Frog Songs

It isn't only birds that sing at this time of year. I was digging over the vegetable patch yesterday (which explains why I'm tired today!) and my efforts were accompanied by a froggy song coming from the little garden pond. S/he was a good sized creature as well. I could see her wee head poking out from the vegetation, but whenever she realised that somebody was watching her she would disappear beneath the lily pads. I would go back to my digging (watched with extreme interest by the robin that lives here too). After a moment or so the froggy serenade would begin all over again. Notice that there is some frogspawn in there. Three cheers. I love frogs, even if we do sometimes find them hopping up the hallway!

Owls and others

I was late to bed last night. Standing cleaning my teeth, with the window slightly ajar I became aware of a strange noise. It sounded like a gang of unruly teenagers whooping and calling in the night, but we don't have very many of those in this village - a handful, but not many! And anyway it seemed much too late (or early, as Miss Jean Brodie might have put it) for them to be marauding about the playing fields. Then I realised what it was - owls.
We hear them often in our village, usually in spring and autumn. There are a number of mature trees and old buildings and the owls seem to be thriving. I'm not sure which kind they are and suspect there are several different sorts because there are differences in the calls. Last night's though was a resonant, spooky, traditional 'whoo whoo' sound with responses from elsewhere. You don't see them very often, although driving home late you will occasionally glimpse pale wings floating through the night. Nice to listen to them though.
Having gone late to bed, I woke early. Didn't get much sleep at all last night and a long day's work to get through. But the dawn chorus was in full swing. It always fascinates me how gradually the silence of winter gives place to all this singing. By April it will be deafening. Last weekend, I seized the opportunity of a fine sunday to do a bit of gardening and noticed that the garden was alive with birds, including a fat thrush. He seemed to be leading the chorus this morning, higher, sweeter and more varied than all the rest.

Sad but inevitable truth about Ayr.

If you go into a certain supermarket in the Scottish town of Ayr, you will see a set of old photographs of the town on one of the walls. Among them is a view of Burns Statue Square from 1956. It may be a black and white picture, but what it shows is a neat, well kept and pleasant burgh with interesting shops, and a general air of seaside prosperity - a town you might be glad to visit for a holiday, or a day trip. We moved to the town in the early 1960s while I was still a child and that's the town I remember: a wee bit conservative, (well, very conservative, if I'm honest) but in general, a good place to be.
No longer. There is, I'm afraid, no polite way of putting this. The town centre is a dump. Gradually, over the years, all the small, independent shops (the kind that make, for example, small towns like Castle Douglas such a joy to visit) have disappeared to be replaced by chain stores, 'pound' stores and banks, paying vast rates for town centre premises - or charity shops. The fish market was moved to Troon and the harbourside has been built over with new flats which just about block the view of the sea from the bridges over the river.
We might just have managed to put up with all that but worse was to come. There is, quite simply, no reason for tourists to visit the town. There is nothing to do except shop, and you'll find far better shops in Glasgow. There's a good beach, but there are good beaches elsewhere. If you're looking for a walk along the sands, you might as well carry on to any one of a number of picturesque villages to the south of Ayr, or head north where Largs has so much more to offer.
You could go out to Burns Cottage. But if you're in 'history' mode, you'd be better to 'do' the Cottage and then go on to Kirkoswald, to Soutar Johnnie's cottage - and to Culzean. Why on earth would you want to linger when Ayr is dirty, dilapidated, and depressing. Public lavatories? You must be joking. A theatre? Oh no - the old Civic is a wreck and they just closed and boarded up the Gaiety, which in any case had weeds sprouting from every orifice. Museum? What museum? There's a fine gallery out at Rozelle, but again, if you're headed that way, you might just as well keep going south. There's a swimming pool in a building of sixties municipal ugliness down by the seashore, but that too looks as though it might be on its last legs. There was one of the best ice pads in the UK out on the road to Prestwick, but they've just demolished it. You can't walk in Craigie Park for fear of being mugged and if you go out to Belleisle House, the wonderful Victorian conservatory, which I remember as being such a pleasure to visit, is out of bounds, falling down. Even pets corner is closing.
Meanwhile, as fine a set of Georgian buildings as you have ever seen, beside the New Bridge, buildings of great historical significance, which anywhere else would be treasured, home to galleries, shops, cafes - are (and have been for many many years now) in a state of dilapidation which seems nothing short of criminal.
I live in South Ayrshire. The council tax bill just came in. It is not small. So what, in the name of all that's unholy, are they spending it on? Question councillors and you will be told 'education' - but my son went to a local school, and believe me, the school in question wasn't having very much spent on it. Now, over the whole of South Ayrshire, the council have just closed a tranche of venues which provide exercise and occupation for youngsters - Girvan swimming pool and various sports and activity halls in the smaller, less well off villages, places from which the children have no hope of travelling, because the bus services are dreadful as well. With Girvan swimming pool goes the canoe club, which kept a big group of kids safely occupied through the winter months. With Dailly sports hall goes the karate club that used to meet there. And all while local government - and national government too - bleat hypocritically about vandalism and - God help us - rising levels of obesity. This is nothing short of iniquitous.
There were more public loos in ancient Rome, than there are now in the whole of South Ayrshire. They are in the process of closing Council offices in the smaller towns, so that elderly people will have to travel miles to register a death or pay their council tax. Well, maybe they can use the post office for that. Oh, hold on a minute, those have all closed as well although it was the UK government who sanctioned that one. An elderly friend who was rushed into hospital recently, and was a little late with ONE month's payment of council tax because she couldn't get to the post van - received a letter from South Ayrshire Council threatening her with sheriff's officers! Not too strapped for cash to send threatening letters to pensioners then?
The One Stop Shop which offered such excellent advice about all kinds of issues, including benefits, to the people of Maybole has also shut, deprived of funds. Now, they are going to charge us to uplift heavy pieces of refuse (Fly tipping anyone? And won't clearing all those sofas and fridges from the roadsides cost just as much in the long run?) Mind you, if you do attempt to drive anywhere, you will find potholes the side of craters in all the county's rural AND urban roads. Lots and lots and lots of them. Walk through the town and the empty shops, the kilos of dog dirt and the general ill kempt look of the whole place will soon get you down. It is exactly this kind of neglect which spawns more vandalism. God help the poor traders who struggle on, paying exorbitant rates for this, while heads of services still receive 70k salaries.
This is an area whose main industry is tourism. Walking through the streets of Ayr, right now, you would have no inkling that this might be the case. Credit crunch or no, you don't destroy everything that might help to sustain that industry. What's the good of having tourist signage if there's nowhere left for it to point to?
Oh yes. The sea. That's about it. Perhaps some of our elected members past and present (because this kind of thing doesn't happen overnight) might do us all a favour, head down there, and take a running jump.

Robert Burns - Tam O' Shanter

It is, let's face it, one of Robert Burns' best loved poems -and here is Alan Lees' contribution to the anniversary year - a wonderful evocation of the key moment in the poem. Poor Meg is just about to lose her tail to Cutty Sark. As for me, I rather like the little devil sitting in the tree down on the right, quite unpeturbed by everything that is going on above him - but with his attention distracted by the eyes under the bridge. I wonder who's living under there?!

Scottish Craftsmen versus English Heritage

Fascinating piece in last week's Sunday Time here, about English Heritage, fireplaces, and what looks like a certain amount of unfairness. Owning period properties is a bit of a minefield for owners anyway, without this kind of behaviour from bodies which really ought to know better. And as the wife of a fine craftsman who for many years was competing with cheaper imported products, I know whose side I find myself on. More power to Thistle and Rose's elbow!

Light Bulb Horrors

We move on from the memory foam mattress, folks, to the light bulb horrors. When and why did life become so complicated? I'm not sure what the situation is in the rest of the world, but our masters in Europe have, with the connivance of our government, inflicted the low energy lightbulb upon us. Now I'm as eco friendly as the next woman. In fact I suspect my carbon footprint is a good deal lower than most. I seldom fly, I run a very small and efficient car, my house is usually pretty cool (I can't really afford to heat it adequately) and I recycle as much of my rubbish as it's possible to fit into the assorted bins and boxes provided by my council. Moreover, most of my wardrobe these days seems to consist of 'vintage' pieces, also recycled from various sources. (It's pretty stylish. Where did you get that wonderful coat, somebody asked me last week. Actually, I got it from a local charity shop, for a fiver. It must have sat in somebody's wardrobe, hardly worn, since the 1950s. It's beautiful, but that's another story...) Anyway, to resume our tale of lightbulbs...
Europe has dictated that we shall not have old fashioned lightbulbs. Never mind that the new variety contain mercury, inflict health problems on those of a sensitive disposition and are downright dangerous for the visually impaired. We must do our bit to save the planet. And we have been given no choice in the matter. Meanwhile, visit any UK city and see the government departments, the banks, the big business headquarters positively ablaze with light, throughout the night....
A few days ago, the upstairs hall lightbulb having expired, we replaced it with a new energy- saving bulb from a local branch of Morrisons supermarket - one of those curly spirally things. Going up to bed later that night, I found myself wondering about two things: why my eyes were sore after just a few seconds exposure to the hideous yellow light which the thing gave off - and why my red staircarpet seemed suddenly leeched of all colour. Then it clicked. These are the bulbs which a certain chain store uses in their lavatories, and you know why they use them in their lavatories? I'm reliably informed that - apart from their singular cheapness - the real reason has little to do with saving the planet, but mostly because the quality of light deters junkies from 'shooting up'. They can't find a vein. Which may be a very good reason for installing them in chain store loos, but not in my upstairs hallway thank-you.
I have now, by devious means, found a shop which still sells the old banned bulbs. And I am stockpiling. I feel a bit like a junkie myself, searching for a fix. If I manage to get my hands on enough of them, I figure they will see me out. Or at least they will last till the technology improves. (But I'm not telling you the whereabouts of the shop - at least not until I buy a few more for my own store-cupboard. For God's sake, get some for me too, said a friend on the phone tonight) Actually, the day when the technology improves may well be closer than I think. I'm told there is something called an 'eco-bulb' which gives out pure, bright, white light, at a fraction of the cost. The only trouble is that the bulbs themselves, even when bought on eBay, cost a small fortune. Not a lot for Sir Fred, perhaps - his house is probably chocca with the things - but quite a lot for me. A tiny price to pay, you may say, for saving the planet. And you may well be right. But perhaps if our government offices, national and local, used them as well as all our big businesses, our banks even, the price might go down so that the rest of us could actually afford to buy them for ordinary domestic use. Meanwhile, I'm locking my hoard of the lovely, shapely, soft old lightbulbs away where nobody else will find them.

The Heron

I came down to make the early morning cup of tea this morning, to be met by a flurry of grey wings and prehistorically long legs trailing behind, as the heron flapped away from our rather small and shallow garden pond. There are no goldfish left in the pond since over the years he has had all of them. He doesn't seem to enjoy them very much since he deposits most of their corpses in the garden, the remains of his extremely expensive fish suppers. We tried netting the pond but it seems kind of counterproductive to have something so pretty covered in ugly netting. Now that the goldfish are gone he is probably after frogs or newts, although the sight of the occasional (and somewhat revolting) piece of frog in the garden would indicate that he isn't so keen on those either. Perhaps it's the time of year and he's just hungry, after anything he can get, which would be understandable.
Herons are an increasingly common sight here in the West of Scotland - they used to be exceedingly rare but now you can even encounter them standing beside the road, tall and solitary and very very still, as though in a state of deep meditation. When I'm working in the upstairs study, I'll sometimes lift my head to see one flapping past the window, heading for the lake up at Kirkmichael House. There's a wonderful old tapestry at Falkland Palace in Fife, which has a depiction of what looks like a pterodactyl - but must be a heron. And it's true, they do look like a creature from another time and place. In Scotland, the bird is invariably referred to as 'The Heron' in the singular, as though there is only one of them. 'I saw the heron today' you say. He's getting pretty ubiquitous, that heron. Gets about a bit. But all the same he is known to be a solitary creature, more fond of his own company than other birds of a feather - the jackdaws which flock together among our chimneypots for instance!

Memory Foam Solution

Even I'm getting bored with this one - but here's a possible solution, which was inspired by a kind person who commented on a previous post - thanks Tana! - and if you can't afford to replace your double bed with twin beds and different mattresses, it certainly helps.
This is what you do.
Buy a common or garden Yoga Mat. In the UK, these are available for about £10.00 in Tesco's but you can get them anywhere. Go for the smooth ones, not the lumpy ones. Not too thin either.
You're looking for a good layer of foam, but not memory foam! Stretch out the mat on top of the dreaded memory foam mattress. Then cover the whole mattress with a blanket of some sort, and then on top of that, put a good thick mattress topper - but not plastic in any form, and certainly NOT memory foam! - you're looking for cotton or fleece or something similar. Again these are available in most bedding shops, some supermarkets and online. The bed may be looking like something from the Princess and the Pea by this time, but this worked for me. Cover with a cotton or linen sheet, and make the bed in the usual way. The trick is to put as much as possible between yourself and the dreaded memory foam. Not only does this help to ease the 'quicksand effect ' - you don't sink into ordinary foam the way you sink into memory foam and yoga mats are designed to be quite firm - but it also helps with the heat, since the blanket and mattress cover don't 'draw' in the same way as the memory foam. It isn't the perfect solution - but it certainly helps and I'm sleeping properly for the first time in a year and a half!

A Mountmellick Top Sheet

A while ago, I added a blog post about Mountmellick Embroidery, which has always fascinated me. Now I've come across another much bigger piece in the shape of an old coverlet or top sheet which you can find here. It isn't as intricate as the last piece, which was a nightdress case, but it isn't often I find something as large as this either. It is embroidered in quite a coarse white thread on dense white cotton, with huge passion flowers, the stamens of which are like little shamrocks and leaves. I come across a great many lovely linens and laces with an Irish provenance in this part of the world - or at least with an Irish background. In the nineteenth century, or so the 1838 Statistical Account tells us, the village of Crosshill had many Irish inhabitants:

' A great proportion of the inhabitants of Crosshill, 800 out of 1000, are either Irish or of Irish extraction. In many instances it must be confessed, they exhibit too common characteristics of their countrymen, indolent, improvident, and passionately addicted to spirits and tobacco. At the same time, it is but doing them justice to say, that they have visibly improved in these respects. They are beginning to appreciate the excellence of quiet and orderly habits, and can now spend, in healthful exercise and rational amusement, those hours that were previously consumed in degrading sloth or sensual indulgence. Not a few take a pride in copying the example of their Scottish neighbours, have a wish to possess a suit of better clothes for the Sabbath, and to appear like other people at church.'

These were, it should be pointed out, less politically correct times!

You can read more about it here.

Many of the women were talented seamstresses, and so much of the embroidered linen which is found here shows a distinct Irish influence. The shamrock abounds. And I'm sure at least some of these women and girls would have gone on to learn Ayrshire whitework in their adopted home. It would be a natural progression, and a development of their already considerable talents.

Snow

Just to prove that we do occasionally get snow in this part of the world - but not very often, I must admit - here is the view from our upstairs windows this morning. Isn't it beautiful? Sadly, the street out in front is a slushy mess, and although I'm supposed to be going away this weekend, I am now having serious second thoughts because the forecast for sunday in particular is for more heavy snow. All the same, when I stuck my head out of the door this morning, (and withdrew it pretty quickly, because it was so cold out there!) I could hear what sounded to me like a passable imitation of a dawn chorus - or the start of one. So with Valentine's day coming up, at least the birds are having thoughts of spring. And there are snowdrops everywhere - but currently buried under blankets of real snow!

Update on the Loathsome Memory Foam Mattress

I keep banging on about this because the more I blog about the subject, the more people contact me to tell me that they have the same problem. We all hate memory foam mattresses and most of us have partners who love them. Perhaps we should form a self help group! Yesterday, after a week of particularly broken nights, followed by days spent popping painkillers for sore neck, sore arms, mild sciatica, headaches and general wretchedness, I decamped to my son's bedroom (he's away from home at the moment) and had the most blissful night's sleep I've had since well before Christmas. There's an oldish but still good sprung mattress on his bed - very firm, deep and quite bouncy. I slept like a baby and woke up feeling well rested and completely pain free.
The only solution (to my health and our marriage) will be to replace our double bed and double memory foam mattress with two single beds, two different mattresses and two single quilts. I started pricing it up and fairly blenched at the costs involved. We simply can't afford to do it at the moment.
One thing which some of my correspondents have pointed out is the complete dearth of negative comment on the internet. Apart from a few questions on message boards concerning the smell of these mattresses (which is the least of my worries - that dissipates soon enough) every single reference to them seems to come from companies who turn out to be selling the fiendish things. Even those sites which are masquerading as medical advice sites turn out to have links to bed sellers - so of course they will be punting them like mad. They purport to have all kinds of 'medical evidence' but there's no way of following this up, or questioning their statistics.
I know lots of people who can't stand memory foam at any price - but when I look online, I hardly ever find their comments.
So here are my thoughts - which are probably just as 'scientific' as most of the claims which are out there. Memory foam is said to reduce the time you spend moving about during sleep. I'm sure it does. But is this necessarily a good thing? If we do move about in our sleep, might it not be that we're meant to move about in our sleep?
I can succeed in falling asleep on this horrible substance, but find myself waking up several times a night, because I'm embedded in the foam, and I'm struggling to turn over. I wake up sweating, with my heart racing. It takes a long time to get back to sleep again, only for the same thing to happen, several times a night. I just get hotter and hotter and more and more uncomfortable and latterly I've had more and more aches and pains - all of which more or less disappeared over one night's good sleep on a sprung mattress. I repeat - I know I'm not alone. But is anyone out there researching this independently? I'm sure for certain patients with acute health problems they are a good idea. My husband has arthritis, and is, in any case, a very static sleeper. But for so many of us they are a nightmare and yet these expensive items are being promoted online and in stores as the solution to all sleep problems. I wish.

The Victorian Farm

Not strictly speaking a Scottish topic, but last night marked the start of a new BBC TV series called The Victorian Farm. I began by trying to do something else, with the television on in the background, but gradually became so enchanted by the whole programme that I just sat down and drank it all in. The presenters are informative and engaging, the setting is wonderful, the filming is consistently excellent - one for buying on DVD I think. Also, speaking as somebody who writes historical fiction, this series constitutes an invaluable research resource just as The Victorian Kitchen , some years ago. That older series has stayed with me and I still occasionally find myself using little nuggets of practical information in pieces of writing. I'm sure I'll do the same thing with The Victorian Farm. These programmes tread a fine line between Heritage History (and believe me, I've written audio tours and I know the pitfalls!) and originality. There have been a number of programmes about aspects of Scottish history very recently and none of them have held my attention as much as The Victorian Farm. But it's hard to explain exactly why. Sometimes I think it's to do with how portentously or otherwise the presenters wear their learning. There was a sense of the sheer enjoyment of history that flowed from the screen with The Victorian Farm - a genuine delighted enthusiasm from all concerned. It's irresistible. Watch it if you can.

Happy Christmas to All My Readers

with quite an unusual view of Glasgow Cathedral!

Ayr Gaiety Theatre

A good deal of my time over the past week has been spent considering Ayr Gaiety, our wonderful old variety theatre, which is threatened with closure, and by extension arts provision, or lack of it, here in South Ayrshire. I'm on the committee of a fairly newly formed arts association called the Ayrshire Arts Network. We are hoping to represent a gathering of all the arts and arts practitioners across all three parts of Ayrshire, but I suspect it was despair at the relative lack of interest in the arts and culture of any kind in South Ayrshire itself that initially brought us together. We are by no means elitist. But we are saddened that some of our elected councillors can see no further than golf and whisky when it comes to tourism provision and the economic wellbeing of the area. Not, mind you, that I have anything against golf or whisky - the latter particularly! But as far as touring shows, interesting plays, and genuine arts events of all kinds are concerned, you could be forgiven for thinking that there had been a dreadful cataclysm and the whole of South Ayrshire had simply broken off and fallen into the Firth of Clyde. The potential Gaiety closure is in the nature of the stone that starts an avalanche. For years they seem to have been selling off the family silver for short term gain. But now, I think the council itself has been surprised at the strength of feeling generated by the proposal. Watch this space for further developments!

Nevermore The Antique Market

Most of last weekend was taken up with an antique market in Glasgow which we thought - heaven knows what possessed us - might be worth attending. I normally trade from an online shop but over the years I have also helped my artist/ craftsman husband when he exhibited or demonstrated at various events. Sometimes it can be great fun, as when you get free space or are actually paid a small sum to demonstrate. You get to put on a show, chat to people and hand out leaflets and postcards. They enjoy watching and often ask interesting questions.

But I don't think I had realised just how soul destroying antique markets can be for the stallholders - or perhaps things have become worse over the years. And I don't think it can all be laid at the door of the 'credit crunch'. TV shows where participants regularly beat prices down so that they can make a profit by selling items at auction have a lot to answer for. It is, when you think about it, completely the wrong way round, which is why they do it. It's very hard to make any kind of profit that way. And the dealers who capitulate 'for the publicity' (What publicity? They don't get any!) are only succumbing to the kind of pressure that TV companies are very good at exerting. It is, after all, their job.

TV shows and car boot sales, that's the problem. Boot sales are where you expect items to be cheap, although in my experience even those have become more than penny-pinching. I once saw a man chop up a nice little wooden table at a boot sale. He had wanted a couple of pounds for it. He didn't want to take it home. People had been offering him 50p. He said that he knew if he left it by the bin at the end of the day somebody would take it. So he chopped it into small pieces first. As a good recycler I didn't really approve, but I understood him completely. A day's quibbling over twenty penny pieces induces the sort of misery that can only be relieved by chopping up small tables.

Anyway, back to the antique market. We spent saturday sorting, labelling, pricing, packing and dismantling the car in driving wind and rain so that we could get everything in. On saturday night I made the picnic and put it in the fridge. On sunday morning we got up at 5.30 loaded up the car and were on the road by 6.45, also phoning our son, who had offered to help with the unloading, to give him a wake-up call.

We were forced to take a detour; a stretch of the main road was closed because of an 'incident' and we nearly lost our way because of road works in Glasgow but still arrived in good time. The weather forecast had been reasonably good, but an icy and torrential rain was falling. We stopped along the road from the venue and between cold showers, hefted boxes of stuff, piles of pictures, stands, easels etc down the steep ramp into the hall. Then I went and found a parking place while my husband started to assemble our stall. By 9.45 we were more or less there, and drinking a coffee, our son was on his way home (possibly back to bed?) and the first 'customers' were arriving.

We had what we thought was a good cross section of items. Not boot sale stuff, that's for sure. And not junk. We were showing a collection of Alan's paintings at very reasonable prices (£80.00 for an original acrylic isn't exactly extortionate- in fact these are print prices) We had a selection of costume jewellery, some vintage clothes, a few vintage toys, textiles, etchings and other artworks as well as some gorgeous Indian and Chinese embroidery and a few other curiosities.


Did we have any customers? No.

Well, we made the price of the stall and the petrol. And that was it. No profits.

But - and I have to say this is all uncharacteristic of Glasgow, which is my favourite city in the whole world - it wouldn't have been so bad if, with a few welcome exceptions, the people hadn't been so uncongenial. There was a handful of pleasant individuals, including the lovely man and his daughter who appreciated the paintings, couldn't afford to buy them, but asked interesting questions and seemed to enjoy what they were looking at. There were a few other smiley people who chatted, and passed the time of day.

Sadly, they were vastly outnumbered by an army of grim elderly ladies (I know, I know, I'm heading there myself, although definitely without the scowl) who handled the stock as if they were sorting through garbage, and baulked at paying anything for anything. The last straw was the young woman who spent the best part of ten minutes stroking, fingering, opening out and looking at an utterly stunning Indian wedding sari, one of the most beautiful textiles I've had the good fortune to find: five yards and more of gorgeous damask with a golden pallau, encrusted with beads and embroidery, all hand done as well. Its only faults were a few loose threads here and there. I could think of many uses for it, the most simple being draped as a curtain. It came with an equally beautiful beaded veil in gold silk satin which I've decided to keep for myself since it makes a lovely evening shawl. Because the girl seemed so taken with it (and because our takings were non existent) I offered it to her for £25.00 which is about what you would pay for a cheap voile curtain in one of our better known household textile chains. This - for five yards of vintage hand beaded silk - seems almost laughable in retrospect. I had obviously taken leave of my senses. But that's the 'market' effect for you. Her husband had his wallet in his hand. Then her mum, watching the proceedings from a safe distance, persuaded her that it would be a waste of money.

As they left, minus the sari, she said 'if it's still here next time, I'll have it.'

No, I thought and by this time I confess I was feeling a bit grim myself. You won't. Because it won't be here, I won't be doing another antique fair, and even if I was, I wouldn't be selling such a fine piece of work at such a crazy price. But I held my tongue. I knew for certain that she would regret it later on, because I've done exactly that kind of thing myself.

After that, the day just got worse and worse as our smiles got more and more fixed.

So it was with a huge amount of relief that we packed up, fetched the car, hefted everything back in (even colder, still rainy) and embarked on the long drive home where we had to offload everything and reassemble the car . Then, completely exhausted, we sat on the couch with a couple of large glasses of wine , looked at each other and said 'never, ever again!'

Actually, it isn't strictly true, because we do have one more craft fair coming up, but that's a charity event, we'll be showing mostly Alan's paintings, it's something we do every year and - because it's close to home - it doesn't present too many logistical problems. If we sell a couple of pictures all well and good. If we don't it won't be a disaster and we'll have done a bit of promotion in a good cause on the side.

What intrigued us though was just how many of the particants remarked that they had had a 'good day.' By which (since we could see exactly what was going on) they seemed to mean that they had made the stall money and a little over. But why on earth would anyone want to do a couple of days of hard labour - just to cover their costs and have a few quid over?

Our son, trudging back through the rain to help us load up again, remarked 'the world's changing mum. And this isn't the way of it.' I reckon he's right. There's a lot to be said - especially with antiques - for being able to see things, handle them, learn about them. It's one of the nicest things about buying in the saleroom, being able to see and touch interesting old items as well as being able to learn about them from more experienced fellow dealers. But it was significant to me at least that the vast majority of our fellow stallholders looked like retired people. And when they stop, I wonder if anyone younger will be willing to do it? Which would be a pity, since I rather like buying items at these Antique Fairs. But if I think somebody is asking a fair price, I don't try to beat them down to peanuts. And I always handle the objects as though they are precious - which to the stallholder they so often are.

My Favourite Angel

I'm not a madly religious person, so I don't know why I love this angel (you can see him in the old citadel of Carcassonne) so much. He has been badly defaced, probably during the Mediaeval upheavals which involved the Cathars and the King of France and consequently has the look of a prize fighter after a particularly bad bout. But then perhaps he's Michael, who was - by all accounts - no mean contender himself.

He's a large stone personage with very shapely arms, and a wide, sensuous mouth and he simply exudes peace. I found myself loitering beside him for ages, taking photographs which didn't quite capture what it was that was so beautiful about him, and eventually just gazing and gazing. The guidebook dismisses him in a few short lines which is a pity because I think whoever made this was an accomplished sculptor. The angel manages to possess qualities of raw, real humanity and an intense spirituality at the same time. He's warm and protective, injured and numinous, all at once. You can tell I was smitten, can't you?

Apologies for long silence!

I've been otherwise occupied with all kinds of work - and a ten day holiday in the South of France where - unlike Scotland this year - the sun shone most of the time and it was warm! Vive the 'Auld Alliance' is what I say, especially because I also bought a few lovely old textiles at the French equivalent of a boot sale - a vide grenier, or 'empty attic' sale. I'll post pictures on here in due course because the chintz in particular is stunning.
However, just a wee thought, from Scotland, in the current worldwide financial difficulties: woke this morning to a banking person rabbiting on, on Radio Scotland. She was heard to observe, among much else, that Scotland is attractive to businesses because it is 'cheap'.
Which got me thinking.
Housing throughout most of Scotland is as expensive as most of England and considerably more expensive than many desirable areas in England, even in the South.
The cost of living is pretty steep here. Food is no cheaper than in England and in the remoter parts of the country, very much more expensive.
Fuel costs are the same, and since it's undeniably colder, for longer, our bills are arguably a good deal higher.
The council tax we pay up here is phenomenally high. In fact conversations with friends in England have often included questions such as 'What do you live in? A castle?' when in fact we live in a nice old terraced cottage.
So what exactly can it be about Scotland that is so 'cheap' for businesses?
Oh yes. I've guessed it. Wages are exponentially lower up here. Which means that most of us, in the current climate, are struggling to survive, as compared to our friends in the south.
And if you can do something about that Mr Salmond, you'd definitely get my vote.

Beautiful Borders in the Walled Garden at Culzean

There is an absolutely stunning wild flower border to be seen in the walled garden at Culzean Castle just now. The mixture is called Bohemian Rhapsody and it fills a whole large bed just beside the old head gardener's cottage. There is something profoundly beautiful about this riot of colour and I have to say it reminds me of a textile design, particularly those wonderful old Indian prints that so often involve a multitude of colourful flowers. I've been back twice now, just to look at it and the second time I took my camera so that I could share it with you. The conventional herbacious border there is also fabulous, but there is something so engaging about the haphazard arrangement of these colours and textures - nature always does it better!

One year on - I STILL hate my memory foam mattress!

Just realised that it is more than a year since we acquired the loathed MFM. And yes, folks, I still hate it, hate it, hate it! The only thing about it that has improved is the smell which has - I'm pleased to report - gone. Everything else about it is just as bad if not worse, and no - I haven't got used to it. In fact I have had the worst year's sleep of my entire life. Some nights I give up on it entirely and resort to my son's room (he is living elsewhere at the moment!) where I can sleep on his lovely, firm, big but undeniably bouncy sprung bed. I go to bed very very late in an effort to avoid the dreaded MFM, and get up very early because my sleep is so disturbed. I do sleep, obviously, but I never feel rested. I wake up with palpitations because I seem to get trapped in one spot, unable to move. I get a sore back and sore hips. But the very worst thing of all about it is the heat which is absolutely unbearable. I thought it was me, but it just doesn't happen on other mattresses.
I STILL HATE MY MEMORY FOAM MATTRESS.
Sadly, my husband still loves it. The only solution (I have investigated all possible options) would be to buy two matching single beds. He could have memory foam on one. I could have a nice normal sprung mattress on the other. That way I might resume some kind of normal sleep pattern. But at the moment, it's just too expensive to replace bed and bedding. Maybe some kindly bed manufacturer out there will take pity on me....

Tinder Box Britain?

Woke this morning, to BBC Radio 4's news programme, paraphrasing an article from the Observer in which somebody seems to have stated that - due to Global Warming, of course - much of Britain is tinder dry and in imminent danger of wildfires. As I listened to it the rain was beating against the windows yet again. You can read some more of this guff here.
I write this deep into one of the wettest summers I can remember (although I can certainly remember some which were equally wet!) Far from being tinder box dry much of Scotland is utterly and completely rainsoaked. So is much of Wales and Northern Ireland and a friend tells me that her garden in rural Oxfordshire is pretty much the same. The usual Atlantic fronts have beset us in unrelenting droves.
So which bits of Britain does he mean exactly? Last week the Scottish news was informing us in suitably alarmist tones that we could expect lots and lots of flooding nationwide - because of Global Warming. Nothing whatsoever to do with our national obsession with concreting over our gardens or building lots and lots of houses on the floodplains of our rivers and streams then?
Are we to fry or drown? Which is it?
No wonder we become cynical about so much that is written about the environment. Presumably the findings about tinder box Britain are based on some kind of statistical model which refers to the dry spells but doesn't include this year's torrents. Our weather is certainly behaving badly, but the analysts who are as changeable as the weather aren't helping.