Changing Rooms

i  remember

(in aleppo once

back in our early oh-what-a-wonderful-world days

when nothing was too much trouble)

having been given

in this our first hotel

a room with a view

overlooking the car park

and sensing your disquiet

daring to ask  the manager

(a large man with little english

and a fierce moustache)

for a room 

(if that was at all possible

and not too much trouble)

with a view out to sea

(if there was such a room)

and i remember exactly how he leant back

in his black leather armchair

and looked at us

from one to the other

and twiddled his thumbs

then closed his eyes

and nodded

and oh the triumph of  it all

the relief

the joy

(whereas 

as i discovered much  much later

you simply wanted

a room nearer the lift).

Up in the Orkneys

 WW2 poem by Captain Blair RN who had been posted to Scapa Flow:

This bloody town’s a bloody cuss
No bloody trains, no bloody bus,
And no one cares for bloody us
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody roads are bloody bad,
The bloody folks are bloody mad,
They’d make the brightest bloody sad,
In bloody Orkney.

All bloody clouds, and bloody rains,
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains,
The Council’s got no bloody brains,
In bloody Orkney.

Everything’s so bloody dear,
A bloody bob, for bloody beer,
And is it good? – no bloody fear,
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody ‘flicks’ are bloody old,
The bloody seats are bloody cold,
You can’t get in for bloody gold
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody dances make you smile,
The bloody band is bloody vile,
It only cramps your bloody style,
In bloody Orkney.

No bloody sport, no bloody games,
No bloody fun, the bloody dames
Won’t even give their bloody names
In bloody Orkney.

Best bloody place is bloody bed,
With bloody ice on bloody head,
You might as well be bloody dead,
In bloody Orkney

REPLY:

Captain Hamish ‘Bloody’ Blair
Isna posted here nae mair
But naebdy seems tae bloody care
In bloody Orkney.

                                     Ward Hill,   HOY

When we  took the ferry to Hoy,  I  talked to the ticket collector(from Stromness) who was a very amusing and friendly guy and on the way back I told him about meeting Hoy’s celebrity, Jack Rendall,  and how interesting a story-teller he was and did he (the ticket-collector) know him and he shrugged and said, ” A dinnae ken ony o thae hillbillies.”
That’s what I now enjoy saying as I switch off  things like Celebrity Big Brother.

                      Rackwick, HOY                   

The glen route through the gap in the hills leads on to the bay at  Rackwick.
Anna and I set off  for Rackwick from Northern Hoy past  Sandy Loch (the one place on Hoy which  Geoge Mackay Brown disliked) when the black cloud overhead opened and turned the path into a fierce little stream………

I turned back but Anna, made of sterner stuff,  pressed on to Rackwick where she was rescued from the cold and the wet and returned to North Hoy by a good Samaritan all the way from Canada driving a Caravanette. (You can always rely on a good Samaritam to be passing by when you most need her…in my experience. You, gentle reader, are probably a pretty good Samaritan yourself when/if the opportunity arises.)
Next day, the sun came out, the birds burst into song,  the dogs wagged their tails and everyone had a spring in their step and a smile on their face.

Orkney’s okay. I love it.

Painting and Photography

This is a photograph I took early morning while waiting for my coffee…

Sort of like Manet’s painting of the bar at the Folies-Bergère only without the barmaid. And without the mirror. And without the customers. And without the ambiguities. And…..
It’s a photograph. It’s nothing like Manet’s painting.

What if I play about with the photo, zoom into the barman making my cappuccino?

Okay. Makes me notice the barman at least.

What if I take another photograph when more customers have arrived, get some figures into the barscape…?

Better?  Better……mirror reflection on the glass table….solitary refelective woman in the foreground…..busy baristo in the background….interesting woman entering left behind the flowers…

What if I focus on the woman in the foreground?

Interesting. Like the question that floats up when you see the barmaid in Manet’s painting, what’s she thinking about? She contrasts with the busy barman. And the flower and the vase in the foreground are attention-catching..

Or the woman behind the flowers on the left – what if I play around with her…?

Interesting. Certainly plenty of ideas for a few paintings there….

if only I could paint.

THE APPLE TREE

I am in the garden listening with Kate to someone  singing  on the little radio my mother bought for me last summer from a door-to-door salesman driving a white Morris Traveller. She also bought 4 grapefruit spoons from him which we never use because we’re not really grapefruit people. Too bitter. Too fussy. But mother likes rituals. “If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well,” she has told me more times than I care to remember.

“Would you like me to take your picture?” the salesman asked when she brought out lemonade for us all on the big silver tray with ice cubes clinking against the sides of the crystal glasses in time with her steps. He had unclipped the camera dangling from a strap round his neck even before he asked,  big, black and expensive-looking. “I’ll bring you the prints next time I call, ” he promised.   ”No charge. Free, gratis and for nothing.  Now where shall I put you? Over there, I think.”  It was like he was some big Hollywood film producer and we were his actors. “Yes, over there. By that tree, ” and he took  picture after picture of us sitting on the lawn under the apple tree, with Kate jumping  for a ball which he kept throwing up into the air for her to catch and which she kept bringing back to him, dropping at his feet then looking up at him, watching , anticipating  his every movement, poised to go, tense with excitement. ”Perfect…Just one  more…” he kept saying.  ” Last one…wait for it…watch the ball…… watch the ball.. now….that’s it…..perfect.” He had to move quickly after he had thrown the ball to press the shutter button at exactly the right moment to get us all in the picture, especially Kate,  and in exactly the right position.
I think he was a pretty good photographer.
He must have taken at least a dozen pictures before he was satisfied then he drove himself out of our lives.

That was about a year ago.
Since then a lot has changed I think as I switch off the radio. Since then my mother has re-married, my best friend has moved to some place abroad – Kenya or Nigeria – one of these African places, and I have stopped eating. Oh and a 4th thing – the apple tree has gone – some sort of tree disease that couldn’t be cured.
I keep hoping the salesman will pitch up in his Morris Traveller with the  photo of  that day when we still had the apple tree and were all smiling and drinking lemonade.
I’m not banking on it though.
Of course I haven’t stopped eating altogether and I know all about anorexia and bulimia and all that eating-disorder stuff, who doesn’t? Pick up any magazine and there’s an article either on ‘How to tackle obesity’ or ‘What makes your daughter want to look like a stick insect’. It sometimes seems that half the world can’t stop eating and the other half can’t start.
I have to go once a week to talk to Mrs. Hunter who used to be a Modern Studies teacher but couldn’t take it any more and moved into Guidance. She’s about mother’s age, always bronzed as if she’s just come back from 2 weeks in Benidorm. Very intense. She gets more upset than I do when I talk to her. Because I’ve read so much about it I probably know more about what causes stuff like anorexia than she does. I make things up. ” I just hate the way I look, ” I tell her. ” I’d like to look like you. Do you work at it or is that just the way you naturally are? ” She ends up telling me all about herself  while I listen with a sympathetic nod now and again to encourage her when she slows down which I don’t think is how it’s supposed to be.
Anyway.
Of course I do eat but not when anyone’s watching. I’m sort of  a secret eater.  I don’t have much of an appetite any more but I’m not daft – I know that if I don’t eat I’ll die.
Eventually.
But then we all will.
Eventually.
I fiddle with my radio but there’s nothing I want to listen to so I shout to my mother that I’m taking Kate for a walk and she comes out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron and hands me Kate’s lead. We saw a depressing film on television around Christmas time about a farmer whose young dog slipped out of  its chain and chased a whole flock of sheep over a cliff. Killed the lot of them. The dog got shot but it was really the farmer’s fault – he hadn’t trained the dog properly, hadn’t made sure it was securely chained,  and ever since,  mother has seen Kate as a potential sheep-killer and warns me not to go near Collithie farm or if I do to keep Kate on her lead.

We don’t go near Collithie. Instead we go in completely the opposite direction,  across the river and the railway line and up the hill to what’s left of Balwearie castle, just an archway really which you can see from miles around on either side. We’re in sheep country again so I put Kate on her lead. Something to do with the chemical composition of the soil gives the saliva of the sheep which graze on this hill a sort of  yellow colour so that they seem to have gold teeth. It’s a funny place. I like it.
I can see someone standing in the archway and as I get closer I hear someone talking. I’m glad I’ve got Kate with me. I let her off the lead but when I get to the archway there’s  no-one there. There’s a cigarette stub on a flagstone and the usual bits of plastic litter  but that could be from weeks ago. Kate sniffs around, pees against one of the stones, sits down and looks up at me, awaiting instructions.
“No…… no can do…….  (I can hear someone talking again, on the other side of the archway. Kate pricks up her ears.)  No….. sorry …( a man’s voice - a young man – foreign accent ) …. because I can’t that’s why..(getting angry)…don’t say that…….nobody……..the other side of the bloody world, that’s where……… okay…(apologetic now )……okaydokay….. ( irritated)…okay…..If……if I can…. sure…..tomorrow then…… I suppose so…… yes……..yes, me too…..(but he doesn’t mean it)…just listen…. ” but just as we are all listening –  Kate, me, whoever’s on the other end of the phone –  he materialises in the gap  in the archway and Kate immediately jumps between me and him and snarls, lips drawn back to show wicked fangs. “No problem… we’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he says then pocketing his phone he says to me, “Hey! that’s some racist hound you’ve got there and him as black as me!”
He laughs.
He is so tall I don’t know what to say, he is like one of these basketball players you see on television who reach up and drop the ball DOWN into the net, so I just tell Kate “SIT!”and Kate sits and immediately loses interest in him and I smile and drop my eyes to his trainers which must be whatever the number is for really outsize shoes. He takes off his rucksack and sits down next to Kate who begins to look uneasy again. He’s quite thin, really, perhaps ‘lean’ is a better word.  A red, short-sleeved shirt that looks great against the colour of his skin and….”Would you like to know who I was talking to back there? ” he asks, unzipping the front pocket of his rucksack and taking out a carton and a glass and putting them  on a conveniently table-shaped stone in front of him. His voice is quite high-pitched. I sort of expected a deep sound. But okay. I like the way he sounds. I can hear laughter there.
” All the way up the hill and but for your racist hound here all the way down again.  Some folk are like that, they just go on and on and on. And then some. Would you like something to drink?” and he holds up the carton  for me to read that it’s freshly squeezed orange juice. I nod and smile and he pours me a full glass. He scratches Kate between her ears. She looks mildly surprised.  ” I kinda like it up here, ” he says
 I sip my glass of orange juice and wish I’d brought my camera with me. The orange juice is cool and sweet and just what I feel like.
He looks at the countryside spread out below us. The river glints in the sun. I know how he feels. That’s why I come up here. It’s not a particularly happy feeling. Not a sad one either. On a nice day with the sky so big and everything down there so small…it’s a sort of religious feeling.
“Me too, ” I tell him.
” Did you know all this used to be a big mining centre? ” he asks. ” Not all that long ago. And what with the rising price of gold and stuff there’s  every chance of it being reactivated. Know what ‘reactivated’ means? “
I nod.
” Know how much gold was worth when this mine was closed?
I shake my head.
” $20 an ounce. ”  I don’t know whether that’s a high price or a low price but I look as if I did.
” Know what it’s worth now?”
I shake my head.
” Go on,” he says. ” Take a guess. “
A hundred, ” I tell him after a pause.
” More. “
” Five hundred? “
He makes a lifting gesture with his hand.
” A thousand?”
” $1600.”
He takes a swig of orange juice straight from the carton then points
with it. ” What’s that hill over there called?”
” Stronmore, ” I tell him. ” It means ‘big nose’.
” Yep, Stronmore, ” he says. ” It’s another one. It’s on my little list. Listen. I’ll tell you something really interesting but keep it as a secret, okay? Between you and me.” He looks round, left and right then leans towards me, lowering his voice. “The mine here is going to be reopened. It’s expected to produce 154,000 ounces of gold and 589,000 ounces of silver over the next 10 years. That’s the good news. The bad news  is that in 10 years time this won’t be the same place. You won’t be allowed up here for a start. Ever heard of Atta Whalpa? “
I shake my head.
” Or Midas?”
I make ears with my hands. “Ee-aw ee-aw!”
He  laughs and finishes off his orange juice.

We sit for a long time as if we were under a good spell and the first person to move would be the one that broke the spell. Or that’s how it felt for me. Perhaps not   —   I don’t even know his name.
” I miss my best friend, ” I tell him. ” She’s gone to Kenya. Or Nigeria.”
” She a white girl? “
” Yes.”
” She’ll like  Kenya, ” he says. “Not so sure about Nigeria though.”
“And my mother’s remarried. “
” Did your father run off with someone else?”
” No.
”  Well? “
” He died.”
” How? “
” He drowned.”
” How? Where?”
” Ireland. He was fishing. In a loch. “
” And? “
” He had to step from one boat to another. He slipped and fell in. He
couldn’t swim. “
” Do you like the man she’s married?”
”  He’s all right. “
”  How’s your mother feel about all this? “
”  She worries. “
”  Ah. She doesn’t know the trick. “
”  What trick? “
He looks at his watch, gets to his big feet, stretches, yawns, hands me the empty orange juice carton. ” Do me a favour, get rid of that down there, ” he says. ” What’s the hound called?”
“Kate, ” I tell him.
” Well Kate, ” he says, “tomorrow at this time I’ll be half a world away from here but I’ll remember this place. And you. And you, my little soul-mate, ” he says and holds out his hand not to shake, but to be smacked in such a nice friendly way.

” What’s the trick? ” I call after him.
He stops, turns round.
” You’ll learn it, ” he calls back, waves then carries on downhill.
” But what is it?”
He stops again.
” Not to care. “
” About what? “
” About anything. “ 

Kate and I sit in the warm sun long after he has gone and then I realize I still have his glass but it’s too late to do anything about it. I’ll look after it, keep it till he comes back. And the orange juice carton. I’ll keep that too.  And the secret.
A plane crosses the cloudless sky, high up, heading for Spain. Or Africa.
“Well, Kate, ” I say. ” I’m feeling hungry. Let’s go.”

A Remembered Moment

The hen,

and behind it

a line of waddling ducklings -

khaki campbells -

which it had step-mothered 

*

one duckling

which had strayed behind

rushing to catch up

flapping tiny wings

cheeping its panic 

*

above it

a hoodie crow

on  the tree top,

black body, grey head,

launching  itself,

clumsy, ponderous 

*

and to complete the scene

me watching  it all

through the kitchen window

plate in one hand

dish cloth in the other,

helpless.

 

THE BOY WHO FELL OUT OF THE AIR

        THE FALL OF ICARUS

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Daedalus stood at the window,
stared down on  the wine-dark sea,
at the white-sailed ships with somewhere to go,
at the sea birds flying free.

Icarus looked up at his father,
watched him sawing wood
then helped to sweep up the white sawdust
like a good son should.

What’s in that pot on the burner?
What do you have in these sacks?
Why are you carefully sticking those feathers
one by one into that wax? 

Father, what toy are you making
with wood and feathers and glue?
And why do you work here all the day long
and half  the night too?

Why do we work for these people?
Why have  they locked our door?
Why can I never go out to play
with the children on the shore?

Daedalus stood at the window,
staried out at the clear blue sky
and the birds that passed all flew in from the left.
He felt his mouth go dry.

Icarus looked up at his father.
His eyes were full of fun
but his father’s eyes went cold as the stars
when he looked up at the sun.

Tighten those straps on your shoulders.
Tighten those straps on your arm
and listen to every word that I say
and you cannot come to harm.

Fit your fingers into the canvas.
Spread your fingers out wide.
Now lift your arms up to your shoulders.
Now sweep them down to your side.

He led Icarus up to the turret
that towered over the town.
Watch what I do then you do the same.
My wings won’t let you down.

These wings are the best I’ve ever made
but my skill can be undone.
We must fly low.  We dare not go
too close to that blazing sun.

Daedalus stood poised like a diver.
Like a diver he fell through the air
and the air let him fall through its fingers
as if it didn’t care

till his wings stirred and some  invisible force
carried him over the town -
the slightest movement of his arms
sent him up, or sideways, or down

and Icarus flew right behind him,
laughing his joy out loud
for the air felt safe as houses
and his body light as a cloud.

The gods were alerted by  Minos
shouting, cursing, tearing his hair
while the boy and his father,  too clever by half,
trespassed through his air.

It only takes a second;
it catches you unprepared
- first the impulse of joy and then the act,
the deed  that can’t be repaired.

The careful work of a lifetime
in a moment is undone.
Wisdom ignored,  Icarus soared
up to the golden sun.

He did not hear his father’s cries
nor see the red wax run;
he did not see the fragile feathers
drop off one by one.

Where was the dolphin, the sailor’s friend?
Where  the ship? the look-out’s  cry?
Why did everything turn away
from the boy falling out of the sky?

O father what is happening?
O father what have I done?
Why are they tumbling round my head
the sky and the sea and the sun?

A splash of white starred  the wine-dark sea
and Icarus was gone.
The gods had other things to do.
His father flew hopelessly on.

Why was no rescuing eagle  
summoned by  a simple nod? 
Which of us would not have saved him
if we had been a god?

Spain, Czechoslovakia, France, and the rules of grammar

What a country!
Pontedeume……Oviedo……Lugo…..Caceres…….Santiago…. Pontevedra …… Malaga……Pamplona…..Oviedo……Vigo….
I was only there for a year but I’ve such fond memories of so many places.
Vigo
Who was the guy who fiddled his way through Spain? Landed at Vigo with a violin and great expectations? Mmm  L-something… Lionel?..Leslie?…. nope. Gone. See my memory? The name’s departed, flitted off, no longer accessible.

Anyway, what was I on about? Ah yes. Czechoslovakia. Whatever happened to Czechoslovakia? There was a civil war, I remember that much though between who I’m not so clear about. Should that be ‘between whom’? And should it be ‘about between whom’ (you can’t end a sentence on a preposition)? But can you have concu -
One thing I remember though: when I was 15, in France, on the Seine, a wee village called……..anyway I had learnt to swim there and with all the confidence of teenage youth I struck out to see how far across I could swim. But along came one of these long sinister wave-making barges. A wave broke over my head. I tried to clear my nose. I went under. When I got to the surface I tried to swim back to the shore. Unfortunately I had forgotten how to swim. Then I was breathing water. Then air. Then water. Then more water.
And then I remember opening my eyes to see this circle of bright faces looking down at me. Angels. This is heaven, I thought. I have drowned and my mother is going to be so upset. Then what had happened came back to me.
“Ou suis-je?” I asked, very correctly (Miss Yule would have been proud of me).
Two guys, fortunately good swimmers,  had seen my plight and dragged me ashore.
Yes, I remember all that as though it was yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was ………..years ago. Dear god, long long years  ago!
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Laurie Lee, the ‘Cider with Rosie’ man. But what was the book called, the one about his trek through Spain? He landed in Vigo, with a violin and all the confidence of youth and a way with words as well as with notes. But what was his book called? ‘Travels with a Donkey’ , that  was Robert Louis, but what was Laurie Lee’s book called?
Do you remember?

I suppose I’ll have to google it. Now how……

UP MY STREET (or WYND or VENNEL)

THE BIGTON ROAD, SHETLAND

This is a single-track road in Shetland that might have been built by the Romans (if they had ever got this far). It takes you to Bigton and St Ninian’s Isle where Douglas Coutts, a local schoolboy, discovered a hoard of Pictish brooches and rings (and the jawbone of a dolphin) in a larch box. The planners have been generous with their allowance of passing places. (Looks a bit like the Nazca lines in the Atacama desert)

A TRACK IN TURKEY

)

This is a rough camel track in Turkey with a weary young girl pulling at a reluctant camel carrying building stuff to the top of the hill where they were extending a restaurant. When I met up with them later as they were preparing to descend, the builder gave the camel a smack on the rump with his shovel just to help it on its way.

 MAIN STREET, STROMNESS

This is a street in Stromness which has the atmosphere of a Giorgio de Chirico painting.

 

Sylvia Brown’s Hostel is near here, the friendliest and most relaxing place to stay in this most friendly of towns. You bump into students from Estonia, painters from Peru , dentists from Denmark, violinists from Vienna, anglers from Angelsy, lap-dancers from Lerwick,  all varieties of human life is to be found here. Also nearby, with great views across the harbour,  is the impressive Art Gallery which was having a wine and cheese affair the first time I went there and a whisky and no cheese affair the second. And not just any whisky. Highland Park whisky. And that’s not the only surprise, they have some interesting and striking artworks on display.

 The occasional car drives past but as yet there is no traffic problem.

BUTT’S WYND, ST. ANDREWS    

 

St Andrews’ Butts Wynd, a link for students between the Quad and the Library and also the link between the Scores and North Street. Funny name, the cause of much coarse  guffawing. The Students Union used to be up there on the corner is but no longer. How things change behind your back, when you’re not looking.

As names go, I prefer Dundee’s  ’Horsewater Wynd’.

Of course we’re different

Last month, downtown  Takoradi,  I  got  talking to a writer guy from Mozambique  and he said:

”  Of course we’re different. The way we move our hands. The way we walk, run, sit. The way we smile. The lilt of our speech. The way we sing. The timbre of our voices. The way we dance,  greet each other, laugh. The way we sit together. The way we dress.  Our hair.  Our teeth. What we talk about… Of course we’re different – not better, not worse, just different “

 This morning, home again, on the morning bus to the town centre,  I thought about what he had said.

SNOB

I automatically downgrade anyone who says ‘between you and I’ – for some reason that is a grammatical error up with which I am unable to put: and anyone who uses the word ‘posh’; and anyone in a restaurant/cafe/plane/bus who speaks  so loudly that you can’t escape his/her conversation to make your own; and bars/pubs where as soon as they open, switch on muzak in the belief that human nature abhors a vacuum; and people who use a knife not to aid their eating but to make that scraping noise on the plate;  and passengers  who put their feet up on the seat opposite; and people who laugh loudly, especially in eating places (” the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind “);  and people who laboriously tell you something boring then say  ”but having said that” and go on  to give you at length the other side of the story;  and people who say ‘actually’ and ‘basically’;  and  obese people; and cyclists on pavements;  and people who say things like  ” being given a medal was literally the icing on the cake ” ; and presenters like Clarkson and Oliver and Robinson who with such limited talents are so ubiquitous; and

Things I Remember From School

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

….strange how stuff from school days sticks, resurfaces, acquires new meaning as you grow old(er)……
I find myself humming Schubert’s ‘The Trout’ taught us by Mr. Ronald Center, our inspiring music teacher. As well as ‘ Who is Sylvia?, and  Schumann’s ‘ To France and to freedom two grenadiers/from bondage in Russia were tramping/And bowed with shame and foreboding they came/Where lay Russian soldiers camping...’

And I can still recite  Longfellow’s Blacksmith poem which I still don’t like much but which our very uninspiring English teacher made us learn by heart (as well as  Shylock’s

” Signor Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys and my usances.

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.

You call me misbeliever, cutthroat dog,

And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine—

And all for use of that which is mine own. “

which I like more and more – but never got round to finding out what exactly was Shylock’s ‘gaberdine’.

And  she also made us learn Gray’s ‘  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way‘ which I admire now but  found impossibly dull then

and ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’

and so on.

I can clearly remember the context in which I learned all these scraps – the teacher (Miss B, was that a wig she was wearing? Mr C with his long black hair which was okay because he was a musician), the classroom (cupboard on the right side, windows on the left) , the pupils ( Jimmy H who laughed at everything, Grace L who was so tall and so beautiful, Ralph M who couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘r’ and whose father owned the local fish and chip shop), the feelings (anxiety, embarrassment, amusement, interest, boredom):
Jimmy now farms his father’s farm;  Grace went to Southampton; Ralph was killed in a car crash; the teachers…….I didn’t go to any reunions; I lost touch.

But over the years I have kept in touch with the poems and songs  -  the village blacksmith with his strong and sinewy hands, badly-done-by Signor Antonio, the two patriotic Grenadiers, the beautiful Sylvia, the constant ploughman  -  they have all stayed with me,  and in addition I have become aware of  and appreciate the hidden ideas and the skills which created and infused these poems and songs we learnt so reluctantly so long ago…….

And oft, when on my couch I lie/ In vacant or in pensive mood/ They flash upon that inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

They comfort me.

Festival in the Rain

EMBRA IN THE RAIN

Edinburgh in the rain at  Festival time is okay. You just jump on (or into) a taxi or whatever and get yourself transported to a show – any show – there are thousands of them – in theatres, churches, streets,  telephone kiosks, castles, bus shelters, people’s dining rooms, bedrooms…..and if it’s still raining when you come out you go for a meal or a drink, you meet someone interesting, you don’t even mention the weather and before you can say Inakunyamvua, you’ve made a friend, or a lover, or a useful contact who lives in the south of France and would willingly swap houses/wives/life-styles with you for a couple of weeks next summer

Then, if it’s still raining when you come out, you can go to another show. And so on….. show – bar-show – bar – show – bar……There’s always something happening – rain or shine – outside or inside –  day or night…..in Edinburgh  at  Festival Time.

Aavjo

 

there is no art

to find the mind’s construction in the face

..

She didn’t even say good-bye
nor aurevoir
nor hasta la vista;

nor kwa heri
nor totsiens
nor abar dekha hobe;

nor zai geen
nor auf wiedersehen
nor adeus
nor sayonara
nor slan leat……

just  half  turned,
half raised one hand
(only four fingers showing),
gave me a look that said nothing
head slightly tilted back
no smile
no expression….

then I was gone

I did look back
over my shoulder
but so was she.

Queen Victoria, very nice chap.

I like nothing better than taking photographs of my lovely Amelia against some famous landmark: Amelia and The Eiffel Tower; Amelia and Nelson’s Column; Amelia and The Coliseum; Amelia and Edinburgh Castle; Amelia and The Angel of the North; Amelia and The Great Wall of China; Amelia and Ayers Rock; Amelia and The Great Pyramid.   I have them all.

Last week we went to India so I could photograph her with The Taj Mahal in the background.  The Taj Mahal looked  wonderfully grand, touched with pink by the setting sun and framed by majestic palm trees. It brought to mind that wonderful photograph of Princes Di  seated on the little wall  in front of the oblongs of water with this magnificent building behind her not quite managing to put her in the shade. People have often remarked when I show them my photographs that my Amelia has a touch of Diana about her, the eyes mainly I think.

My photograph of Amelia in front of  the Matterhorn is another that people seem to like but my own favourite is of Amelia against the background of The Victoria Falls, not just because I have managed to catch little rainbows in the spray behind her and the water seeming to hang in the air like smoke but mainly because I seem to have finally captured that little smile of hers that I think is just as enigmatic and beautiful  as the Mona Lisa’s.

The one Amelia likes best is of her outside Buckingham Palace where the Queen and Prince Philip waited patiently till I had taken the photograph before passing between us.

Let’s go

 

ESTRAGON: I’m going.
VLADIMIR:   Help me up first, then we’ll go together.
ESTRAGON: You promise?
VLADIMIR:   I swear it!
ESTRAGON: And we’ll never come back?
VLADIMIR:   Never!
ESTRAGON: We’ll go to the Pyrenees.
VLADIMIR:   Wherever you like.
ESTRAGON: I’ve always wanted to wander in the Pyrenees.

According to Oscar Wilde, ‘  Life imitates Art ‘.
Sometimes.
For instance when I was  asked,  ”Where are you off to this summer?”  the above exchange from Waiting For Godot crossed my mind so I said “I’ve always wanted to wander in the Pyrenees” and having made this destination public felt bound to live up to it.
So.
I got the overnight bus to London, the train to Dover, the ferry to Calais then by taxi, train, bus, train, bus  and hitchhike to Caldes de  Boi then uphill by foot after foot to the  Estany Negre with wild horses in the foreground and the distant blue peaks of Els Encantats (?) towering in the background.
Here I was at last, in the Park of  Swirling Waters,  Aiguestortes,  in the Pyrenees,  where I’d always wanted to wander.
Thanks be to Samuel Beckett.

( On the way back, at Santander, taking photographs behind the cafe at the ferry terminal – the PELIGRO  sign obscured by a parked van –  I was savaged by a couple of Alsatians. One on each ankle.  Impressive inartistic scars and a few photographs to show for it all . But that’s life for you. )