearly fifteen years in. A house we shared for the majority of that time with two marvellous little characters in the shape of our cats Bailey and Jess. The gave us many smiles and me more than a few tales for the blog, especially back in the days when I had plenty of nothing but time on my hands after being made redundant. I spent many late nights and very early mornings blogging away accompanied by one or other of them, either prowling close by or draped in a more intrusive way across whatever I was trying to do. I often think of and miss them but life moves on and part of that process is loss great or small. Life teaches us to appreciate moments and cherish memories.

I'll miss the garden too. I enjoyed prowling around its private corners, often barefoot when weather allowed. I'll miss the fruit trees and their annual gifts of pears, plums and apples and I'll miss my friends in sparrow squadron as I came to call the argumentative families of the commonest birds here, but I'll miss those many other visitors too, birds who could always rely on a feed or a drink from spots around the garden and who in return gave me hours of shared companionable curiosity. I won't miss the amount of work needed to maintain the garden though, especially the effort needed to cut the hedge that stretched across the front of the house and drive before turning down to the road. That was a job I came to hate.

I'll miss my pal the old pear tree that stood at the front of the house and dripped its leaves and sometimes its fruit across the roof of the car as we'd pass under coming up the drive. A gentle touch like a comforting caress that said "You're home now." I came to appreciate its rough character and what it must have stood witness to in what we found to be about 125 years of its life. It must have seen some changes but surely also saw that in our ancient village, much also stays the same. People come and go - I was undoubtedly only one person in a chain of others who had tended and cared for the old tree, many perhaps like me who came to cherish her ability to listen well and keep her council and my worries told in confidence. I hope that there is now another in the chain who will appreciate and enjoy her and keep her in good fettle as I tried to do. I would be upset to hear she came to harm but life changes everything and my ability to influence that is passed.

I won't miss our old house, although I will definitely miss its space. Somehow I never thought of it as anything other than a house despite my attachment to the site it occupied. We had lots of great times there but I never felt attached to the house. I never thought of it as 'home'. Maybe because we had always spoken about moving on at some point I never made that emotional connection, unconsciously protecting myself from feeling any loss over it. Who knows?

So we moved on. Now we have a house at the top of the village. Oddly, an older house but in a newer space for while our old house was newer it stood in an old spot while this is an older house but in a location of newer houses. Having said that we have a house from the 1700's just three houses away but that too is new compared to our old near neighbour of Sparrow Castle with its foundations from the 1200's. Now instead of nestled in the heart of the village we stand at it's edge and look out to sea over the heads of most of the village.

The 'new' house isn't old. It's only 60 years old and for all that time was lived in by one lady who lived independently here until well into her nineties. The house is small but well cared for and has a feel more appealing somehow. It needs time, money and effort invested but we can do that. In the few weeks we've been here it's begun to tell us its story and perhaps to hint at what it could be. We in turn have listened carefully and changed our ideas completely from what we thought might be done initially. There's still space to build a two story extension at the side but apart from that we will be less disruptive and more respectful of what we now feel is the integrity of the place. The garden is much smaller and made to be looked after by someone elderly. It will change. We can let it grow into something else. It too will tell us in time what it should be and that will no doubt be different to what I now think it could be. Time will tell and we will listen. In the time we will be here we will appreciate and we will cherish. Birds will be fed and at some time down the line fruit will be grown. I may try and get a cutting from my old friend The Pear Tree. It would be good to let her see new things. It would be good to still have her to talk to and shelter the new arrivals who arrive hungry or thirsty.

While many things change much abides.  A new year begins and we look forward with unknowing anticipation to what may be. We make plans but who can knowingly predict the future.

Life changes everything and nothing at the same time.

Beautiful she sleeps.

 I stretch slowly as my eyes open, enjoying the feel as muscle slowly tightens to push nights sleep away. Dawn is come and the lovely G is warm beside me. Beautiful she sleeps, her face is perfect peace. Hair, tousled and spread around her, billows softly across jaw and pillow. Beneath, closed eyes stretch long lashes down to kiss her cheek. I gaze in awe at a face so comfortingly familiar yet so exciting and can't resist the urge to reach and push a stray hair from her face. Still sleeping, she frowns and her expression turns soft pout, the gentlest of breathy whimpers crosses her dreaming lips. A hand comes up to touch her nose and, drained of energy, is left beside her face. She shrugs covers closer around her, her other hand touches mine and clasps me instinctively. Connected, I lay perfectly still, watching and content. Smiling, as beautiful, she sleeps.

see you later

Listening to:

The Sunday Post/ Remembrance: A Hundred years

Remember today; brothers, fathers and sons.
The blood, the bullets, the terrible guns.
Far away places, far distant times,
Old family portraits, those names brought to mind.
Pause and reflect a moment or two.
But for them it could have been you.

Consider a moment a life unlived
How could it feel,
To give your expected days
And future stolen in myriad ways.
No mark on the world, all your dreams unfulfilled.
No aspirations, no regrets,
No life ever built.

Remember today;  brothers, fathers and sons.
The blood and the bullets, the terrible guns.
Far away places, far distant times,
Old family portraits, those names brought to mind.
Pause and reflect a moment or two.
But for them it could have been you.

Words and image by Alistair.

.

What A State to Get Yourself Into.

Let's just take it as read that I was heartbroken by Scotland's NO vote to independence in the referendum last week. Take it as read because it's true and it's taken me till now to sit down and write even a few lines without wanting to slip into tears or throw my computer at the nearest wall.  Now, having wallowed in as much disbelief and despair as I can take, maybe - just maybe - it's time to try and take some positives from a ten point defeat. 55% to 45% in favour of staying part of the UK, a union that has existed since 1707.

Ten points eh? That might sound like a lot but it's not really. Just two hundred and forty thousand votes from a voting population of 4.5 million would have changed it. Careful Alistair, don't start greetin'** already laddie!

I keep thinking of the British national anthem. Few people know the second verse. It's not considered politically correct to sing it any more - officially at least. To be fair it was written in the aftermath of an armed uprising.

'May he sedition crush, and like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush
God save the king!'

No change there then.

The political, media and business establishments threw everything - and I do mean everything - at us in the last week of the referendum campaign, triggered by just one poll that showed that the YES side might have taken the narrowest of leads. There had been two years of patronising, dismissive complacency as Westminster, or the three main UK political parties, had previously disdained any thought of getting involved or even talking about potential independence as 'an issue just for the  Scots people alone' so far was it from even the merest possibility in their minds. Perhaps they were entitled to that opinion because the referendum started with a poll that showed those in favour of independence as around 27% of the population and anyway, voter apathy would be in their favour as those most likely to vote - the older generations - would be against it. And - they had played it smart in refusing the Scottish Government's demand for a question on the ballot papers asking if voters would simply want more power devolved instead of full independence. So in their minds they had it well sown up from the start: No obvious voter appetite, the most-likely-to-be-favoured-option denied and the starkest of questions to make all but the most fervent nationalist baulk at the ballot box. Simply: Should Scotland be an independent country? YES or NO. Finally a defence campaign called 'Better Together' led by the most prominent of the three main Westminster parties in Scotland: The Scottish Labour party who had dominated Scottish voting for generations until a majority government for the Scottish National Party just in 2011 - and that must have been a minor blip, an aberration mustn't it?

A done deal. They could ignore it as an irrelevance while they got on with all that important stuff that goes on in London and the South East and once those nippy Scots had played in the corner for a while it would all be 'Rule Britannia' and 'Land Of Hope and Glory' break out the champers all round and those nasty splittists could be put firmly back in their box again for the foreseeable future.

So it started. There was two years of campaigning ahead before the voting date. That's a long time. Long enough perhaps for voters to weary, become disenchanted. Politics can be heavy stuff and as Johanne Lamont, leader of the Labour Party in Scotland and a key figure in the NO campaign said,  'Scots are not genetically programmed to make political decisions'. Yes really. That's what she said - ON CAMERA. Ruth Davidson, Leader of the Conservative Party in Scotland and another key figure in the NO campaign, has previously stated in a speech to the Conservative UK conference in 2012, that '9 out of 10 Scots are a burden on the state' It puts into perspective  some of the opinions of the political class and the high regard they have for the electorate they want to represent doesn't it?

It's often said that Westminster has been captured by a professional political class. This Scottish campaign has shown how amateurish these professionals can be, so badly did they misjudge us. Many people seemed keen to reduce yes voters in Scotland to bitter caricatures, motivated by a hatred of the English. A tiny minority of the country is indeed this crude, atavistic, small‑minded and prejudiced. But for the most part, our frustration is not directed at “the English” but at London, which dominates the UK so comprehensively, so complacently and so carelessly.

What started a so unlikely a proposition walked on slowly: talking, explaining, challenging. It was a collaborative coalition of groups across a wide political spectrum who shared many common aspects in wanting a fairer, more equal society and who saw that could not or would not be delivered by a political class who were not invested in change. The largest of these groups and who would become the focus of the anti-independence campaign, was the Scottish National Party which also had a majority in The Scottish Government. Their leader, Alex Salmond, Scotland's First Minister would become a focal point for interviewing and especially for targeting of attacks against the wider movement. It is far easier to demonise one person than a whole movement, Shamefully he -  oddly more popular in polls than any other UK party leader - would be demonised as a 'dictator' a 'Hitler', a 'Robert Mugabe', a 'charlatan' amongst other things by mainstream politicians and newspapers.

  It was obvious from the start that  Scottish newspapers were against independence. The disparity between positive and negative leaning articles was starkly in favour of The Union. Articles led and closed with pro-union statements leaving the YES campaign as a defensive centre segment Ultimately every Scottish daily newspaper came out against independence but that was obvious long before any statements were issued. The English press remained silent and probably unaware for at least the first year, slowly gaining awareness over the course of the second year of the campaign but also were overwhelmingly pro-union, although a few lone journalistic, usually left-leaning, voices spoke out, seeing something unexpected happening, hearing something worthwhile that could cause potential for a revisioning of wider UK politics. Those who watched, saw a burgeoning political awakening across the breadth of Scots society. People were talking politics - at home, at work, in bars, clubs and in public meetings people came together to discuss the kind of society we are and the kind of society we could be. This spread like wildfire into social media as groups without any representation of their voice in print or broadcast found ways to get their message and views out there. Pro-independence media outlets sprang up in radio and in broadcasting podcasts etc. A few Scottish journalists were avidly for independence and voices like Leslie Riddoch and Derek Bateman began to be heard as they used their professional background to lever points of view out. A left wing movement called 'The Common Weal' became a platform for many other groups. Bloggers too were important and influential. Sites like ' Wings over Scotland', Bella Caledonia' and others grew in popularity. 'Women for Independence' appeared and proved to be a fantastically energised, vocal and thought provoking group of campaigners. While mainstream media stuck firmly to establishment messages and refused wider  access other groups set up 'Newsnetscotland' to try and provide access to opinions opposing establishment viewpoints. A group of more than 3000 business people became 'Business for Scotland' and tried to represent business views other than large conglomerates and to clarify some of the confusing and downright deceitful messages that were being put about. The BBC became the focus of anger by campaigners who felt that the organisation - with some exceptions -had lost its ability to distinguish between what was a Public Service and State Broadcaster.

Southern and world journalists slowly awoke to the massive energy of what was happening up here in Scotland but many English scribblers simply appeared not to grasp the implication or political reality of anything of magnitude happening so far away from Westminster.

Despite the poor starting point the YES campaign had slowly reduced the lead of the 'Better Together' campaign. They had a positive view of a possible future while their opposition focussed almost exclusively on negatives. Many people were uneasy that all three UK parties had banded together despite huge ideological differences and didn't believe this was for anything other than purely self-seeking motives. Many found that constantly being told that they couldn't do something made them feel  even more determined to do just that. Polls narrowed and the gap slowly got closer and closer. The closer they got the more desperate became the negatives, more dire the warnings. Despite this YES still grew in popularity as again and again the establishment, business and media interests were blatantly shown to collude against democracy.

And then. That bloody poll!

One poll showed YES had taken the lead 51% to 49%.

Suddenly - no longer 'an issue just for the Scots people alone'.

'May he sedition crush, and like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush
God save the Queen!'

The three UK party leaders absented themselves from Prime Ministers Questions - a key Westminster sitting - to come to Scotland the very next day, a whole train load of MP's a couple of days after that. The 'Better Together campaign was effectively told to step aside, they would take it from here. Speeches were made in safe locations, amply covered by every media medium around. A desperate, pleading, disbelieving tone showed they could not believe it had come to this point where a potential majority of Scots wanted out of the UK. Desperate times require desperate solutions and so the PM went back home and held meetings with business leaders and banks who then obediently trotted to the media and pronounced doom and gloom for all above the Tweed should there be a YES vote. Prices up, pensions already guaranteed suddenly no longer affordable, collapse of the National Health Service, finance industry headquarters leaving en-mass {including one already based in London for more than 30 years!}The oil industry came out against independence {for tax purposes}, An army General was quoted in all mainstream media that voting for independence would 'shame the memory of Scots servicemen who gave their lives for Queen and Country' On and on and on. The Queen stated discretely but tellingly {against protocol} she 'hoped people would think very carefully'. It could almost have been funny - if it hadn't worked. And last gasp a couple of days before the vote a renewed, energised, cast-iron guaranteed promise of ' Even more 'more powers for the Scottish Parliament' {Remember those extra devolution powers originally refused to be on the ballot paper way back at the start of all this?} A vow of 'significantly more powers, almost federalism'  absolutely guaranteed again and again {and again} Every newspaper, every TV station, every radio news bulletin. Faster, better, safer change.......

But what was in the promise? We have never been told precisely – because they didn’t have time to work it out in any detail fast enough to save their skins – and now in the warm afterglow of victory they are jostling to turn it into something to suit their own petty party agendas and particularly to protect themselves from the wrath of English MP's and public opinion, especially as UK elections loom large ahead.

I wanted rid of the British state for this very reason – you simply  can’t trust them. Not ever. We are now their mouse to be toyed with, allowed to escape for a moment, then trapped and reeled in again. What fun.

It was all so depressingly predictable.

It is all so predictably depressing.

But.

Come on Alistair this was supposed to be looking for positives!

The independence movement is still there. It's growing in multiple ways .
SNP membership has trebled since the referendum result.
Scottish Labour look likely to fall apart at the seams and are being predicted to be wiped out at the elections next year.

We have the most politically educated and aware population in the world right now.
We turned out to vote en-masse. 85% of us.
A politically aware and energised electorate who are going to vote?
Now that's any politicians worst nightmare.

Politically energised certainly, but to do what? Win 20 seats in the 650-seat Commons in a few months time? Haud me back. There will be ferocious campaigns to come but the harder we all work the larger will loom the question:

Why didn’t we take all the power when we had the chance and get rid of this bastard chimps’ tea party that is British politics?

This huge YES vote ensures that Scotland will remain central on the UK agenda. I believe the union is on death row and the no vote  has simply earned it a stay of execution.The establishment parties are now in the process of organising their appeal. That has to involve real decentralisation of power and an end to regional inequities. They never wanted this. It was the very last thing they expected to have to offer. They will grudge every inch, every ounce of power given to The Scottish Government with every fibre of their unionist bodies no matter how positive a spin they put on it. Do the political classes have the stomach and the spine for this?

A devo max that gives Scotland the power to raise taxes to pay for welfare programmes, but not reduce them by opting out of Trident and other defence spending, while maintaining the oil flow south of the border, without even an investment or poverty alleviation fund, is a sham, especially as it was denied at the ballot box. It may be perceived as setting up the Scottish parliament to fail, and undermining devolution. That is a huge risk to store up for the future.

However, it's probably the case that anything more than that would be unlikely to be palatable to the major parties or the broader UK electorate. The biggest problem for the Westminster elites now is not just to decide what to do about Scotland but, crucially, how to do it without antagonising English people – who might feel even more that the tail of 10% is now starting to wag the dog of the rest of the UK. The sentiment has come quickly to the front of some politicians arguments. Getting any agreed powers through English dominated Westminster and into law is far from certain

Many (including quite a few in the no camp) became uneasy by the negative, desperate campaign orchestrated from Westminster, and if the yes campaign excited us to the possibilities of people power, the opposition one showed the political classes, their establishment masters and metropolitan groupies in the most cynical, opportunistic light. From the empty, manipulative celebrity "love-bombing" to the crass threats and smears issued by the press, around half of Scotland might now justifiably feel classified as the "enemy within", that stock designation for all those who resist the dictates of the elites' centralised power.

The YES movement hit such heights because the UK state is widely seen here as failed; elitist, antiquated, hierarchical, centralist, discriminatory, out of touch and acting against the people. This referendum has done nothing to diminish that impression. Against this shabbiness the Scots struck a blow for democracy, with an unprecedented 97% voter registration for an election the establishment had wearily declared nobody wanted. It turns out that it was the only one people wanted. Whether this Scottish assertiveness kick-starts an unlikely UK-wide reform, or, through the ballot box at general elections, we decide to go the whole hog of our own accord; the old imperialist-based union is bust.

Us Scots, so often a regarded as a thrawn** tribe with their best years behind them, have shown the western world that the corporate-led, neo-liberal model for the development of this planet, through G7 'sphere of influence' states on bloated military budgets, has a limited appeal.

Any politician or party who disregards the 45 per cent {and rising} or tries to manoeuvre it into a flimsy deal will truly create huge political waves in Scotland. There is a passion that could easily organise into civil disobedience if its aspiration is flouted through hasty promises being recanted or redacted at leisure. 

I hope it doesn't come to that. That would be a shameful end to the wonderful democratic process that put Scotland on the world's lips and in their minds.

In 1707 English gold sweetened the deal when offered to those privileged few aristocrats who had the power of the vote on a Union. It carried the day. Robert Burns wrote,

" We are bought and sold for English Gold,
   Such a parcel of rogues in a nation."

With this promise we were bribed to stay in The Union. Ironically, shamefully, since they merely 'vowed' us more control of our own taxes and own resources, they bribed us with our own gold.

Alex Salmond, leader of the SNP and Scotland's First Minister resigned, stating "We lost the referendum vote but Scotland can still carry the political initiative. For me as leader my time is nearly over but for Scotland the campaign continues and the dream shall never die."

It's time to wipe our eyes, get back on our feet and start again.

** To 'greet' - lowland Scots 'to cry'
** 'Thrawn' - stubborn

Not Bad Just Unfortunate.

In my dream I take a deep breath and the long-forgotten smell of the wooden floor and stairs in the hall of my grandmother's house fills my nose. Standing in front of the slightly open door to the lounge I tidy my hair, sort my jumper into a child's semblance of tidiness then pull my socks up from around my ankles and clean my shoes by rubbing my right shoe on the back of my left sock and my left shoe on the right before doing a final check of my pockets/hands/mouth for any incriminating evidence. I knock, as bravely or happily as circumstances or guilt allow and enter, trying not to seem out of breath. 

"Hello Gran, were you looking for me?" 

Don't get the wrong impression. I wasn't a bad kid. Just unfortunate - I usually got caught.

 

I’ve never been a good liar. Even 50 years later, as an adult with a lifetimes experience I choose honesty. Not that honesty is simply the right or adult thing to do, always the best policy or even my preferred option but my blush response is too well-developed and independently minded for me to get away with any hint of being economical with the truth. So, honesty is the best policy or normally anyway. I can do fibs - those little lies that people normally describe as "white", even when they’re not strictly speaking in the other person's best interest. Yes I can do fibs - most of the time. 

Back then my tactic was to try and look cool, calm and collected, as innocent as a new born babe and to say as little as possible in an attempt not to incriminate myself with any old story, excuse, explanation lie. The trick was keep schtuum for as long as possible to try and calm your mind and get the story straight in your head before the grilling began. 

Granny Robertson undoubtedly had one of the most penetrating glares I have ever come across – then or since. Her eyebrows would twitch together and her nose would wrinkle in disdain as if dishonesty was a bad smell she could detect at a thousand paces. Her head would slowly lower until she looked at you over the top of her glasses. That look could find darkness in the soul of an angel, or would have persuaded said angel to confess there was darkness in there. What chance did a mere boy have, especially when that look was accompanied by a voice that prompted truthfulness as the only option for she already knew your innermost secrets. Granny Robertson could have outdone every interrogator from the Spanish Inquisition to the Secret Service. She’d probably taught Obi-Wan Kenobi that old "these are not the droids you're looking for" Jedi mind trick. What chance did a mere boy have, especially if he was guilty?  

Not bad you understand.  

Just "unfortunate". 

But she was more than some extraordinary witch finder general. She was the glue that held my childhood together; she was babysitter, nurse, refuge, teacher, historian, storyteller, fount of all knowledge, maker of sense for all things perplexing, confidante, diffuser of worries and prodigious knitter of multitudes of embarrassing jumpers socks and other oddities. There was no situation that could not be made better by a visit to and a cup of tea with Granny Robertson. Even those – ahem -‘relatively’ rare situations where a young miscreant had to stand and confess his guilt to some nefarious deed or other was cathartic, no matter how uncomfortable reaching that confession had been or the consequences would be after. But a summons to ‘tea’ on your own with granny was a welcome occasion, except of course when something would best be kept hidden to avoid repercussions. It was her way of checking everything was okay and giving you the chance to talk of any worries that may be troubling you. She had, it seemed to a small boy, a bewilderingly innate sense of timing. 

In my dream I take a deep breath and the long-forgotten smell of the wooden floor and stairs in the hall of my grandmother's house fills my nose. I smile at the overwhelming familiarity and comfort it brings after all these years. , I know my clothes are tidy but still  raise my hands and run careful fingers through my hair. I look down at my shoes and even though they are clean I lift my right foot and rub it on my left calf and the left shoe on my right. My hands automatically move for my pockets but I stop them before they reach. I look down at my hands and find I am trembling and yet smiling. I knock gently on the slightly open door and step through.

“Hello Gran, I’ve been looking for you…..”

 

Listening to
 

Recharging batteries.

Black Watch Memorial Aberfeldy 

 

This coming week we are taking a short holiday, staying in Aberfeldy where this statue is to be found. While I'm there I hope to rekindle a love affair with writing, with history and with my wee blog. It's been far too long, too easy to get out of the habit of spending an hour or two creating something, too easy to interject something else and too easy to forgive not doing it. I want to get past that even if I can't return to the frequent posts of my redundancy imposed free time.

Meanwhile, as I may not have an internet connection while I'm away, here is an older post based on my love of little known history. As it concerns Aberfeldy it makes a connection. While I'm there no doubt I'll be standing at the foot of this memorial and paying my respects to the man and his two friends who died so long ago.


               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Firstly, let me introduce you to the man in the photo. His name is Samuel Macpherson and he was born in Laggan in the highlands about 1712 or there abouts. He is standing on a memorial to the regiment of which he was part. It was officially The 43rd {Highland} Regiment Of Foot. Known in Gaelic as 'Am Freiceadain Dubh', it's more famous through translation as 'The Black Watch'

I have a natural sense of the ironic. It reassures me, keeps me sane, brings a wry smile to my lips and sometimes, a deep sense of satisfaction.

I think that as a Scotsman its part of our national character.

Let me tell you a wee tale: a tale of history, of Scotland and of irony. Jings, three of my favourite things all in one.

I hope I do it justice.

I once worked in Fort William in the highlands. Its gaelic name is 'An Gearasdan' which means simply 'The Garrison' and reminds me that it was fortified as a frontier outpost of the British Army when the area was a hotbed of rebellion in years long past. In the town there is a nice wee museum, and because of the area and its history there is a substantial part of it given over to Jacobite memorabilia. I found myself in there one lunchtime browsing round the usual cases of Jacobite glass and Highland weaponry. All very enjoyable to be sure but not really that out of the ordinary in any good local authority museum in the North of Scotland. As I was passing through a corridor linking two of the rooms I passed an old print.

Large and faded, without any kind of label to explain itself, it showed Highland soldiers apparently parading through a town, marching four abreast, clad in bonnet and plaid and being watched by 18th century townsfolk and led and accompanied front, side and rear by evenly spaced horsemen. They are approaching a high gateway.

Looking closer I saw none of the Highlanders were carrying any weapons and it was this that made me curious. I realised that the parade was no such thing, it was an escort. And those town gates are actually the gates to the Tower Of London.

What the print actually shows is the arrival at the Tower of London of the mutineers of the 43rd {Highland} Regiment of Foot in 1743. It was a story I knew but had been far from mind as I wandered here in Fort William.

At this point let me rewind time slightly even more and give some background detail, some historical context of the 'Watch' Regiments as I understand it anyway.

In 1667 Charles the Second authorised the Earl of Atholl to raise and train independent companies of troops from the most trusted { loyal to the crown } clans, and to cause them to 'keep watch upon the braes' in an attempt to impose law and order onto the wild highland regions and to protect the interests of the crown.

By the end of the century there were many regiments raised and led by clan chiefs and with loyalty through him to the King. The clan chiefs used the authority of the king to increase their own power when it suited them and by 1717 the watch regiments were disbanded as being ineffective. Where necessary they were replaced with regular troops, especially so after the early Jacobite rebellions, but regular troops were more like prisoners in their own barracks at Ruthven, Bernera or An Gearasdan, surrounded as they were by an alien landscape of imposing, unfamiliar hills and unfriendly natives who spoke little or no English.

During the rebellion of 1715 many members of watch companies left to fight for the Jacobites - no breach of honour for they followed the only allegiance they recognised, that of loyalty to the clan chief who had ordered them to join the army in the first place. The unreliable or potentially disloyal watch regiments were replaced with four garrisons of lowland Scottish or English foot. But the garrison forts were, as I said above, incapable of enforcing the rule of law and by 1727 general Wade - of road building fame - advised the King to reinstate the watch regiments.This was done and recruitment began in the old ways and with the same promise that the regiments would be retained to serve only in the highlands to protect their own lands. That was firmly understood by the regiments to be their sole duty and 'raison d'etre'.

Completing enlistment was no problem as with the effects of the disarming acts, particularly on the loyal  government supporting clans, joining the army became the only legitimate way for a young man raised in the martial traditions of the day to be able to bear arms. The vital difference this time was that control of the regiments now passed from clan chiefs into the hands of central government and professional, almost exclusively English, senior officers.

While these officers knew of the terms of enlistment, they had no conception of - or attachment to - the men themselves. They didn't understand the meaning of the bond given or the regiments instinctive attachment to its native land, tongue and culture. They also failed to realise that many of the men enlisted and serving under them as junior officers and lower ranks were far from being the kind of men so common other regiments of the British army. These highland volunteers were often gentlemen and the sons of gentlemen and felt themselves responsible for their behaviour to a clan, clan chief and a highly ingrained sense of honour. It was this trait that made Scots regiments such effective and ultimately, valued, fighting forces.

By 1741, recruitment and training over, The Black Watch {named after the dark colour of the government tartan} was sent to watch over its glens. Well trained but poorly equipped - more than 400 of the regiment used family weapons - they were given empty promises of kit ordered and weapons to be supplied that never materialised. But the overwhelming issue wasn't poor kit but of honourable promises repeatedly broken. For these honour sensitive products of the highlands the scene was set. History and circumstance would ultimately turn against them and make them victims of their principals.

The Jacobite threat had never gone away, in fact it was ever increasing and from 1740  Britain was at war with France in the fields of distant Flanders. It may be that previous experience of 'turncoat' regiments during the recent rebellions prompted King George to consider that to have large numbers of well trained, but not necessarily loyal, troops left behind at home in a politically volatile situation was just too big a risk. France was also very effectively using the Jacobite cause to try and destabilise the Hanoverian position and to force them to retain troops at home in case of emergency, thus weakening strength for overseas service. These factors laid the foundation for what was to follow.

By the end of 1742 the regiment received orders that it was to proceed from its mountain glens to the links at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh to be reviewed by General Clayton. Months before, they had been advised in letters home by a fellow officer serving in London in the regular army that it was being openly stated there that the Black Watch would be sent into England and then on overseas. This fed into the regiments deepest fears of being removed from their homelands against the conditions of their enlistment.

Once arrived in Musselburgh, tired and anxious, they were told that the General now wished to review them at Berwick on Tweed, and so they would have marched right past my front door. Perhaps they billeted overnight here in the village or nearby. I do know that on arrival at Berwick, and finally on English soil, the men were told that the King himself wanted to review them in London and after that they would be able to return home to their families. Tension mounted as more and more promises made proved to be of little value, and when the men expressed fear about being taken from their hills and anxiety of being posted abroad they were given platitudes and little else. As the regiment marched south through Alnwick, Newcastle, Richmond, Doncaster and Royston, while the highlanders appreciated the stir they caused - these feared, wild looking foreign speaking men and undoubted rebels - while they seem to have enjoyed the crowds who came to stare in the towns and countryside they passed through, the situation became more fraught the further from home they found themselves.

The men in the regiment were not aware that it was the Kings custom to review a regiment before it was posted overseas. It was not until they were in London and billeted across the city that they came in contact with people who were aware of that fact, and who made the highlanders aware too. In London they also met a party of Royal Scots just returned from Barbados with lurid tales of disease and death which did nothing to quiet the rumours that were flying round.

They also found that the King would not be reviewing them as promised after all having recently departed for Flanders himself.

After some rest time the regiment was paraded in front of the Duke of Montague and that afternoon given orders to proceed to embarkation on the Thames. No destination was given. Angered by what they saw as a clear and final betrayal of trust many of the men stated they would soldier no more but would return home as soon as possible. Others stated they did not want to continue in service unless all promises made were delivered and that there was a clear guarantee they would be returning to the highlands.

Samuel Macpherson, a sergeant in the regiment, a quiet, studious, well educated man who had studied law in Edinburgh until inactivity and frustration caused him to join the watch, and his cousin Malcom Macpherson, decided that if the men wanted to return home immediately they would take them. They would return the same way they had come, marching openly in good order, and if they needed to defend themselves to do so then so be it.

Those who intended leaving met on the nearby common at midnight and, when challenged by brother officers wanting them to stay and again plead their case, forced their way through them with fixed bayonets and cries of "Stand off!" More than a hundred made their way in good order and avoided bloodshed. They were joined the next day by some 70 more men, distrustful of the government, senior officers and determined to return home.

A very accurate print.

 Notice how the plaid is being used to keep the guns lock dry.

In 72 hours of freedom they travelled almost 100 miles on foot and not one of the units searching found trace of them. They molested no one, they stole nothing. They were given intelligence from sympathetic Scots in Wellingborough which told them they had come as far as they possibly could without interference from vastly superior numbers, and they took up a defensive position in the shelter of a small wood called Ladywood, near the ruined shell of a mansion house called Leyvden New Bield.

The men negotiated over two days with a member of the local gentry who also alerted the newly arrived militia that the mutineers were well prepared, well dug in, well supplied with arms and apparently willing to make a stand. Given assurances over two days guaranteeing a fair hearing they surrendered and threw themselves on the mercy of the Army in the hope that their grievances would at last be honestly heard. They were, as the museum print clearly showed, taken under guard to the Tower Of London.

Samuel Macpherson, Malcolm Macpherson and another, Farquhar Schaw, were identified as leaders of the group, quickly tried, found guilty of mutiny and sentenced to be shot. All others were, as their worst fears had always been, sent to the West Indies or the Americas for life.

Samuel, Malcolm and Farquhar were put against a wall in the tower and executed while their comrades looked on, some hiding their faces in their plaids to avoid the sight. They were  conveniently already wearing their shrouds under their plaids at their killing and were hastily put into coffins and buried where they fell. They lie there still.

Before this a few sketches were made of them at exercise and used in the daily pamphlets which were the precursors of newspapers.

One of the Ladywood Mutineers

Many years later, while looking for an accurate depiction of the uniform of the day, it was one of these sketches that was unknowingly used as the basis for the memorial to the raising of the Black Watch regiment in Aberfeldy.

It appeals to my sense of history that to this day, in some way, Samuel  Macpherson still stands defiantly and looks out upon the hills he loved, had promised to protect and never wanted to leave.

It appeals to my senses of irony and justice that many people who come to stand at the foot of that memorial to rightly commemorate honour, sacrifice, courage and leadership stand there not knowing that they are looking up at a man who was put to death having been cruelly cheated and lied to by those in whom he had placed his trust, but who had himself always been true to his word, his principles and his people.

Well done Sam....

La a blhair s'math na cairdean
Its good to be with friends on the day of battle.

See you later.

Thoughts of Long Days

I close the car door, lift the small camera pack to my shoulder and turn to face the sea. The wind off the water is blowy and cold and makes me glad I've several layers on beneath a good anorak and that I took a moment to stick an old woollen hat on my head. It's one that I bought for my late father years ago when he complained of feeling the cold because his hair had thinned so much. I have it in the car all the time so it's there when needed, like on a cold day when I decide on a whim that I'm going to go and take a few photos. A mix of sentimentality, familiarity and rare forward planning perhaps.

I step over the low wooden barrier rail of the car-park, stopping a moment with a raised foot on the bare tree trunk to check the laces of a boot before stepping onto the rough grass between me and the water. The grass is knee high and bleached blonde, perhaps from the long gone sun of last summer, perhaps scoured of green by sand and wind or just possibly because it's gone into that hibernative state that sensible things do in nature when it's Winter. Less than a minute later I'm down on the sandy edge of the stream that negotiates its way across the last few hundred yards to the sea. There are always seabirds here, swans too most of the time,  where the water's richly blended with salt and fresh water and benefits no doubt from the small lives that follow the ebb and flow of that twice-a-day battle of the tides. A never ending buffet with a wider than normal menu.

I walk the low bank and scan the water lip with a child's curiosity, something I've never lost when it comes to places like this, looking for shells, plants or any old bits and bobs of interest that could make a nice photo. Places like this have always made me feel consciously alive and I wonder now if that's one of the reasons I've never lived far from the sea. The man that was the boy now collects photos where once he would have innocently stuffed pockets full of things to unwittingly frustrate a house-proud Mum when excitedly pulled out along with all the sand and rubbish that had gone in with them.

Today a group of birds are huddled together ten or so yards away, shielded from gusts of wind by a low bank that marks the shelter it gives by threads of sand blowing now and then over their heads' Small gulls and waders dart now and then to the water for a paddle and a downward poke with their bills. My arrival disturbs them, a few warily getting up onto their feet and shaking feathers, others content to just watch across the width of the stream as I gently take the bag from my back and remove the tripod and then the camera itself.

By the time I've attached the camera to the tripod and set up a shot the birds have become camera shy and moved further away. Not feeling me much of a threat to safety they walk with their backs turned huffily to me rather than exert themselves by actually flying. I change the lens to a wide angle one better suited to landscape work, carefully avoiding wind blown dust and the like getting to the camera's mirror or sensor inside and set up another shot. When I look at the result it's disappointing, the colours flat and the contours of the river that tweaked my interest not as clear or prominent as they are to my eye. I adjust and retake the shot again a few times but am never satisfied with the result. Maybe they'll look better on the big screen of the laptop when I get home though so I keep them and move on.

The tide is out and my favourite bridge is stranded on the beach. It looks abandoned and pointless when the tide is out. It's span ridiculously high for the trickle of fresh water that runs beneath it yet I've seen water touch the underside of the highest point when there's a high tide. It doesn't look so ridiculous then. I walk towards it with my camera still attached to the tripod, both crooked in the bend of my arm, considering how I can take a different photo of something so 'weel kent'. By the time I get there I've decided to leave that for another day and walk over it and out onto the beach beyond. The waves are a couple of hundred yards away still but I easily hear the continuous roar of them coming home.

The wind strengthens and whirls of sand twist around my feet as I walk, looking for a photo. The sky is interesting but somehow the light is flat. It's an odd combination so I think some black and white shots could pull detail out. I find a spot with some foreground interest where wave patterns etched in the sand lead across the view  are picked out by the light. I set the tripod down and adjust its levels until the horizon seems good which is something I often struggle with. { I must stand squint} I start to shoot; exposures to catch detail; exposures set longer to blur some of the waters movements and pull out reflections on the sand. I feel the camera's too high and needs to be lower to bring out the foreground but the swirling sand is too much of a threat to something so expensive.. I wish I'd brought some protection. I normally carry a couple of carrier bags which can be used for a makeshift cover against rain or windblown debris but I'm starting to curse myself for not thinking what it would be like out here. As I do this I keep shooting and see that somehow the horizon has skewed far off being level. Another frustrated sigh escapes as I realise that the tripod is sinking in wet sand and - again - I haven't brought my usual fix; a few cardboard coasters to stick under the tripod feet. They do the job, are easy to carry and can be chucked after use if need be, which is probably what I've done with the ones I've been searching for in my bag. I move on.

A while later I've moved several times as the same thing keeps happening. I'm getting increasingly dispirited about getting the photos I'm trying for but am consoled just by being out here. Despite that, cold has crept in between my shoulders and my thighs feel icy from being hit by spray and wind. My fingers are aching {No, I haven't brought my fingerless gloves either. What did I say about forward planning earlier?} I decide to call it a day and start to dismantle my gear. I'll pack the tripod onto the back pack but keep the camera out in case I find something on the way back.. I start the walk back to he bridge and the car.

Thoughts crowd in leaving any frustration behind me on the sand. I think of days and nights spent here in the past and head home reminding myself of the summer to come although it feels far off. I look forward to home and a hot drink.

Thoughts of long days come unbidden to mind.

See you later.

Listening to

A Small Expression Of Disgust.

Don't even look at him.

Jess butts her head against my fingers as I rub her neck and shoulders, gently massaging a loud purr of appreciation from her as we spend a companionable minute or two together. She's been restless this morning, repeatedly wandering in and out of the kitchen and its attached utility room where Jess has her bed, food and litter tray. Her litter tray is one of those big covered ones with a flap so she can get in and out. We bought it after noticing that if she was using her tray and either of us went in to the utility room or even passed by the door, Jess would immediately get back out. Obviously she's a sensitive wee soul and, being somewhat the same myself when it comes to privacy, I felt sympathy. The covered litter tray has worked a treat for a few years now and she's been much more relaxed.

If there is a down side it is - how should I put it? Maybe "out of sight, out of mind" would best cover the occasional slip between The Lovely G and I which has meant that there's been the odd dip in regularity of cleaning up and this is what has happened today. Each of us thought the other had done the deed when the reality was that neither of us has leaving Jess with 'ants in her pants'.

Realising what's happened I get her little harness on her and put her out into the garden for a while carefully tethered to a tree via one of those extending leads. She has some history as a runner in her earlier years and now she's a bit older and more fragile I'd prefer not to leave it to chance that the wanderlust doesn't take her again. Anyway, the fierce winds of the last couple of days have gone and it's not too cold, not for one with a built in fur coat anyway. As I leave her, with a promise that I'll be back in a wee minute or two once she's done her business. she looks at me with a 'Really?' kind of glance. I look at the darkening sky and say, "I know. It's going to rain soon. You just do your business and I'll be back in two shakes of a cats tail."

Forty five minutes later I look up from my cup of coffee. " Aw no! Crivens jings and help ma boab I've left wee Jessie outside! Even as I make my way to the patio door I can hear the rain pattering against it and as I slide it open and step out I can see a small white and brown nose  and two huge eyes peeking out at me from beneath the hedge at the back of the garden. I make apologetic and encouraging noises as I cross the garden towards her and she comes out from under the hedge at a fair speed. She's not completely soaked, not 'drookit' by any stretch of the imagination but she's a bit damp  {he says trying to make himself feel a bit less guilty}.  Ok - she's completely 'damp'.

We meet by the apple tree and I unfasten her from her leash so she can head back indoors but oddly she stands there looking at me with what I can only describe as feline disgust dripping from every whisker before taking four or five slow deliberate steps towards the house. With each step she lifts a paw and gives it a shake, spraying small droplets of water around her. The air is heavy with indignation as I follow her dripping tail back to the patio door, rushing to make sure she's not kept waiting at the door. My own tail is firmly between my legs as I slide the door aside and she steps up and into the house, making straight for where The Lovely G is sitting at the table. Jess stops directly in front of her and sits down as if to say " Look what this pillock's done to me!" before reaching a soggy paw up to pat her thigh for emphasis. She gets a sympathetic look and noise from G as I return from the far side of the kitchen with some paper towels which I use to rub her dry under G's disappointed gaze..

Jess arches her back and moves huffily away from my towelling ministrations and starts rearranging all the fur I've managed to disrupt on her back and flanks. I can see I'm going to be ignored for the rest of the afternoon. I can see G eyeing me up too.

I wonder what the cat equivalent of the dog house is?

I'd better get in it right now.

But should I clean out the litter tray before I go?

See you later.

Listening to

Exhale/Inhale

I step out into the garden, stretch and exhale slowly in morning air that holds quiet promise of coming Autumn. In the fields around the village farmers harvest their golden prize from summer near past. I walk barefoot to the apple trees and load the feeders for the birds and luxuriate in the feel of cool grass between my toes. It reminds me that I should be dealing with the garden before we head off for a short break at the weekend, back to France and that special place that's come to mean so much to me over these last few years.

I'd wanted to go to Languedoc for years and years before I ever got there. When I did I felt immediately at home, somehow completely relaxed and at peace. Oddly, I felt unexplainably relieved just to be there. I never said anything to My Lovely G, thinking it was probably just over reaction to that getting-away-from-it-all-on-holiday feeling, yet feeling like it was more than that too.


 A few days before the holiday ended we were sitting in the 'Bar A Vin', our favourite watering hole in the ancient walled city of Carcassonne, slaking thirst and letting the heat of the day drain from us as we recovered from a day trip somewhere that had included a hill climb beyond what the overweight middle aged me was comfortable with anymore. My mind wandered over the day: rivers we drove beside, tiny villages, narrow hill roads, treacherous paths and that withering climb to a Cathar castle ruined centuries ago perched high on its crag. And yet most of all my mind pondered on how familiar it all felt. How comforting it was to push the path down beneath my feet and walk higher and higher through an environment that should have felt completely alien yet instead was the absolute opposite.

I turned to G and said, "Y'know, I don't think I've ever been somewhere I've felt more at home than here - other than actually at home. I can't explain it. I know this is the first time we've been here but I love it. I really do. I feel such a sense of peace. I've been trying to dismiss it as some kind of daft holiday nonsense but I honestly can't. I absolutely love it here."

I glanced across the table into those mesmerising eyes and found I was being examined with one of those typically concerned looks I know so well.  I braced myself for a dose of reality.

"I know. I feel it too. I can't explain it either."

Back in the now I turn from the trees and the now full bird feeders tucked amongst the apples and head back across the grass to the house. At the patio door I turn and look back at the garden for a second, stretch and slowly inhale cool morning mixed with the scent of the garden. Autumn's in the air here for sure and the days will soon be growing short. I wonder how it will have changed by the time we get back. After breakfast I'll get out and mow the lawn, weed the borders and tidy down the drive for the last time this summer. Even though we'll be gone just a week summer will have gone by the time we get back. I'll be sad to see it go but glad to be back in France again.

My laptop isn't coming this time but G is taking hers so I may get a blog or two in, especially if I get the inspiration or some good photos. I have programmed in a couple of Sunday posts anyway to keep the blog ticking over.

See you later or maybe au revoir!

Listening to:

A Tale Of Two Cities?

Our hero is bemused - as usual.

I turned the key in the lock and walked out to the car across the half inch of snow that was being slowly added to by the minute, the bags heavy in my hand as I opened the boot and placed them, my camera bag and a couple of other things we'd decided to take on this short break, carefully inside. We always have a holiday around my birthday and this year's no exception, although we'd decided to stay in the UK to save money for later in the year, something I was regretting momentarily as snowflakes managed to get down the neck of my shirt as I got into the drivers seat. It struck me that somewhere warm and sunny right now would be a nice relief from the cold and damp of a Scottish winter. Technically it's not winter any more of course, but no-one's taken time to let the weather know and it's been dourly consistent in its approach to the passing days. This holiday would take us to England, staying a few days with a friend and an overnight somewhere on the way back at the end of the week.

Ok - maybe not quite half an inch. Sue me.

The snow on the road at the end of the drive was red slush, stained the colour of the local soil from the fields around the village, but had all but disappeared as we joined the main road a few moments later and headed south on the twenty minute drive to Berwick Upon Tweed to catch the train due in half an hour. I flicked the wipers on as dirt spray spattered from cars in front and decided that lights wouldn't be a bad idea either on a day so grey and flat and with the world in monochrome beyond the window.

The day was dull and grey and monochrome.

A lot to say in English.

In Scots we'd just say 'dreich'. Everyone would understand.

A few minutes later than the scheduled time we pulled out of the station comfortably sat at a table to ourselves. G was texting ahead to let our pal Indigo Roth know that we were on our way while I  was busy setting up my laptop for the journey- a couple of hours then a switch to take us another couple of hours down towards Cambridge before finally changing to a local service to get to our friends home town. Part of my birthday pampering was this part of journey in first class, with its extra leg room, better seats and a never ending supply of complimentary tea, coffee, drinks and various other goodies. I was pleased, but we'd be coming home standard class as we'd decided to break the journey into two smaller portions with an overnight stay in York, - one of  'our places'- making first class an unreasonable cost.

 G is a seasoned rail traveller from her time working in Edinburgh but it's not something I've done a lot of over the years, my preference almost always being to drive. A rail journey then, is special to me and I'm always reminded of my first train trip as a small boy - a visit with my Grandmother to her twin sister who lived at the other end of the world. Or that's how it seemed to me at the time. Being such an unusual and evocative means of transport to me,  trains are therefore special and I always get a frisson of excitement as a journey starts. In some ways it's part of the reason I'd rather be an infrequent passenger. I like to keep it special. I'd hate to lose the feeling.

As we stepped off the train a few hours later the figure of our chum was easily identifiable. It's not easy to miss the afghan-lean six foot five figure of Mr Roth and today was no exception as from the other end of the platform he raised his walking cane and waved a cheery greeting some distance over the heads of our fellow travellers. While we walked towards each other he doffed his gleaming bowler hat and beamed a smile, his dark locks shining in the late afternoon sun. He'd dressed for the occasion in an impressive Victorian style frock coat,  with dark, muted stripe trousers over gleaming shoes and spats. From beneath his coat the edge of a crimson waistcoat caught the eye and led the glance past an immaculately starched ivory shirt and a Jacobs-coat-of-many-colours cravat at his throat to our monocled friends face. By the time he'd reached us he'd removed one of his pale calfskin gloves and proffered a hand the size of a small country to G, who was delighted when he bowed and kissed the back of her hand before scooping her into a hug and lifting her several feet off the ground.  When he gently returned her to the platform he kept an arm protectively around her as he replaced the hat on his head, adjusted the angle to 'jaunty' and thrust a manly paw in my direction. I reached out to shake it to find myself pulled to his side while he exclaimed his delight at seeing me again. I felt my shoulders squeeze several inches towards each other as he manoeuvred all three of us around to face the opposite direction. He gently encouraged us in the required direction and when I turned to collect the bags found that he'd scooped them all up, one in each hand and one under each arm. Nodding cheerily towards the exit he began explaining all the plans he'd made to introduce us to the local area over the next few days as we walked from the station.

Ely Cathedral

At the large sleek automobile parked in front of the station building he flipped open the expansive boot and put the bags effortlessly away before the gleaming lid seemed to close automatically. I found myself grinning at the sight. Typical! Nothing's ever ordinary around this man. A quiet cough brought me from my reverie to find him standing by the open rear door as G took her seat. He closed it behind her and opened the front door, indicating with a look that I should sit up front beside him. The journey from the station took only a few minutes as he explained the rail company had built the station on the edge of his estate and sure enough we were soon to pass through the entrance gates and onto the drive beyond. It was 'unfortunate' in one way explained our host as he drove at breakneck speed through the grounds, as the views were 'somewhat curtailed' by the station but it was frightfully handy for visitors. He went on to explain that the view in the opposite direction took in almost the whole estate and he'd set aside rooms for us on the third floor so we could take full advantage of the scenery. Nothing but thoughtful is Mr Roth.

Windows like these are really hard to see out of.

Putting them them so far off the floor doesn't help either.

He paused at the wide door long enough to punch a few digits into a keypad and once past the secure entrance and into the house itself we were shown to our room and given time to get freshened up. Indigo said we should take our time and when ready he had some refreshments prepared and we could relax and catch up with all the news since we'd last met when he'd come to ours to stay a couple of months before.  Later, after a wash and brush up, our host, now sat langourously in a huge wing-back chair with a velvet smoking jacket to replace his outdoor coat,  a tassled fez perched on his dark hair and with red velvet slippers on his huge feet, plied us with delicious coffee and petits-four. The coffee, as expected coming from something of a connoisseur, was exceptional. I enjoyed the after dinner snifter that followed a home cooked meal later too. The perfect and civilised end  to a days travelling.

Indigo had just completed a challenging month of writing while working on his first book, but the output had been largely frustrating as it had shown him that what he'd hoped to get out as one novel was now looking like three or four. Glad of the opportunity to take a breather, he'd organised the next few days so we could spend time together and indulge in our shared passion for photography and cream teas. Sorry - I mean architecture. He talked us through the architectural delights of some of the coffee houses, tea shops and cathedrals he hoped to take us to before we spent the rest of the evening comparing our camera gear and discussing the pros and cons of digital photography and visualising travel through time and relative dimensions in space until it was time for bed.

York Minster

The next few days would pass quickly as we hurtled enthusiastically from place to place with Indigo behind the wheel of his charabanc. Writing this from home after the event and given the speed of his driving, the memories are blurred. Hopefully, the photos aren't.

York Minster

I got some odd looks lying down to take this.

{but I still enjoyed the snooze too}

Thank you Indigo. Hopefully we can do The Edinburgh Festival this year.

See you later.

Listening to: