Bagpipes, Porridge, Sheep: the adventure begins

She arrived on a Monday afternoon, wearing the dazed, haggard look of someone who had just taken three planes and flown 5,000 miles.

Lovely Nif was on her own much of the time, as I was working and only had the evenings to spend. Her collections of photos prove that she spent her hours wandering aimlessly and often getting lost, something which she enjoys intensely.

Our first joint outing was to the Storytelling Centre for an evening of stories from Norway and northern Scotland. The woman from Norway was particularly entertaining, as she would ease into a tale with sound effects, ringing a small bell or plucking solemn cords on a mouth bow.

Throughout Nif's stay I managed to be very lucky with a windfall of free tickets to local shows. The first of these was to see the Red Hot Chili Pipers. The Liquid Room is truly the foulest venue I have ever visited, and while I admit that my concert-going life has not exactly been the most varied, this was still the first time I had nearly lost a shoe trying to walk over a sticky floor. A bizarre sense of camaraderie erupts as people gingerly manoeuvre past each other, creating a sickly chorus of stick and peel soles.

The show opened with Irish singer/songwriter Paul Casey. He is a wonderful singer with a warm voice, and I felt bad that the din of conversation continued over his playing. I wonder what it is like to perform before a group of people who are not listening.

The Chili Pipers were fabulous. While it isn’t the kind of music I could listen to on my stereo, when it's live - oh, yes, I certainly do want to hear the intro to Thunderstruck played on a trio of bagpipes. Beside us there was a little old couple who had received tickets as a gift. They looked so confused and out of place in the dingy environment, where theatrical smoke was being pumped into the closed atmosphere to further cloud the view of how very dirty it was. The only time this couple looked to come alive with joy was when the band slowed things down with Highland Cathedral and a couple of other traditional tunes. By the end of the show I didn’t care about anything - the mood was wonderful and almost everyone was moving and wanting more. The showdown between the drummers was particularly glorious.

Friday night we were out again, this time to see Madama Butterfly at the Playhouse. I had already seen it, but Nif had never been to the opera and once again the tickets were free, so off we went.

After months without television, I was now pleased to discover how much more patient I was. The scene that had annoyed me the most the first time I saw it - when she stands from dusk until dawn, waiting for her long-lost husband to return - became my favourite this time around. Near the end however I did have to suppress the urge to yell at her to shut up and stab herself already. Nif herself reported to have enjoyed the second half much more. When the lights had gone up during the intermission, her expression told me she was going to kill someone while simultaneously slipping into a coma.

On Saturday I dragged Nif to the farmer’s market, where she discovered a whole new world of porridge. She had the cranachan with raspberries and cream while I loaded up on toasted hazelnut and white chocolate bars.

We took the train to Linlithgow and I was surprised to be feeling so tense about visiting. It didn’t help that the train was full, which always makes me touchy. After a while I mellowed out, as we wandered through the church and the palace before having a pub lunch. I even managed to shock and slightly offend the Canadian preacher who oversees the parish at St. Michael's. When he mentioned that they were thinking of installing some small windmills on the side of the church to help with their energy bills, I smiled broadly and remarked “Ah! Frappe a la pigeon!” Apparently, the thought had not crossed his mind previously, and he immediately walked away.

The best part of the day was a stroll near some farms to see the lambs and take in the green signs of spring. It rained a few times but we didn’t mind and just took our time.
On the way back we stopped by a local house where the owner had decided to turn their front garden into a Mecca of tackiness. I shall let the photo speak for itself.
Next time, we take on Glasgow.

Born on a Sunday

For Nif, the most lovely figure model in the land.

She was born on a Sunday, as time was sighing through its slow dance.
Outside, Summer was giving up his youth and the Goddess was dabbing her wrists with the humid sweetness of the first fallen leaves. The restless trance of long days and frantic copulation had passed; the world moved gracefully into the lavish display of the harvest. In this era of decadent plumpness, she took her first breaths. From then on, her body grew in time to a slow, steady pulse, which swung between the practice of drawing in for the winter and the spilling out of the season’s riches. This is the time when the Goddess begins to gather the clutter of creation like fine ingredients, preparing the pieces to stew during the months of dark interlude.
All of these mysteries have been folded softly into her flesh the way smooth batter succumbs to the spatula’s desire to see it curve again and again, the slow wave of sugared promise saying “yes, yes, just one more time.”
Born into understanding of lemon zest, of deep red wine, of the endless possibilities of chocolate. Born to know the scent of the apple tree, even when the orchard lies frozen under a winter sky and the streams of springtime sap are like cold toffee under the grey bark. Born with hips that love deep drums - sombre, sultry laments that vibrate through the room, out the door, over the lake and all the way to forever, forever, forever. Born into candlelight, into the sun stretching with lazy tenderness, into shadow dances. Born with an instinct for the fabric of life, a flowing velvet, silk and cotton curiosity, with a secret leather lining and bells that get her laughing.
Is this an image worth trying to capture on a canvas? Oh, yes, most certainly.

Dedicated to spiced chocolate

Spent a day out in Stirling, mostly lost inside the Thistle Shopping Centre. I find shopping malls so surreal - the white lighting, the smell of disinfectant, the clash of music flowing out of the entrances to the stores, and the sheer volume of stuff.
By the time I left the mall, I had forgotten where I was and had to walk into the old town for awhile to remind myself that I was Stirling. Then proceeded to Beanscene where I drank a beautifully bitter mocha, followed by a “spiced chocolate,” all the while staring across at a black and white photo of Mr. Cohen holding a shot glass of some promising potion. Bless Nif for sending me Book Of Longing so I didn't have to wait for months it to be published over here. (I shall take this opportunity to announce to the world that Nif is now 31, and juicier and more fabulous than ever)
Every night it gets darker a little sooner, and we have experienced a few serious bouts of Scottish rain – huge, cold drops that fall by the millions and are accompanied by an overall dim gothic glow. The stones glisten; the moss turns to velvet, and the last squeeze of lilac scent is battered from the drooping husks of the flowers.
I have finally found somewhere to buy local veggies and meat. The grocery stores here are so dismal – they fly over organic apples from New Zealand and the USA, when the UK produces some of the most beautiful organic apples in the world. This wee place is just a 30-minute walk away and they are open each Saturday for four hours. The best spinach I have tasted for years. Can’t quite get into kale, but I’ll work on it. And a lovely, plump spaghetti squash. Cooking apples, and also some advice on where to find the best blackberries. My latest dessert discovery is fruit cobbler – so much better than fruit crumble.
The other news is that we have purchased a keyboard, for Andrew is now taking piano lessons. I have learned how to do the warm up for the right hand, which is the first few bars of Beethoven’s 9th. This glorious machine can make more than 500 sounds, including footsteps, helicopter, laughter, and Andrew’s favourite, church organ.
Finally, my parents will be here in just over a week. We plan to tour them around old buildings and feed them haggis and neeps.
Blah, blah, blah. Every time I mean to sit down and write, I have no words. It’s not that I have ceased to be fascinated by the world, because I haven’t. I just don’t know how to put it. Hopefully my senses will shake up soon.
Byeee.