We’ve known each other for a long time and though I’ve changed over time the years have never touched you the way they have me. You are still…..well the word that comes first to mind is beautiful: definitely beautiful. Some might not agree but you are beautiful. You always will be. You’re much older than me but you look amazing, even after all these years. I love the shape of each perfect limb and the strength in you. You move with such grace, such gentleness and yet you have a wildness to you, a need to be free. You dance as if to the most beautiful music: to the song of the sea wind.
I know your skin isn’t the way it was when you were young. That doesn’t matter. I love the feel of you in my hand, the way you sometimes shiver if I touch you or sigh softly when I’m close and the way I’m always aware of your presence when I’m near you. I love your aloofness, your lofty disdain for the insignificant things that worry me. I love the way you speak. You say nothing and I hear you inside. You whisper and I have to stop whatever I’m doing to catch what you are trying to say. I love our moments together, a sunny afternoon or shared autumn evening in the cool of the garden. Sometimes I just have to sit beside you. It calms me just to be near.
I love the things you give. They're precious to me no matter how often – or rarely – you might be able to part with them. I’ve tried to take good care of you over the years but I’m awkward at times. I’ve never been confident that way. You understand – don't you. You’ve been so forgiving. I don’t spend as much time with you as I should but you’re always there and that makes me happy. I smile each and every time I see you. I look forward to coming back to you again. I can't imagine being without you.
More than that: I think a wee bit of me loves you.
I'm sitting enjoying my morning coffee on the step at the front of the house which is wide and comfortable in the (fairly) early morning sun. I decided to bring the coffee here a few moments ago when I was filling the birdfeeders on the apple trees at the back of the house and the old pear tree at the front. I've conscientiously fed the birds around the garden for years and we now have a prodigious menagerie of various species that like us enjoy the benefits of living here.
I can never quite make up my mind whether the birds rely on or predate on our efforts as a bonus. Certainly they manage to get through huge amounts of seeds and nuts and assorted bits and pieces from the kitchen laid out on the wooden bench on the patio or from the feeders. Although I filled the seven feeders just the other day every single one was empty this morning. I picked up the large white lidded bucket from the side of the patio door as I left the kitchen and realised that the seed we have is almost finished, and finding the peanut feeder at the front of the house is also empty I'm going to have to buy more of them as well. Like most things these days even peanuts don't cost peanuts anymore.
I like our garden. It's big but not too big, shabby in places and tidy in places. The big pear tree, the oldest in the garden, sits just left of centre on the far side of the front lawn and its tallest branches stretch over the sunken drive towards the high hedge that separates us from the local Bowling Green. I enjoy driving beneath the oldest tree in the garden every time I leave or come home, especially when its branches are heavy with fruit. Yes, I like the garden the way it is – tidy but not too tidy, shabby but not too shabby. A bit worn and definitely a bit lived in but generally comfortable and fit for purpose. A bit like me in many ways I suppose.
Of course I should really do some work out here is what I'm thinking. We've recently scarified all the grassy areas twice in a vain hope of removing the moss that seemed to be the biggest part of the lawn and I really need to start feeding the grass with a feed and weed combination. I love the feel of grass under my feet and often walk barefoot when out feeding the birds. The moss made it feel even more luxurious but it didn't look great hence the scarifying. The problem is that ever since we've done that bad weather has stopped me from starting the next phase. I really should weed between the paving slabs in front of the house or in the borders and under the windows too but although I love the garden, I hate gardening - well for the most part anyway. I suppose retrospectively I quite enjoy the gratification and results of having worked in the garden, so now I'm pondering where to start – is it cutting the hedge, cutting the grass, doing the weeding or the feed and weed – when my next door neighbour appears. Oscar, his large black dog, comes over towards me, tail wagging. He would be running but his tail is wagging so frantically that it seems to act like an air brake and he's actually moving only slightly faster than a walk, giving me time to put down my coffee cup before he gets here to push his happy face towards me for a bit of meet and greet. The neighbour gives a wave and asks if the dog is disturbing me and gets a wave and a negative in return. Meanwhile Oscar has pushed himself between my knees, turned around with his back to me and sat down even though his tail is still thumping wildly which makes his whole body comically vibrate. I bend over him and play with his ears, stroking and scratching his head, neck and shoulders while he nuzzles my hand as he slowly calms down.
Oscar and I survey the garden in front of us amicably together and I ask his opinion about where I should start. Meanwhile my neighbour has disappeared only to return with what I heart – sinkingly realise is a lawn mower. Now, don't get me wrong, our neighbours are fantastic but if I had one criticism about them it's their garden. They may not look, they may not behave like fanatical gardeners but their garden just takes the biscuit. It is perfect. No really, I mean it. Perfect. There isn't a leaf, twig or a blade of grass out of place. Now I could be hypercritical and say that for me it's too ‘Parks and Cemeteries’, all short grass and perfectly trimmed edges but let's imagine that I haven't said that. It has all the symmetry and aura of one of those perfectly staged Japanese Gardens and makes mine look like a bombsite and now I feel that if I even start to do anything in the garden it's going to make me look like I'm just trying to stop the local authorities from giving me a garden ASBO* by bringing it up to the minimum legal requirement. {not that there is such a thing}
My neighbour looks over, waves again and asks if the dog is okay where it is. I smile through gritted teeth and wave, saying “Of course. No problem”. I pat the dog on the head and head back into the house returning a moment later with another coffee and Oscar and I resume our contemplation of the suddenly transformed into a disaster that is my garden. The shabby chic has disappeared, the birds have fled and somehow now it just looks neglected, the grass has grown, the weeds are enormous and the scarification has left huge patches where the remaining moss has died and turned brown. I look from my garden to my neighbours and back again and my heart sinks.
10 minutes later my neighbour collects his equipment and disappears around the side of his house having improved on the perfection that existed when he started. How does he do that? I look at the two gardens. His garden is a colour photograph in high definition, mine a grainy sepia one that's been neglected for decades.
I almost wish the garden was covered in snow again. Mine looked great then.
I stand up and walk forlornly towards the garden shed and its tools.
There are at least thirty sparrows in the flock that sweeps down to litter the driveway at the front of the house this morning, cheeping and jostling for position as they enjoy a dust bath. When fright takes them they leap into the air together and disappear in a whirr of wings into the safety of the hedge a few feet away simply to return to their dusty squabbles a few seconds later. A solitary blackbird is one of the bathers, large and plump by comparison as she goes about her morning ablutions with feathers puffed, short beats of spread wings against the ground. Two or three jackdaws strut self importantly beneath the old pear tree pleased, even though they are too large to cling to the feeder full of seed hanging from its low branch, to have mastered the secret of the upward lunge with its solid thump to release a tiny spew of beady treasures to be jumped on by those waiting just below.
As I sit at the kitchen table tapping this post I'm joined by a tapping from the window by the sink. Without looking I know its the male blackbird, his unique sound signature made by raking his beautiful yellow beak through the seeds on the window tray followed by a stiff legged double hop to settle those most wanted in a layer at the top to be gathered with an eager series of short pecks. The pattern will be repeated again and again until he is stuffed full of seed or scared off by something inconsequential. I know the crafty beggar is a flighty character and will be watching me with a glittering eye, ready to take flight at the first sign of my interest. Only once or twice in the last months have we contemplated each other through the glass from close up for a careful moment before he's indignantly fled. I suspect I was more impressed with his looks than he with mine.
Through the still unopened vertical blind to my left I hear the birds in the back garden; the gruff caw of a jackdaw; the quiet cheep-cheep of a group of chaffinches and the tinkling bell-like notes of a pair of pigeons coming in to land. I hear the sound of wings at the low table where the enameled ashet* of water sits gleaming white and rimmed with blue.The water will be cold from the night's chill and I find myself wondering if it's appreciated as a refreshing early prize when it's so cold. Now though it's time for me to finish blogging and take the tub of seed from the corner behind me out to the garden.
There are hungry mouths to be fed.
*Ashet is an oddly Scottish word for a dish and comes from the days of the Auld Alliance when France was both a military ally and main commercial trading partner. Ashet is the Scots phonetic rendering of the French assiette. For the same reason a leg of lamb is a gigot, but pronounced by Scots with a hard 'g' at the beginning as opposed to the softly accented 'gigot' of modern French
Our friend M came up to the house this morning to sort out a problem with some lights at the house {pure hopeless at electricity, me} and commented how nice it was here compared to Dunbar where the sea haar {mist} has come in with the humidity from the good weather we've been experiencing these last few days. Their house is a couple of hundred yards from the sea and he said that he could barely see from one end of the garden to the other and had been quite chilled while we are basking in glorious sunshine here.
Once he'd successfully sorted our little problem {cheers mate by the way!} he mentioned he had some wood he was about to clear out of his shed so I volunteered to come and take it off his hands as we could use it to fuel the chiminea we have beside the patio. It's nice to sit out on a clear but chilly evening and be comforted by the heat from this wood burning stove while a few glasses of nice wine help us send the evening off in quiet contemplation or conversation. Soon after he departed I got ready to go down to Dunbar to pick up the wood and headed off after him. Less than a mile down the road the strands of haar were trailing off the fields and across the road and by the time I'd gone another mile I had to put on lights to drive - at mid-day!
I remember the haar well from the years we spent living down in Dunbar before we moved a few miles along the coast to where we are now and it was something I always hated. While the rest of the coast benefits from clear skies and sunshine, so often Dunbar is shrouded in sea-mist. This thick cloying haar can sometimes last for three weeks at a time, which is frustrating when you know that just a couple of miles away people are basking in the warmth of the sun, enjoying the fabulous views hereabouts and getting a nice little tan. By the time I'd arrived at M's house the temperature gauge in the car had plummeted from 16c to only 8c and I felt the chill immediately on stepping out of the car. While normally happy to stand around a while and chat or drink his coffee I was single minded today in my determination to get the wood into the back of the car and get back home. I may not be a good gardener. I may not even particularly like gardening, but I was glad to get back into the car and head home away from the damp and the chill of 'Sunny Dunny'.
I don't like to gloat but I had a huge smile on my face when I suddenly drove out of the haar again when I was almost back home. I turned off the lights on the car, rolled the window down, cranked up the music and watched the thermometer climb steadily upwards. Oncoming traffic - if they saw me at all - probably thought the car was being driven by a lunatic grinning away for no reason.
But now, cold cider freshly poured, the garden calls and for once I'll be only too happy to pull a few weeds or wander round with the lawn mower for an hour or two with the sun on my back. I'll be happy to spray the drive with weedkiller, rake some moss and above all enjoy an afternoon in the sun and a cider or two. Heck I may even risk bringing Jess out on her leash and tie her to one of the apple trees so she can lie in the shade, flick her tail and dream of chasing the young braves of the local sparrow squadron.
There's something special about this time of year. Lots of bloggers have mentioned it this week. Weather changes, temperature cools, light softens, days get shorter as seasons slowly turn. Summer's morphosis into Autumn is on the way and this morning leaves are being buffeted by wind and rain. The grass at the front of the house is strewn with windfall pears which the birds are gorging themselves on. At the back of the house the swallows, who have nested under the eaves for the first time this year, are efficiently feeding the second brood of the season in preparation for the all too soon departure to warmer climes.
The land around is a brown and green patchwork of fields that have been shorn or are waiting the attention of the harvesters that slow morning traffic on country roads. Fields seem full to bursting point with bales of hay. Harvested fields are industriously ploughed by farmers eager to sow the next crop. Fields of potatoes grow strongly in the red East Lothian soil and evening roads reverberate to the sound of tractors and lorries loaded with hay-bales being moved to storage. Livestock too seems to dominate areas as huge numbers of sheep and cattle graze on fields of lush grass.
For me it's a time of naive reassurance. The garden fruit trees have been groaning with the weight of the crop they have grown this year. Heavy branches bend earthwards and early windfalls have been scooped up with relish to be rushed to the kitchen. The glut of apples and pears is upon us and neighbours and family have been warned of imminent arrivals. Link this with the bounty that's evident in the harvest all around and it's easy to ignore thoughts of gobal warming and the sooth-sayers or doom and gloom merchants of agricultural and economic disaster. Surely if the land is capable of producing such huge bounty as this year there can't be too much wrong with the climate? With a summer behind us thankfully free of warnings of water shortages, it's all too easy to put thoughts like those to one side at this time of year. Mother Nature is fecund and ripe. Everything is therefore in balance. Everything's OK. Forget the worries. Time now for many to plan that holiday jetting off to sunny climes for winter sun and cheap booze. Time enough for me simply to enjoy the moment, to savour this all too short period of transition as the seasons continue to turn inexorably through their cycles.
The light in the evenings is superb and my camera is never far from my hand. You can - until today at least - comfortably wear T-shirts right through till night time and thoughts of central heating are still weeks away. Evenings can be enjoyed spent on the patio with a book and a glass of something until light forces us indoors.
It's got to be one of my favourite times of year and I know how fortunate I am to be able to spend it here in this lovely little corner of the world. 'Coastkid', a local blogger friend who's tales of cycling in this area I follow with interest, is a talented amateur film maker and regularly posts some wonderful GWF's {great wee films} of his treks hereabouts. A couple of days ago he and his helmet camera captured much of the essence of East Lothian in these short weeks with a wee film which happily he's allowed me to post for you here. Drop by his blog or look him up on you tube to catch more of his fabulous GWF's.
The lovely G and I are outside on the patio enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. It's been a warm day and we have just come back from a short trip down to the Holy Isle of Lindisfarne, about half an hours easy drive southward down the coast into England. There's a causeway out to the island which is often covered by the sea, but today the road was uncovered for most of the day which is good in one way as it meant we could spend as long as we liked there without keeping wary eye on the time but was unfortunate in as much as it gave hordes of others the same idea so the small island was fairly packed with tourists. Eventually we decided to shorten the trip after a short walk and some photo taking to come back here to the garden and the afternoon sun on the patio.
A Boat Shed
I'd spent a moment or two uploading the photo's onto the laptop and getting us some drinks and a few nibbles to accompany them, just some Asti with lime, a favourite summer drink of ours and a few pretzels and crisps to add some salty tang. We both took a book out with us. I'm reading Alexander McCall Smith's 'La's Orchestra Saves The World', a nicely paced, gentle wee tale of WWII which I'm enjoying so far. I wiped down the glass top of the table and covered it in a washable yellow flower-print tablecloth, laid some napkins and coasters and laid out the drinks while the lovely G brought out Jess, long leash attached to her harness which we use to stop her running off as she's done in the past. Once attached to something solid she can be left to wander freely to the limit of the leash.
Earlier I'd put out fresh water and filled the bird feeders with seed and fat balls in their spots in the trees around the garden and the birds were busily occupied in taking advantage of the free buffet on offer, at least until Jess made her appearance. This led to a hasty retreat into the overgrown hedge by the gang of young sparrows who have come to dominate the garden over the last few weeks. Once at a safe distance they began to harangue her but, not speaking the lingo, Jess wasn't too fazed by it. Eventually they calmed down and everything in the garden began to quieten. Jess sniffed around and chewed some fresh grass until, wrapping herself tightly around the chiminea, she could go no further. Once freed by the lovely G, Jess too began to take things easy and lay down on the concrete slabs of the patio which had been warmed by the sun. Soon she seemed to be fast asleep and we could turn our attention back to our books and to enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun for ourselves. Cautiously at first the young sparrows began to come back to the feeders and enjoy the afternoon feast too.
A Cocky Wee Thing.
I read and sipped and nibbled for a while before turning to watch the comings and goings in the trees at the edge of the patio, enjoying the whirr of wings and the increasing bravery of the young blades of sparrow squadron as they became more and more focused on feeding and less on the presence of a startling white cat just a few yards from them. Jess also seemed to be enjoying the scene and appeared disinclined to do anything more than watch. As she did so, laid out on her side with her head raised towards the garden, she sniffed the air, her head slowly bobbing with each inhalation. She seemed to be content just to smell the air, with its scent of grass, herbs and assorted birds. Even when she found the heat of the paving slabs too much and relocated herself over on the grass by the trees, closer to the feeding birds, she was apparently not considered to be too much of a threat by the young sparrows who continued to fly in over her to get to the feeders. It struck me that calm and harmonious as the scene might be, if it was me who was risking life and limb flying in an out over a cat or ignoring it as I concentrated on stuffing my face, I would perhaps be worried and giving her some of my attention. Jess, who seems to be much less lively when on the end of a lead, ignored the comings and goings just a few feet above her head and appeared to have passed out in the warmth of the sun, only occasionally giving a twitch of her tail or raising a white whiskered head in half hearted complaint as a brave - or foolhardy - sparrow. zoomed by.
Peace and tranquility reigned. For a while at least..........
Yesterday, with uncharacteristically perfect timing, I spent out in the garden. {Uncharacteristically perfect timing because it rained during the night last night and looks like it might do the same today} The garden has been a tad neglected of late what with the effects of flu and my intermittent - and usually limited - desire coinciding with the occasional rain shower which gave me the chance to opt out with reduced - minimal even - impact on my somewhat underdeveloped sense of guilt. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy, appreciate, envy even, a lovely garden, but as I have said often enough times before, I am not a gardener. My garden is almost lovely though, more through the creativity of the previous house owners than any effort or talent on my part I'm afraid to say. It has a natural charm and because of the fruit trees it looks productive on first glance and that hides a multitude of minor sins. If pressed, I would describe the look as 'shabby chic', although if pressed further I would probably - definitely - have to admit to more shabby than chic.
We have garden on three sides of the house. Each side has fruit trees; our bountiful pears in front, plums to the side and apple trees to the rear. That makes it sound like a huge garden, but in reality its not, even if it is larger than most gardens these days. Before we bought the house it was unoccupied for a year and during that time the previous owners, who had moved abroad, arranged a limited maintenance. Once our offer had been accepted however, that maintenance immediately stopped and by the time the deal had finally been concluded and we moved in several months had gone past. I had approached the owners lawyer asking for access to the property to maintain the gardens in the mean time as it was very obvious that it was quickly becoming overgrown, but this wasn't allowed, so unfortunately by the time we had moved in, the garden was quite a state. As my job kept me away from home on a regular basis for most of the week, although I made the garden presentable, it had always been just maintained rather than properly managed and as a less than confident gardener, that led to the garden I have today.
My garden has a natural feel to it. I have always instinctively shied away from the garden preference of my parents, who's garden style could best be described as ' parks and cemeteries', with every perfect blade of grass carefully manicured to within an inch of its life, each planting in a clinical border delineated by straight lines and 90 degree corners and each plant looking like it had been sculpted by hand to fit exactly in place. Just thinking about it as I write reminds me of how much a chore gardening was when having to help, cutting the grass or worst of all, weeding those damned borders, knowing that at some time Mum would be passing a critical eye over the standard of work that had been done. Eventually I would rebel and she would decide that it was all pointless as she often went back over the jobs I had been doing herself anyway. I hope she forgives me writing her to appear as a tyrant as she really wasn't except in this area, and oddly only for a few years. Shame they had to correspond with my formative teenage gardening years though! {Never thought about that before but it explains a lot somehow!}
So yesterday I carefully mowed the lawns front side and rear. Lawns carefully and thoroughly sown with wild flowers, or as you would know them, dandelion, clover, chickweed and the occasional but perfectly positioned thistle. Actually, on the lower side lawn - Yes, I have a lower side lawn area, how posh is that - ha! - I have what looks like red headed dandelions growing which really do look lovely when they come to flower. I edged the grass with creative insouciance then I weeded the small borders at the front of the house before spending some hours on my knees weeding the drive and the lower parking area - Not as posh as it sounds that one! -which had sprung large but easily pulled weeds in the perfect growing conditions of the last few weeks. Actually that was a rotten job though as I kept impaling myself on dried windblown holly leaves from that part of the hedge nearby. The hedge and I have a somewhat problematic relationship too. You may remember that last year I almost lopped off three of my fingers trying to beat it into submission ending up in a bloody drive to the doctors trying not to pass out en route. {It was dangerous but necessary I thought at the time. I remember looking down and thinking I hadn't seen so much blood in one place before. When I ran my and under the tap and saw the state of my fingers I nearly passed out on the spot before wrapping them in a towel and grabbing my car keys. A full year on and I still don't have feeling back in two fingers so that may be permanent} This year the hedge is definitely the most unruly part of the garden. {I'm sure the neighbours must hate me for it} I justify it to myself that there have been loads of nests in there and I didn't want to disturb them but in reality it's a bit daunting at about 60ft long and 8ft high. The lovely G has suggested that we get someone in to chop it down to a more manageable size and I didn't disagree with her.
Now, as I look out the patio door to the garden, the dull day has gone and it's calling me to come and spend a bit of time enjoying the birds and the fruits of my labour yesterday. I think I'll sit out a while, potter around and be smug in my little bit of heaven.
I step out of the sliding door and down to walk barefoot across the paved patio towards the grass and the apple trees. I'm carrying a large tub of bird seed and the start of my morning routine elicits excited chirps from unseen throats all around; on the house, from our neighbours roof and our garden shed, but most of all from the dense wall of uncut hedging at the far side of the back garden where I know there are several nests.
As I stop at the low wooden bench that displays some potted plants to put down the tub and remove its stiff lid I'm buffeted by a warm and gossipy wind. It's brisk and breezy and full of energy as it moulds itself around me like the warm hug of an affectionate friend. It sings the song of the sea wind in my ear and it holds me for just a moment before rushing on with its tales of dancing white horses and the salt tang of seaweed and driftwood still fresh on its lips. It makes me pause and strain to hear the slap of distant waves at the cliff foot and the gentle rush of sea over sand and shell. It makes me inhale its perfume and consume its fragrance. I'm lost in its cadence for a moment before it leaves me breathless but smiling, like being held too tightly saying goodbye to a friend who has places to go and people to meet. Like any good friend it raises my spirits and I want more.
I return to my task and fill the plastic pot I keep inside the tub with seed, gold and flecked with the oily black of sunflower. I turn and step off the patio onto the grass and immediately I feel cool damp underfoot. There has been a silent shower during the warm night and I am given a delicious foot massage as I walk slowly, barefoot and smiling broadly, savouring every step, to the trees and the feeders, scattering the nights tears as I go. Self indulgently, I am in no rush and the excitement around me builds in a crescendo of eager voices and rustling wings as unseen watchers jostle for advantage in the greenery a few steps away. By the time I move to fill the second feeder the first is already greedily occupied, and a disorderly mob is forming on the nearby branches, the second similarly by the time I reach the third. I turn to walk away to replenish my pot for the last feeder which is in the oldest pear tree at the front of the house, scattering the last remnants of seed from my pot around me for those that prefer to ground feed. As I walk away the female blackbird swoops appreciatively past my legs in the rush to be first to the pick of the crop.
Pot filled, I walk around the side of the house keeping carefully to the massaging grassy carpet, wondering how great it would feel to take off my shirt and stretch out on cool grass to be stroked by the warm wind which has returned momentarily to this side of the house. I'm deep in thought when my neighbour calls me from the other side of the fence to ask if I would like some of the overproduction from his new hens. After only four weeks the output of his four hens is far outstripping demand and he explains that he and his wife will be happy to share some fresh eggs around the neighbours. As he rushes off to get me some eggs I fill the last feeder and return to the garden fence that separates us from the cottage. When he returns we spend some time chatting about this and that and he says that it looks like his fruit bushes are going to provide a bumper harvest of soft fruit. I too can see that we are going to have a substantial crop of apples, pears and plums as even our old pear tree is proudly hanging with young fruit and so without further ado we agree a communal aid plan which should meet most of our needs for soft fruit across the summer. To seal the bargain I carry away a dozen fresh eggs carefully held in the folded material of the front of my T-Shirt. What a wonderful morning.
I put my stash of eggs into the cupboard and look forward to boiled eggs on toast for breakfast but decide that first I really have to pour myself a big glass of fresh orange juice and take it out into the garden where I will enjoy it as I slowly walk barefoot round and round the garden on that wonderful soft and gentle carpet of grass.
As I do so I can barely drink for smiling to myself in absolute pleasure. Walking barefoot on grass like this is one of my favourite things, yet I realise I do it so rarely, just like walking barefoot along the shoreline on soft sand with waves just lapping at my toes. I plan the day ahead as I walk and as I do I think of the song of the sea wind and decide that today will be the perfect day to walk the beach with my shoes in my hand. My feet begin to itch in anticipation of warm sand and ice cool water.
I reach for a towel to take with me. Breakfast can wait.
See you later
Listening to Leonard Cohen 'Dance me to the end of Love'
This morning I took a friend to hospital for a small operation which meant a full anaesthetic, so driving home tomorrow is out of the question. Also unfortunately, the hospital is more than 50 miles away, so - after early car washing duty - I picked up my friend and headed off for the hour and a half 's trip to bypass Edinburgh in rush hour and get to the hospital in good time. It was a beautiful sunny day here and we had a good chat about life, the universe and everything as we drove through East Lothian in the bright light of a summer morning, passed into Midlothian to skirt the City Of Edinburgh and on towards Glasgow on the motorway for a few miles before turning off and heading to the hospital. On dropping off my nervous passenger and double checking pick up arrangements for tomorrow morning, I turned the car around and headed back homeward, although by a different route to avoid the motorway which always reminds me of work as I spent a lot of my working life on motorways trying to get to some place or other the length and breadth of the country.
By the time I arrived home I was looking forward to a cool drink and, on getting myself some fresh orange juice from the fridge, I sat out on the patio which was just beginning to benefit from the sun. I lazed a while then did a couple of odd jobs around the garden, tidying here and tweaking there. Lunch was a small smoked peppered mackerel and simple salad dressed quite sharply to cut through the oiliness of the fish and accompanied by a small dish of olives and some hummus drizzled with olive oil and a small ciabatta roll sliced into strips for dipping. All slowly savoured with a cold and very dry glass of cider. Just the job for a sunny afternoon in the garden.
As I sat there quietly enjoying my lunch and musing back and forth, I watched the argumentative local sparrows swoop down to gorge themselves noisily on the seeds and fat balls which I have about the place, joined sometimes by a pair of cooing collared doves or one or other of our cautious pair of resident blackies {blackbirds}, rooting about for fallen seed under the feeders hung on our apple trees until they were all complainingly ousted by the noisy arrival of half a dozen of our local gang of thugs - the Jackdaws - from their lofty homes on two of the tall trees a hundred yards away. They got a last second pre-landing shock when they victoriously swooped down to find that I was sitting nearby and quickly twisted awkwardly away to land on the roof of my garden shed and the branches of the tree behind it, glaring and CAW'ing loudly at me for disrupting their plans. Gradually though they became quieter as they got used to the idea that I wasn't going to be moved by their noisy complaining and they became bolder, first one then another coming down to grab on to the feeder hanging from the roof of the shed and to spear a tasty treat from the suet balls hanging inside the wire cage of the feeder.
I continued to languorously nibble and to watch interestedly at the comings and goings as the garden slowly calmed down again and the jackdaws were cautiously joined by the birds they had ousted with their 'shock and awe' arrival. I became aware of a noise behind me where I always have an enameled ashet* of fresh water lying out for the birds. Not wanting to disturb whatever was going on, I - very slowly - over a period of maybe a quiet and careful minute - turned to see what was happening. I found myself watching from about four feet away as a jackdaw had a bath in the afternoon sun, dipping and shaking fluffed out feathers in the cool sparkling water I had refreshed just an hour before. The Jackdaw was engrossed in what seemed to me to be an almost ecstatic performance of getting the water down deep into those feathers. I could almost feel the relief it must have been bringing.
Now what?
As you would expect, after a moment the bird became aware that bath-time was being observed and not from very far away. As we sized each other up I was struck that those cold blue eyes seemed to be working out whether I was a big enough threat to warrant an alarm call and a quick getaway or if extending the apparent pleasure could be risked. Abruptly, the bird turned back to what it was doing and apart from an occasional halt to stare at me with a "Do you mind? I'm trying to have a bath here!" kind of look, we continued like this for several minutes until the Jackdaw could bear no more of my rude attention and hopped away from the dish with its dark surround of spilt and splashed water, fluffing its feathers back into a semblance of order as it headed casually over to the apple tree in search of a few tumbled seeds. Finally able to move again, I turned back to the table and continued with my lunch in company with my hungry visitors.
*Ashet. A large, shallow, oval dish used for serving food; A term used in Scotland taken from French for plate, 'assiette'.
It's a bit daft really. I've got loads to do but done none of it today. I've spent the day mainly in the garden. Sure, I've justified it to myself by saying that I should make the most of the weather while its here and I have done some weeding and minor odds and sods around the garden but in reality most of the day has just been me goofing off, enjoying the sun and the fact that the grass - never a lawn - is looking good simply because its the shortest it's been for weeks, which hides a multitude of sins. In my delusional mode I call it 'organic' or 'natural' or even 'wildlife', but I'm fooling myself as its really none of those, even if it is teeming with well fed birds thanks to an intensive feeding program. I enjoy a garden but I'm not a gardener. So it's been me at the patio table, book and sunglasses to hand, the odd glass of dry white wine to help wash down some crusty bread, nicely juicy pears and a piece of lovely soft and slightly salty goats cheese barely drizzled with honey. My idea of a wee taste of the Languedoc in Scotland.
Bliss.
I've also caught up on a few blogs while the back of the house has been in shade this morning as I don't do squinting very well. I've read a bit as the sun has come round the house, forcing me to lay aside the laptop while I catch up on stuff I've been meaning to read but strangely for someone unemployed, who should have plenty of spare time on my hands, have not found time for.
While I've been doing that thoughts have been niggling away at me like unruly children, particularly about reading and books. A few bloggers I read have touched on the subject of bookish things over the internet lately, talking about the impact of the web on reading habits, the effect of on-line bookshops selling at knock down prices and the impact on 'real' bookshops and libraries. I've added the odd comment here or there, interested or curious, questioning or approving, all the time letting layers of content slowly build up a curmudgeonly niggling concern that, as with many other things, the world is changing and something that is important to me might be changing faster than I'm comfortable with and not in a direction I would choose.
It's particularly true of the technology around books, or more accurately reading, for what I see ahead is the potential disfigurement of reading as we know it. I wonder in twenty or thirty years if we will have books in any meaningful sense or will they be the domain of academia, dwindling numbers of bookshops, curiosity shops, reference libraries and museums or the musty collections of crusty old men like me? Will the availability of cheap books online actually reduce choice and the number of titles as these places promote the blockbuster and ignore the merely sublime. Will readers have lost contact with the reality of a book in the hand if books are simply story downloads to an i-pad reader or some other piece of technology which retail chains and publishing houses use as the opportunity to stop printing to reduce costs and maximise profits? How will we find those unexpected books if we cannot browse, can't pick them up and read the cover as we weigh the value of story and the weight of the authors effort if the book exists only online? With the increasing trend amongst kids towards talking books on i-pods for convenience, how will we create those characters to live in our minds and in our hearts if all we have is an actors interpretation being read to us? Will 'readers' question if the interpretation could be different or if the story is crippled by heavy handed abridging? Will books of the future simply be screenplays? Will we simply accept that Dracula or David Balfour or Jane Eyre have American voices attempting foreign accents?
Not that I can do anything about it of course. I can only be the curmudgeonly archetypal grumpy old man and note the change and comment.
When I was a child I loved libraries. Dad was a great reader and supporter of our local library and I too was bitten by the reading bug. As a teenager I was hit by asthma which meant I was often laid up. When that happened I read constantly, a stream of library books was supplied by Dad, not always to order but he would often pick up a wee gem for me. Like him, I became an avid and prodigious, if not altogether selective consumer of the written word. But I also became enthralled by books themselves; the hard-backed leather bound edition, the hard-backed paper sleeved novel, the cheapest paperback. I loved them all. I learned to love the feel of a book, the weight of it's mystery as it journeyed home with me in a bag strapped to my bike, or just hung from the handlebars, knees nudging the book as I pedalled; the smell of the pages as you cracked it open for the first time, old and musty perhaps if it had lain on the shelf for a long time or if it was elderly in itself; other scents, held by the pages, of the last reader, an old man who's fingers held the smell of pipe or cigarette tobacco or oil from machinery in their pores, a young woman who's delicate scent would perfume the pages for a short time. These things all spoke to me and evoked a feeling for the history of a book, almost as a living thing. I learned to love the heady smell that always seemed to be in a library. I loved the almost reverent hush of the place. The need to be quiet for once not an impossible task.
Over the years as I got older and more selective in subject matter, I began to covet books {shades of 'My Precious' ringing in my head now} that were special to me. I loved history books, books on art, religions, architecture. I loved the books of Stevenson and Scott, Ryder Haggard, Michener and so many others. I wanted to have space at home for more than an overstuffed bookcase. I wanted to have a library of my own. I succeeded when we bought this house.
I've long enjoyed trawls of antiquarian bookshops and revelled in the atmosphere of ancient books, something which has become increasingly rarer as these places have gradually disappeared to be replaced with coffee shops, tanning studios and tattoo parlours. I've watched engrossed as an old bookseller, offered an old book, put it to his face and listened carefully as he softly rrrrrp'd the pages past his nose, caressed the pages lovingly and spoke in hushed tones about the quality of the paper, the way it had been made, the fact that although the paper was French the printing was English, the pages hand cut and rough edged. He waxed lyrical about the binding and the cover, it's absolute authenticity,the skill of the maker and about the healthy smell of its history and the lack of knocks and scrapes, folds and tears that showed it had been cared for through generations. Like being guided through a cathedral by a stone mason, he was a master of a craft that sadly seemed to be out of it's time.
I'm not exclusively interested in old books though. I've cheered myself with walks round the humongous racks of large chain bookstores and enjoyed the personal touch of informed, enthusiastic and well read staff in independent bookstores. I've gone looking for particular books and come out with treasures unexpectedly unearthed in my search through the shelves. I've collected the works of Rankine, Brookmyre and Banks and enjoyed Hiasson, Coelho and Cornwall.
I've often enjoyed a book at bedtime. Does it feel the same being read on an I-Pad? I've often dropped a book from the bedside table or from the corner of a chair. I've dropped one getting up from my seat on a plane or a train. The books have survived them all. I wonder an I-Pad would.?
Oh, and I've never had a book run out of battery power although a few have run out of steam.....
I now have a room I use as a library in my house. I spend a lot of time there enjoying the atmosphere and relaxing with a well read book or attracted by the brightness of a cover to something that suits my mood. Could I have the same fun scrolling through the list of titles on my reader?
I really hope I never find out.
see you later. I'm browsing the Edinburgh Book festival brochure wondering if I can afford to attend any more events this year.
I was walking the garden yesterday prior to giving the grass a weather delayed cutting. As I walked, with my hessian bag courtesy of a well known supermarket company, {recycling for the use of} I loaded up our windfall fruit. We have two apple trees, two plum trees and 3 pear trees. The apple trees, one dessert, one cooking apple, are holding on tightly to their treasures but saw fit to offer a dozen or so perfect samples, tightly packed with juice and now firmly promised to a hot oven and a crumble crust.
The plums are past now and have been gorged mainly straight off the tree with only a quick wash and a good book to accompany them.
The oldest pear tree is at the front of the house, a sole survivor of the orchard that was here before. She greets us on arrival and we drive under her branches to get to the house. An old lady now - don't ask - a gentleman would never discuss such things - she is not as vigorous as she once must have been. This year has been a good year for her though and she has been generous with her gifts. Again, a quick wash and savoured alone, or with some goats cheese and a touch of honey, a dry white wine and a crusty loaf. A la Languedoc.
The winds of the last few days have persuaded her to shed the last of her fruit and they have lain on the grass, fallen to join some that had gone before, and left forgotten and ignored, a job down the list somewhere until yesterday and my wee sack. As I approached I was enclosed in a cloud of twenty or more drunken butterflies who had not forgotten or ignored them but had been busy making the best of that fermenting fruit. I stood amongst them and laughed at the feeling of drunk insects reeling about me and the sight of half a dozen wasps so absolutely puggled that hard beating wings couldn't be controlled enough for flight and they rolled and nose dived about the grass. At least thats how it seemed. I dont actually know if insects can get miraculous. I did the good thing and raked the fruit to one side where they all can continue to enjoy the bounty of the old tree.
As you can see from the photo from one of the other trees there won't be a shortage of pears around here anytime soon.
The tranquility of the garden, a perfect cup of tea and a great roll and sausage is spoiled, and almost dropped, by you pair of numpty school bairns coming from absolutely nowhere, screaming over the garden at about 200ft going full pelt in your bloomin jets with afterburners glowin'.
I nearly had a heart attack, Bailey has done a runner and Jess is up the apple tree completely terrified and tangled in her harness, claws dug deeply into the bark and any chance of gettin her calmed down in the next half hour is some work away . My roll - Aw man, if only you knew how much patience had gone into that, and how much expectation - is cold now and I can still hear you in the distance circling round for another low level pass.
Swines!
Bugger off up tae the Highlands where all you will scare are some tourists, a few sheep and some deer.................JESUS!
How much do you get to the gallon with one of them things anyway.
listening to - you pair in the distance creating mayhem for some other poor sod nae doot.
There are people who work night shift you know!!!!
Good Morning, what an absolute stoater of a day! Clear blue skies and the gentlest of breezes barely stirring the leaves of the apple trees at the back of the house. A complete change from the rainy, grey and windy day that was yesterday.
The lovely G has been chauffeured to the local station and departed in a work wise direction. I made and packed her lunchtime sandwich and a yogurt before we left slightly late which made the journey with its challenges of slow moving lorries and the harvesting farm machinery a mild 10 minute challenge, enough to make sure I was fully awake and not on auto pilot as I can be sometimes. The return journey was more leisurely and gave me time to appreciate what a great morning it is.
The cats have been fed and stroked and have now abandoned me for the garden, Jess harnessed to the anchor of the closest apple tree { see previous posts }. I walked her out barefoot, the cold and slightly damp grass - I wouldn't dignify it by calling it a lawn, which is more an English expression any way - was beautifully soft underfoot thanks to the mosses, to such an extent that it felt like THE most luxurious foot massage and caused me to pad smilingly and almost purring, around the rest of the garden for several contented minutes before coming back to my usual place at the kitchen table and the first dense, delicious coffee of the day.
And so now, my day ahead organised - I have to be at Edinburgh airport later to pick up our Dutch friends - and understood, I am patiently waiting for the pair of plump sausages, links, bangers, snags or snorkers - call them whatever you like - which are sitting murmuring, not quite a sizzle anyway , at me from the other side of the kitchen where they have been cooking for the best part of 40 minutes.
Now you might think that 40 minutes to cook a couple of sausages is a long time, but trust me, I know what I am doing here. The perfect sausage takes some time to do properly and, as they should be a - fairly - rare treat { this mornings guilty pleasure} that its got to be worth getting them as near perfect as possible.
Vegetarian readers should perhaps look away now as they say , or at least skip the next couple of paragraphs which may be unpleasantly graphic for you......
Firstly they are pork, not that beef is out of the question but pork is just a bit better I think. Secondly they are the right size, neither large enough to make you feel bloated and like you really shouldn't have eaten that first thing, or so small that cooking them is going to leave them dry, dusty and disappointing in the mouth or having gone to all that effort that you are still hungry. Decision time therefore - is it two or is it four?
Next, they are the right pork sausage, with a high meat content and not a miserly amount of poor quality meat padded out with rusk and God knows what else, and they are bright, glistening and packed tightly in their skins, not flopping sadly at the bottom of a pack. There is enough fat content to ensure that carefully slow cooked they are going to come from the pan moist and unctuous, tender and toothsome and with the critically important sticky chewable crust from prolonged contact with hot metal. They have been carefully lifted into a pan prepared with the absolute minimum of oil, not butter for this as the long cooking will cause it to burn and become bitter, but a nice neutral oil. Lets say sunflower as its whats to hand here in the kitchen. Again I ignore the olive oil as that too is too flavoured and I don't want anything to detract from the taste of the main event.
I don't think you should ever prick a sausage either. Leave it alone for goodness sake. In time the skin will split naturally or at the very least any excess juices will find their own way out and the fat will run free into the pan leaving the finished article hot and succulent, neither soggy or dry but with just the right amount of resistance when you bite in.
Finally take them from the pan and leave somewhere hot for just a moment or two while you get the rest of your breakfast together. This morning its just a scots morning roll, light and pale and dusted with flour. Oh, and a cup of tea. Serve them after a cooling moment - tongue juggling a mouth full blistering hot sausage is no fun and doesn't do the flavour any justice.
I intend to eat mine slowly and reflectively at the patio table in the garden.
While I have been speaking to you they have finished cooking. So, got to go as I don't want them to be past it after all that effort and the garden is calling with the promise of another foot massage...
see you later...........
Listening to Queen, 'Its a kind of magic' Seems appropriate!
Its a nice morning so maybe I will finally get that bloomin hedge chopped down a bit. think I will make a start on it when I get back from taking the lovely G to the station for the 7.38 to Edinburgh.............
Listening to............Thin Lizzie, Dancing in the Moonlight
Been on my own today: the lovely G at work and out in the evening and the weather has been dour. Cold and wet with the rain driven across the garden by a strong wind. The skies have been sullen, dark grey and the day has seemed like one long cold evening. When I was young and living on the west coast I would have called it "dreich" and pronounced it "dreech" with the ch like in loch. I had planned to be out in the garden almost all day. The hedges at front and back of the house have been left so long they are almost out of control and I am going to have to be ruthless when cutting them back. My fault of course, I have left them too long. My excuse was that there were several nests in the hedges, sparrows, blackbirds and a beautiful thrush with its ermine chest, and I wanted to wait until all the eggs had hatched and the chicks were properly fledged and away. I should in all honesty have done it before we went on holiday but of course I didn't and by the time we came back it had become a daunting task. The front hedge is about 30m long and about 2m high and 1m deep, the back about half the length but almost another metre high. So I have been procastinating, prioritising other easier jobs ahead of it and now on the day I had cleared the decks to get it done I am forced to sit inside and look at them from the window, the wind pushing them to and fro as if showing me again how big the job is going to be. Its not nice to be mocked by a hedge you know. Not funny. The wind almost cracks as it whips across the patio doors in the kitchen where I am sitting just now. It sounds like thunder at times. In an hour and a half I will be at the local station to pick up G, who has already sent me a text to say she is a bit squiffy thanks to the cocktails she and her pals have downed. It doesnt feel like a cocktail day to me though. This is a day for a whisky. Or rather this is a day for a malt, maybe a nice soft speyside to warm the mouth and stoke the inner furnace a little, or a nice salty iodine rich Islay malt like Ardbeg or Bruichladdich with the tang of the sea and echoes of cold nights kept at arms length by a good fire and a comfy chair. I'm out of my personal favourite Talisker at the moment with its peat rich scent,sharply tangy bite in the throat and its long spicy finish so I think it will be a speyside. Islay malts seem too much like a concession to winter for this time of the year, at least in my present mood this evening. Ach, thats the phone. Back in a mo............
G has called to say she is on her way to the station in Edinburgh. She has had a couple of nice cocktails based on one of her favourite drinks. Krupnik is a Polish vodka flavoured with honey and she has just described a Krupnik and pear cocktail and another honey and cinammon concoction, so I suppose I can see at least the latter being ok for a night like this although she says that in Edinburgh even though its raining its warm and there isn't a bit of wind with the flags all hanging limp on the flagpoles. What a difference a few miles makes eh?
I haven't eaten since lunchtime when I decided to have the lamb curry I had made last night and boxed up into the fridge. It felt like the right thing for today but I didn't bother with rice, just a small supermarket naan bread that I found at the bottom of the freezer and heated in the oven to use to soak up the spicy meaty juices at the bottom of the dish. Nothing special, just lamb and loads of onions cooked slowly until it was all meltingly tender and dark with spice and heat. It certainly hit the spot but was more than I would normally have for lunch so it has been enough for the rest of the day, especially since it rendered me comatose for a snoozable post lunchtime hour and the fact that I have been a completely lazy git today.
Now though I'm looking forward to G coming home, a nice cuddle and the malt that has been teasing my tastebuds memory for the last couple of hours or so.
Sitting in the garden enjoying the last of the days rays on my shoulder. The lovely G is out at a friends for dinner, an acquaintance from the early train to Edinburgh who has just recently changed jobs. So here I am, on me tod. I have opened a rather nice surprise from our meagre stock of wine in the rack in the kitchen - really must do something about that - an Argentinian oak aged 2007 shiraz called "The prop", and its a bit of a find, really nice and deeply flavoured, fruity and peppery and just now looking at the back of the bottle, a satisfying 14% abv. It is after all part of the reason to drink isn't it? Having been sitting in our warm kitchen for god knows how long too its just the right temperature and the flavour is lingering nicely on the palate. The birds are singing and if I listen carefully I can every so often hear the sheep in the fields at the edge of the village and the occasional mettalic rush of a train on its way from Edinburgh to points south on the east coast line. I feel quite mellow.......
I had a meeting today with the advisor from Careers Scotland to show me how to do a CV and tell me how to apply for jobs! He was a nice guy and after I brought him up to speed with what I have been doing so far and letting him know that I have quite high expectations, he seemed to treat me like a bit more of a proposition. I suppose these people are often dealing with folk who dont actually want to work and tend to try the sheep dip approach for everyone. Its not me. I'm going to go stir crazy if I dont get some work soon, and its only been five weeks if you include my garden leave. I told ham about one of the jobs I am applying for and he was able to point out a similar vacancy that has just come out today in another local area so I will be having a go for that. My problem, if it really is a problem, rather than my perception/fear is how employers are going to feel about me coming from a particular background where my role is not expected to come from. I hope it doesn't exclude me from interviews. I am trying to write my CV to highlight just how transferable my skills are and I hope I can do this clearly. I feel I have had enough this week and am going to take the day off tomorrow for me and get some stuff done around the house thats been bugging me and also spend a bit of time in the garden if the weather is good.
Listening to............Leonard Cohen "Take this waltz"
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