Glasgow River Festival

I was at the Glasgow River Festival with my son yesterday (husband is away sailing, or rather wind bound in Balamory, sorry Tobermory at the last count) and can't post any pictures because I forgot my camera but you can visit the official website here! Ever since the traditional shipbuilding industries failed it seems to me that Glasgow has turned its back on its fabulous river, successive councils not recognising that a great river can be the finest asset a city will ever own. Go to any of the great European cities from Paris to Vienna and the river is part of many of its best visitor attractions - as well as a thoroughfare in itself. For many years Glasgow was the exception. Well, no more it seems. Over the past few years Glasgow has rediscovered its river: new developments, new bridges, new attractions. Yesterday there were free shuttle buses from the city centre down to the big exhibition centre on the banks of the Clyde. There was jet ski racing, historic and interesting vessels of all kinds, including tall ships, exhibitions, and displays which included old fire engines (peculiarly attractive these!) - and beach volley ball which son insisted on watching for a bit, only to retire disappointed - by the relative tameness of the sport, if not the skimpiness of the girl's attire. But it was a windy day, so maybe that was the problem!
Later in the afternoon we got a bus back to the city centre and ate a very late lunch/early dinner in Dino's in Sauchiehall Street (something of a Glasgow/Italian institution this, excellent food, even more excellent service.)
One of the nicest things about the day from my point of view was that it was a brief return to the time when my son was a wee boy and suddenly stopped being a baby and started being a really pleasant companion. Obviously he has grown up and away and independent, and I wouldn't want it any other way but just sometimes it's lovely to have a real mother/son day - wander about with absolutely no agenda other than enjoyment and conversation. Standing on one of the footbridges over the river, and watching the seaplane landing - an enchanting and emotional moment - was one of the high points of the afternoon. For a brief moment I don't think it mattered whether we were this middle aged woman standing with a viking at her side - or a much younger mum with the wee blonde lad in glasses he used to be!

Yet another interesting old Paisley Shawl

There is a 'mystery' about this very large paisley shawl which I'm currently listing in my eBay store. I'm sure somebody out there may be able to solve it for me. There is a small black centre panel - but it is really only a 'half' panel as you can see from the photograph. And when you look closely, you can see that the shawl consists of two large and definitely matching pieces, which have been joined together. Even the pattern on the epaulette ends matches - but they have been woven together, and not stitched! I've never come across one like this before. The story with these paisleys is that the early shawls had very large centres. In fact the earlier shawls were much more delicate affairs altogether, longish but much narrower, with highly decorated ends, designed for wearing over those lovely 'Jane Austen' fashions.

There were square shawls too, and you can see one here, but with the advent of the crinoline, a certain size became necessary if they were to be worn over those huge skirts as warm winter wraps. Even so the early shawls followed the theme of having a large centre panel with a beautiful woven border, the 'boteh' or wonderful fern patterns often intruding into that centre. I sold one like that earlier this year, and very beautiful it was too.

But as the century progressed the centres got smaller and smaller until with the later nineteenth century shawls there was no centre panel at all. When I hung this up to examine it more closely, I wondered at first if it had been stitched together, but the two pieces have definitely been woven together. I love these textile mysteries and - being a writer - I got to imagining that perhaps this had been a shawl with a full centre panel which sustained some damage early in its life. And perhaps - this being discovered very close to the area where the shawl might have been made in the first place, ie the West of Scotland - it was taken back to a Paisley weaver who simply cut out the small bit of damage and did a brilliant weaving restoration job on the two halves. This was not a throw away society, and a shawl would have been a precious item, so make do and mend was the only option!

The Hotpoint Fridge Freezer, Curry's, and call centre hell.

Even as I write this there is an engineer in the kitchen attempting (for the third time) to fix our 18 month old Hotpoint Fridge Freezer. Bought because we thought the name some kind of guarantee of quality. Hmmm. Yesterday, when I opened the freezer door to take out the ice cream to eat with the strawberries for lunch (we had a visitor!) I had that sinking feeling you get when you realise that everything has gone slightly soggy. On the previous two occasions it was the opposite problem - everything in the fridge was freezing - frostbitten lettuce and tomatoes included. Overnight things just got worse until by this morning it was clear that although the motor seemed to be running, and the light was on, there was nobody home in terms of chilling power.
Overnight too, it quickly became obvious that after the last engineer's visit, I had mislaid the service policy documents. Aaaaargh. They probably, said my husband, went the same way as the car tax disc. That was eventually found, still in its envelope, at the bottom of the dustbin. Not the nice clean blue recycling bin, you understand but the slightly smelly green household waste bin.
A frenzied search of all folders, drawers, cupboards, and even the insides of cookery books, lasting several hours eventually resulted in the discovery of the original receipt, service numbers and handbook, filed away under a completely non intuitive heading. But still no policy documents. Nevertheless, knowing that I had paid to renew the service agreement earlier this year (about three weeks before the damn thing started to go wrong - phew!) I got up, made coffee, phoned the recommended number clipped onto the fridge receipt and immediately entered the Kafka-esque universe of the call centre.
It was one of those voice recognition processes which never can quite recognise my voice. It understood Hotpoint, and Fridge Freezer but baulked at the date of purchase. Eventually, on option one, I got through to a polite human being who told me that I was definitely insured, but since I was calling a service centre, I would need an authorisation number, and that could only come from Curry's. He gave me a number to call which would allow me to confirm said number, as well as agreement number and possibly replacement documentation. I dialled the number he had given me and realised, half way through the same voice recognition process that I was back where I had started, calling the service centre. I spoke to a different polite human being (one with either a summer cold, or such ferocious hay fever that she was practically incoherent). She confirmed that I would have to get an authorisation number from Curry's and gave me a number which I realised was the same number. Option six, she said, helpfully.
I dialled again. More voice recognition. It was beginning to understand me, familiarity I suppose.
But - dear God - I was back where I started, with the service centre. Moreover, there was no option six. There were only four options. I listened again and decided to try a different option. Can't remember now whether I pressed three or four, but I got through to another nice polite human being who said 'the whole system has changed.' He quickly summoned all my policy details, gave me my agreement number (I am insured until 2012!) and an authorisation number to boot.
He has promised to send me new policy documents within the next few days.
I called back to give the service centre my precious authorisation number and book an engineer's visit and pointed out (politely - the whole transaction was extremely polite!) that the information they might be giving customers in similar circumstances was somewhat out of date. The number worked but there was no option six. I honestly don't think she believed me.
The moral, I suppose, is - whatever you do, don't lose the documentation! When the new agreement arrives, I'll be filing it under home insurance. And not in the bin.
The fridge freezer is working again.
For how long? That's the question.

Son and Scenery

Thought you might like to see a few nice pictures of my large viking like son, who is currently looking for work, preferably in the computer games industry - although I reckon he could be a model, but then I'm his mum so I would, wouldn't I? He's blonde, blue eyed and a nice lad too. He trains regularly at karate. Martial arts are - as well as the whole world of creative computer games - his main passion in life, both doing and writing about them but he's mad about other sports as well: squash, rowing, ice skating and weight training, to name but a few.

You'll find his own video games blog online at http://gamesecosse.blogspot.com. There's a bit of Scottish scenery in here as well, of course. The gunnera plants are at Culzean Castle on the Ayrshire coast, and still bigger than he is, although he's all of 6ft 4 inches tall. Like all mothers, I find myself wondering where on earth the time goes. It seems like only last week that I was taking pictures of him toddling about at Culzean in his wee red boots!

Marks and Spencer and Saving the Planet.

On Saturday afternoon I trudged wearily down the High Street of our nearby town and went into Marks and Spencer's food department. I needed something quick and delicious for the evening meal, it was late, the town was impossibly busy, and I was tired. There is no real car park in this particular Marks and Sparks. It is a town centre store with a single horrendous lane where you can pull in to pick up your shopping, if you are brave. Otherwise, it's a case of hauling everything with you to the nearest car park.
Now before I go any further, let me say that I'm all for recycling. My whole eBay business is based on recycling and nobody is happier than me to see a piece of lovely old linen being given a new lease of life, used and treasured by a new owner. I'm no fan of plastic bags either, having done a fair bit of sailing in my life, and seen the mess they make of certain West of Scotland beaches. I usually have a reusable shopping bag, and in fact the back of my car is always full of bags, wine carriers etc.
But on this occasion, I had nothing with me except my handbag. I filled a wire basket with more than I had intended of course. The delicious meal (Marks and Sparks food is undeniably good, though pricey) plus some strawberries, plus yoghurt and their strong leaf tea, of a kind which is getting harder and harder to find here in Scotland. I queued at the check-out and when I got there, the assistant said in what can only be described as accusing tones 'Don't you have your carrier bag with you?' This is what happens, you see. Our politicians used that horrible, hectoring, nannying tone, and it's infectious.
'Oh, no' I said, waking up from what had been a queue induced trance. 'I'm sorry. I don't.'
'Well' she said, 'Do you want a 5 pence carrier or a 15 pence carrier?'
I looked at my far too expensive shopping. I looked at her. I looked at the long queue behind me.
'Do you mean' I said, 'That you are proposing to charge me for a bag?'
'Yes' she said, a little smugly.
I did a very quick assessment of the situation. The long haul back up the town flashed before my eyes. The fact that I could buy just about everything on there in Morrisons, much more cheaply. The fact that I don't believe for one instant that Marks and Sparks really care all that much about saving the planet. The fact that they didn't have - for instance - brown bags for people who might have genuinely forgotten their reusable, environmentally friendly carriers. The fact that there was a long queue behind me. The fact that the assistant was unfriendly. It took seconds.
I said - quite politely, I think - 'In that case, I don't think I'll bother thank-you' turned on my heel and walked off. I could hear the assistant ringing for help, even as I left the store.
It was the single most satisfying thing I had done all weekend.
As I said at the start - I don't really hold with plastic carriers and often shop in Lidls, where the food is cheap and excellent, and where I am completely happy to trolley all my stuff to the car and pack it for myself in an assortment of bags and boxes.
But - here in the UK at least - environmentalism has infected some of our big commercial organisations with a kind of smug 'take it or leave it' attitude which sits very ill with the fact that they are expecting us to spend more and more of our hard earned cash.
It is exactly like a bunch of slightly overweight politicians who have just voted themselves a vast sum in additional 'expenses' presuming to lecture us on wasting our food....
Grrrr.

Affordable Art

Have just started to build a wee gallery entry for my husband Alan Lees on the lovely 'Affordable British Art' website. This is a brilliant venture, easy to use, and the paintings look smashing on there. What's also good about it is that you can change things around frequently, and can also list prints and even sculptures as well.

It's also a site that seems to be getting a good deal of publicity. I've been browsing some of the work on there, and it's very impressive - a site that welcomes you in, and is very easy to use both for artists and those thinking of buying an artwork. You buy direct from the artist as well, which allows the public to commission a piece of work if that's what they want to do. I'm convinced that online is very much the way forward for art sales, so we'll see what happens!

Graduation at Glasgow University

Our son graduated from Glasgow University with an Honours BSc in Mathematics this week - we attended the deeply impressive ceremony on tuesday, fairly bursting with pride! He's the big blonde Viking in the middle of the picture, wearing his kilt and his robe. The ceremony - which was preceded by a reception in the maths department - was held in the university's stunningly beautiful Bute Hall. Glasgow, which is among the top 1% of universities in the world, has more listed buildings than any other university. The ceremonial was fabulous - everything running like clockwork (well, they have had 600 years to get it right!) even down to a wee rehearsal of the singing of the academic hymn, Gaudeamus Igitur, for the audience of proud parents, grandparents etc. Then the students went up one by one to be 'capped' and have their silk lined hoods placed over their heads. Frankly, it was magical.

Afterwards we gathered in the quad (bit showery, as you can see, but very warm) to drink buck's fizz and indulge in congratulations all round. It was lovely to see so many fine young people gathered in one place. It was lovely too to hear the Vice Chancellor impressing upon them all the sheer magnitude of their achievement. I think for the youngsters it was the first time they had really paused to think about exactly what this was - the culmination of so many years of trying, of working, of overcoming all kinds of problems. Esssentially, he was telling them that they ought to be proud of themselves, ought to take their learning out into a wider world, and continue to surprise themselves and those around them in all kinds of positive ways. Our son's wonderful advisor - long past retirement age, but staying on to help his students - was waiting to take lots of photos of his advisees. He was an academic advisor in the old style, keeping in touch with his students, caring about them, writing to them and even taking all his final year students out for a meal - and it was obvious that the respect was mutual, for they all loved him too, not just for his fine mind, but for all the time and trouble he took with them. Afterwards we went off to a restaurant called The Ubiquitous Chip for a long, leisurely and very pleasant meal, before heading home. Our son, meanwhile, went off to party into the early hours....

Now, of course, the hunt is on for a job. We woke up wishing we could have the whole day over again.

A Walk in the Woods

Earlier this year, my husband, sculptor Alan Lees, completed a group of four wildlife woodcarvings for a woodland walk. It was the official opening today - after which we all - visiting dignitaries, plus a group of children from one of the local primary schools, who had been involved with the project from the outset, plus assorted villagers and dogs, all tramped through the glen (beautiful at any time of year, but stunning just now) to admire the carvings and the scenery. Nice to see a wee group of kids so involved and interested. Alan is trying desperately to stop carving at the moment . The work is so heavy and dirty that his health suffers. Every time he undertakes a big commission like this, he seems to be floored with arthritis and breathing problems for a few weeks after. He is now making a determined effort to divide his time between painting and willow sculpture. He keeps being offered carving work but now tries to persuade likely customers that a willow sculpture might be a better option. They don't last as long as solid oak, for sure, but if they are treated they will keep going for many years - they can be very beautiful, like drawings in the air that work with line and light - they aren't half as heavy and dirty to make, they are cheaper and they are made with sustainable locally grown willow - so they are good for the environment as well! What more could you ask for?

A Lovely Old Printed Paisley Shawl

I'm currently listing a very beautiful old printed paisley shawl here on eBay. These are usually deemed to be less collectable than the woven variety and they were certainly a cheaper option, but these days they are still rare - they were quite a delicate item, and it isn't often that one survives in this condition. A closer examination of this particular piece illustrates why it has survived. Possibly dating from as early as 1850 (it has a large cream centre, with long 'boteh' or ferns at each end, and the pattern intrudes prettily into the middle) it has obviously been cherished. The colours are as bright and clear as the day it was made, and the few holes - a couple in the middle, and a little patch of wear in the coloured border - have been very carefully darned. I like to imagine that this might once have been a wedding gift from a young husband to his wife. These fine wool shawls, printed in lovely clear colours, would have been used as a lighter option in spring and summer. Nowadays people use them as throws and wall hangings. So long as you keep them out of direct sunlight and away from moths, they could last for another hundred and fifty years - although I doubt if many people nowadays could do this wonderful subtle neat darning! I certainly couldn't.

Culzean on a Windy Day

Spent a few hours at Culzean (pronounced Cullane) Castle today and as you can see from the picture, it was brilliantly sunny but windy beyond belief. Not a good day for sailing though husband points out that it is on days like this that people tend to remark 'nice day for a sail' as if anyone would enjoy bouncing along in the teeth of a screaming gale with white horses on all the waves... But it was beautiful at the castle. Son and I walked and talked and sat outside the little cafe near the castle, (in a brisk wind) drinking coffee and eating scones and dropping crumbs for the cheeky chaffinches. Then we went to the poetry reading in the walled garden and then we walked down to the beach and back, mainly to discuss a wee literary project we're considering which will involve a certain amount of collaboration. Culzean is a National Trust property and very beautiful though it seemed surprisingly quiet today, the sunday before a May bank holiday monday. Perhaps it was just that we were there quite early and left before mid afternoon. Also, the estate is so big that it can swallow large numbers of people and still not appear busy. We're members of the National Trust so visit the place regularly, but it isn't a particularly cheap afternoon out for a family. Not that it's not worth it, because it is. But if I wasn't a member of the Trust (and perhaps if I didn't live so close to one of its major attractions in Scotland, I wouldn't be) I doubt very much if we would have gone there today. Instead, we would probably have gone to Maidens or Dunure or Girvan and walked along the beach looking at the same lovely view.

A Late Eighteenth Century Christening Cape

I bought this at auction here in Scotland some time ago. Having loved it and looked at it for a while, I've decided to sell it - so I'm listing it on the Scottish Home this week. It is a very late eighteenth century christening cape which was made by one Elizabeth Ann Barlow, who died in 1829. She made it herself, this wonderful tiny 'sprigging' - a myriad of little flowers, including pinks and rosebuds and violas - for her babies and for her descendents. It is kind of sad that it ended up in the saleroom but I think it's wonderful and am hoping that somebody will buy it who also thinks it is wonderful and who may be able to conserve it and display it in the right setting. It would have served to keep a baby warm - being worn over the light lacy baby gowns of the period. An expert has confirmed to me that it is an eighteenth century piece, but 'only just' - ie it dates from the very late 1700s, and probably looks forward in style to nineteenth century christening capes, ie Elizabeth was ahead of her times! I considered keeping it because I am currently writing a novel called The Physic Garden about a gardener and a baby from exactly this period or just a little later, but all the same, it is probably time for it to go elsewhere, and be properly cared for!

Picture of Edwardian Ayr, the Pavilion on the Green

Here's the latest of Alan Lees' 'naive' studies of - mainly - Ayrshire and Renfrew, with a few wee excursions elsewhere. The Pavilion which you can see in the background was built in 1911. I used to go to dances there when I was 16 (ie a long time ago but not quite as long ago as that!) It was very very respectable in those days, no alcohol as far as I remember. After that it seemed to go downhill a bit but more recently it has been nicely restored as 'Pirate Pete's' aimed at children and the exterior looks much as it must have done back in the early twentieth century when the tourist trade on the Clyde was flourishing and many Glasgow people came 'Doon the Watter' on holiday. This is a lovely detailed artwork which you can also find here. Alan Lees, having moved from sculpture to painting over the last few years, is finding these old Clyde Coast scenes particularly inspirational and particularly popular. This one has a variety of people including an ice cream seller, a wee lad with his 'gird and cleek' at the bottom right, an elegant young couple, two wee lassies at the drinking fountain and a variety of other children skipping, playing football, etc. He can hardly keep up to the demand for these pictures, which seem to strike a chord with so many people. 'They make you feel happy' said one customer recently - which is no bad thing. Because of the demand, he is considering having prints and greetings cards made but is also trying to work towards an exhibition for next year, for the great clan Homecoming and the Robert Burns anniversary. If you own a likely Clyde Coast venue (preferably one with a historic holiday connection, eg a hotel or restaurant or traditional cafe) and would like to host such an exhibition for summer 2009 please do contact us via Alan's website

Spring has Sprung

and the swallows have come back. This morning we went down towards Girvan and stopped off for an early coffee at Dowhill Farm Shop which sells the best pineapple fruit cake in the world. The birds were fluttering among the eaves of the old farm buildings with that peculiar excitement with which they seem to greet their old haunts when they return, for all the world as if they're delighted to be back. And we're certainly glad to see them.
Arran was just emerging from the morning mist and Ailsa Craig was floating on its own cloud, like Tir Nan Og, in the distance. We were taking photographs as inspiration for paintings so you'll probably see some of them on here in due course. The whins are in golden, coconut scented bloom and the hedgerows are full of bluebells - it really is an idyllic time of year. For the first time ever, we walked down towards the lighthouse at Turnberry, which was built on top of Robert the Bruce's castle (well, one of them anyway!) - you can just see the remains in the picture. It involves a pleasant walk across one of the most famous golf courses in the world, and you get the distinct feeling that the right to roam is an ever so slightly unwelcome concept for some of the golfers - but the path is a good one and access is through a well made wooden style so the hotel is certainly amenable to civilized walkers, which is what we were!

Pretty Linens on the Line

I bought a fabulous box of vintage linen tablecloths at auction last week, all very beautifully embroidered, and here they are hanging on the line! I've been using the dryer for my linens all winter, but now that the weather has improved, there's nothing like a little fresh Scottish air - and it's environmentally friendly as well! Nobody up here in Scotland rates these much at the moment - dense and clever floral embroideries which are so evocative of the 1940s and 50s. I remember my late mother working on cloths like this, and still have her old 'Stitchcraft' pattern books - so I love them for the memories they bring if nothing else. But in fact the home magazines this year - particularly those of a 'rural' disposition have been full of glowing pictures of kitchens and dining rooms and conservatories adorned with lovely old embroidered linens like these - there is nothing quite so simple and beautiful as one of these cloths on an old pine kitchen table with a vase of flowers - gorgeous tulips at this time of the year, or even drooping bluebells from the woods - to pick up the colours in the cloths.
You can also use them as picnic cloths for those special occasion outdoor meals! Picnics fall into two categories in my book - those ordinary everyday sandwiches in a plastic box and tea from a flask affairs where you've taken the kids, the dog, or just yourselves on a hike and need sustenance - or those more elegant summer events where you might indulge yourself with nice food from a wicker basket, and dare I say it - champagne in glasses - all served on a cheerfully retro tablecloth. Not that we manage it very often, but when we do it's always memorable. I'm about to list a heap of them in The Scottish Home - so why not spoil yourself and make plans for an old fashioned civilized picnic?

The Scent of Old Textiles and a Chinese Silk Shawl

I was reflecting on the peculiarly evocative scent of old textiles today when I was listing an antique Chinese silk 'piano shawl' on eBay. It has that distinctive scent which all textile collectors will know and - if you are like me anyway - grow to love! There are, of course, a number of smells associated with old textiles, and not all of them are pleasant. Sometimes, when rummaging through a box of old linens, you can be sent reeling by the horrible aromas of old, stale starch emanating from them. Often, this can result in sinister brown stains on sheets, pillows, tablecloths, but it's surprising how such marks will disappear with a good soaking, followed by thorough laundering - and of course linen is very forgiving. Then there's the sneeze provoking and astringent aroma of old dust, lodged among the fibres. As soon as you immerse these fabrics in water, you can smell it rising to meet you - I always feel triumphant when it has gone, knowing how it can eat into the fibres. Worst of all, I think, is cigarette smoke. You can get rid of it when fabrics are washable, but when - for example - old embroideries have lived with smokers over some years, the stench of smoke (and the yellowing) becomes both hideous and virtually ineradicable.

But there is another peculiar, not unpleasant scent, which is often to be found clinging to old silk and lace. I found myself pointing it out in my listing earlier today and remarking that I love it, although I'm aware that not everybody does! It is a strange, musky and magical scent that I invariably associate with lovely old things, like this heavily embroidered shawl. The first time I became aware of it was many years ago when a Polish cousin gave me an old lace collar from a box of treasured family items. There was this peculiar scent still clinging to it - slightly herbal - a trace of very old lavender perhaps? Musky, feminine, nostalgic. This shawl smells the same. I've aired it and the scent is fading. A little fresh lavender will almost but not quite mask it. To me it is as precious and emotive as the scent of old books - which I also love!

The closest thing I have ever found to it is Hungary Water or "the Queen of Hungary's Water" an ancient perfume distilled from rosemary and thyme with - variously - lavender, mint, sage, marjoram, orange blossom and lemon. Crabtree and Evelyn used to - but no longer seem to - make it, and I used to buy it. You can, however, read more about it here. The other scent which I have written about in a long poem called The Scent of Blue, and which seems to have something of the same timeless quality about it, is l'Heure Bleue by Guerlain, which is one of my all time favourites.

Edwardian Scottish Beach Scene

Here's another of Alan's nicely evocative and faintly nostalgic paintings - an Edwardian beach scene, with children paddling - inspired by Barassie Beach. These naive and colourful paintings are - slightly to our amazement - selling well although admittedly the prices are highly competitive. I think people find them cheering - as I do myself - pictures you can live with, pictures that remind you of a long lost world where the pace was slower, and pleasures were simpler. Well - that's what we like to think anyway!

Alan Lees in The Scots Magazine

There's a lovely piece in the new edition of the Scots Magazine - an article by Hannah Adcock about Alan's woodcarving and willow art work. Oddly enough, we switched on the Scottish television news this morning to see a shot of Alan's huge carving of 'Tam and Meg' at the Burns Centre in Alloway. Alloway's 'Auld Haunted Kirk' is being reopened today after extensive renovations, and the film crew were obviously looking for an interesting indoor shot. The carving has - sadly - been a bit of a sore point for us since the shop which comprises most of the centre has been using it as what probably amounts to the most expensive 'point of sale' fitting in the history of the world. This huge and beautiful carving that represents many months of work for Alan has invariably been surrounded by souvenir miff maff - tartanalia in other words. We have had various enraged Australians and Americans fetching up on our doorstep to complain that they wanted photographs of themselves with Tam and Meg, but couldn't get close enough to the statue. And this is a woodcarving which is meant to be stroked and touched - half the charm of woodcarvings is in their tactile quality. Latterly, because the future of the centre was in doubt, and because the carving is very firmly set into the floor, we had even begun to wonder if whoever took the centre over might decide to chop it up. However, since the National Trust are set to take over Burns Centre, and undertake extensive renovations, it doesn't look as if this is going to happen. Alan has offered his advice - essentially the statue would have to be moved (with extreme difficulty) and stored under cover - it's made in lime, so can't be left outside - until a new setting in the new building can be found for it. We noticed to our amusement that the statue appeared to be completely in the clear today - perhaps for the benefit of visiting dignitaries?

The First Minister is due to be in Alloway for the opening - good for him. Was Alan invited? No way. However, I may be sending a wee note to Alec S, pointing out that the statue has been somewhat sadly treated over the years. I don't have a picture of it online, so can't post it here - but I'll post one of the impressive willow stork instead.

Ironing Old Linens

When you deal in old linens, ironing always looms large and isn't my favourite occupation. Or wasn't until now. I have to confess here that the 'ironer in chief' for The Scottish Home is my husband. Well, he's an artist and there has to be something artistic about ironing hasn't there? But over the years we seem to have accumulated a collection of steam irons, none of which have worked well, or for very long.

When people see me buying old linens at auction, their most frequent comment is something like 'oh yes, lovely stuff, but what about the ironing?' In the old days, of course, the linen tablecloths would be processed by commercial laundries - most of them have their old laundry marks or tapes still in place - or perhaps by servants in the bigger houses, working mangles, to realign the fibres before pressing.

Wash an old linen tablecloth these days (a process made much easier by modern stain removers - they can even cope with ancient teastains, with a little care) but once dried it will seem crumpled beyond redemption. It's one of the ways of telling the difference between good cotton - which, whatever anyone tells you, can feel as smooth and dense and cool as linen - and real linen. In fact a little investigation online shows that on occasions the only way to tell is to examine the textile under a microscope. But if you wash it, linen will mostly crumple as it dries. Cotton will mostly stay reasonably smooth.

But now, we have discovered the steam generator iron, and our lives have been transformed.

These are, it has to be said, expensive. We bought one for the business, and we keep it for the business so that the lovely smooth ceramic sole plate stays clean. It sits on a reservoir of water, which generates steam under pressure. This comes down a cable and you literally iron using pressured steam. It works, even on crumpled linen, which comes out unbelievably smooth and beautiful. But it's a temptation to use it on everything, because the difference is truly amazing. Never has ironing been such an effortless pleasure - friends, I could SELL these things. We bought ours from Tefal and although it was one of their cheaper models, (the Tefal Pro Minute, if you want to look for it online) we have been absolutely delighted with it.

So if you want to use wonderful old linens in your house, on your tables, and beds - and really, there is nothing quite like them - perhaps you should consider investing in something more sophisticated by way of an iron. Never thought I could be this enthusiastic about ironing, but I suppose it's all about having the right tools for the job!

In a Cold Scottish Springtime Garden

April, and I'm thinking about our small kitchen garden, the one we established last year in a couple of raised beds. The beds have been dug over and are waiting to be raked. I've bought seeds - lettuces and salad stuffs of all sorts, radishes, red and white, salsify, kohlrabi, mustard, parsnips. I've planted courgettes indoors - they were hugely successful last summer and for quite a long time we ate courgettes with everything - a friend gave me a pasta sauce recipe consisting mostly of fresh courgettes and creme fraiche and it was wonderful: green and delicate and delicious. The chives are growing, as is the rosemary I established last year. The little blueberry bush has survived the winter. I've bought a white currant bush that I'm hoping to plant this week. But at the moment there seems little point in sowing any outdoor seeds since the ground is just too cold. Instead I planted some lily bulbs, and repotted some chocolate mint (smells just like Mint Chocolates, fabulous!) and a big pot of basil. Can never sow basil without thinking of Isabella and Lorenzo in the story - and in Keats' poem - and the Holman Hunt Picture . Gruesome but wonderful all the same!

Switching off the Lights - A Rant.

Google, please do not sit in your nice centrally heated, brightly lit offices and ask me to switch off my lights for a token hour to save the planet when I have just spent a chilly Scottish winter switching on the central heating only for a scant two hours a day, in spite of working from home, lighting fires (with smokeless fuel, natch) and running about with extra sweaters, Ayrshire blankets etc, because it now costs £429.00 to fill our smallest sized tank with central heating oil in this country. I drive a small, energy efficient car. I live in a listed building which is as insulated as it is possible to be - but of course replacement windows must be sliding sash, and quite right too, otherwise the council will cut up rough. There is no mains gas to the village, and the bottled sort is even more ruinously expensive to run than oil. We close doors, use shutters to keep the heat in, recycle religiously. But hell mend you when you ask me to make empty gestures.
A much better option would be for everyone to agitate for all new houses to be built with solar panels. This is, on the whole, a very sunny country and the new energy efficient houses on the Isle of Gigha - for example - are both cheap to heat, and almost too warm. Yet in this village alone, we have a small estate of new houses, none of which have solar panels as standard. Installing them later is an expensive business, especially for what essayist Slavenka Drakulic calls the already 'ecological poor'.
If developers could be forced to include them from the off, it would make far more difference to the future inhabitants of the houses than tokenism of this sort. But of course that might eat into their already healthy profits. Grrr.

The Mighty Gulf of Corryvreckan - a Scottish Whirlpool

I'm currently listing this dramatic sunset over Corryvreckan for my husband, here, on eBay. In the distance is the notorious 'Gulf of Corryvreckan' or the 'Mighty Gulf' as it is sometimes called - a genuine Scottish whirlpool. You can find some excellent photographs of it here at a website called Hebridean Wild. The name, seemingly, comes from the Gaelic Coirebhreacain which means "cauldron of the speckled seas" or possibly "cauldron of the plaid", the latter name originating with legends of a Scottish goddess who used these turbulent waters for washing her great plaid. You can read more about it on Wikipedia but for many people their first encounter with it comes in that fabulous Powell and Pressburger movie "I Know Where I'm Going' in which it figures at a dramatic high point of the film. It is possible to navigate these waters with care - but you have to know what you are doing. Local knowledge is essential.

Old Scottish linens for the bathroom

Quite often, when I buy a box of old linens at auction, I will find a little pile of Irish linen guest towels at the bottom of the box. Some of them will be well used and rather worn, but just occasionally I'll find some lovely old pieces of bathroom linen with hemstitching, damask patterns and finely hand made crochet edging. I always imagine that they were somebody's pride and joy, eighty or more years ago, perhaps made by a young woman before her wedding, when she was dreaming of setting up house for the first time. Generally, although not always, the crochet is at one end with perhaps the damask and hemstitching continued at the other end. The main fabric of these towels is of the type that I think is known as 'huckaback' in the USA - a nicely textured linen that makes them both useful and beautiful. People sometimes say to me 'but nobody uses these nowadays, do they?' Well, they do. I have a good friend - for instance - with a real flair for interior design. I'm contemplating asking her to do the occasional guest post on this blog. Whenever we visit her lovely old Lancashire house, I notice that she uses these old linen guest towels in her downstairs cloakroom. And I always find myself thinking how beautiful they look, in situ as it were. But I have also known her to use them to line shelves, with the crochet edging visible - particularly if you are displaying old glassware they look wonderful. And like all these old linens, they launder beautifully!

Tulips Tulips Tulips

I love all the spring flowers - but I think that of all flowers I probably love tulips most - and although the verges and parks are currently full of daffodils - a little later than elsewhere in the UK, this being Scotland - the shops are full of big bright bunches of tulips which I find completely irresistable. And soon, the garden will be the same. They are, on the whole, a bargain buy because they look good even when they are slightly past their best. Don't be in too much of a hurry to throw them away. Daffs shrivel and look sad - tulips just open out ever more elegantly, to show the dark heart of each flower. Even their foliage fades to a subtle yellow, and so long as you keep the water fresh, you can get a week or more out of a large and lovely bunch of them. I have an old Dutch Delft tulip holder - a rectangular blue and white container with a removable top, with holes in it, into which you can slot individual tulips - although obviously it looks more impressive with the large old fashioned parrot tulips - the kind that were once sold for a king's ransome a few hundred years ago. Once the bigger, brighter garden tulips are in bloom, I'll add a photograph of it to this blog.

More Naive Art - Scottish Golf - Turnberry

More delightful Scottish 'naive' art from Alan Lees - this time with a golfing theme. These are pictures of Turnberry golf course, with the Turnberry lighthouse in the background. The picture on the left has Ailsa Craig in the background as well, and the kind of stunningly vivid light which is not unknown in the West of Scotland. The picture on the right is a windy day in spring. The gorse is in full vivid bloom, and one or two players have lost their balls among the spikes! An umbrella has been blown inside out and the players are struggling in a stiff breeze from the sea - all too common in this part of the world. I love these brilliantly evocative pictures - there's a lovely simplicity about them, but the memories they evoke, the atmosphere they create is all too true - and in this instance undeniably cheerful - art which may well remind you of happy days, and none the worse for that. Go to The Scottish Home on eBay to see more of Alan's pictures.

Happy Easter from Scotland!

And here's an Easter photograph to go with the wishes. The plate - one of my all time favourite possessions - belonged to my dear late mother, who gave it to me years ago. She had bought it at auction, along with other items, and it was always the thing I coveted most, along with a pair of very old and comfortable oak framed chairs, which now sit in my living room. It looks like Maling, probably is Maling, though it has no backstamp to prove the point. The blue and white jug, the wee bird, and the bowl that you can just glimpse on the right, are all modern slipware, made in the 1980s by a superb Scottish potter called Jason Shackleton. I adored his work and still do, although I don't think he continued making this wonderful slipware, perhaps because not everyone appreciated it with quite my passion about it! We have a number of pieces - these sit on an eighteenth century Scottish dresser, such as Robert Burns might have possessed. We bought this one at auction, in terrible condition. It had obviously spent many years in a shed, and Alan did a magnificent restoration job on it. It is wonderful storage space, swallowing almost anything you might like to put in it. Our other, much older dresser, the oak press cupboard mentioned elsewhere on this blog, is where the rest of the modern slipware sits, in the kitchen. It includes this fabulously monstrous teapot, also by Jason Shackleton, which has, on occasions, been pressed into service, during large family gatherings. Filled, it is almost too heavy to lift. But it is a beautiful, beautiful item and one which I treasure.

New Scottish Art - A Day at the Shore

Alan's painting seems to go from strength to strength at the moment. The painting above (acrylics on canvas board - 20 inches by 16) is one of my all time favourites. It's titled 'A Day at the Shore'. A young woman in a long red dress and sunhat, walks along the sand of what is very obviously a West of Scotland beach. She is pushing one of those big, old fashioned, comfortable prams with one hand, while with the other, she holds the hand of a toddler, a little lad in blue, who is carrying his bucket and spade. In the background you can just make out a misty Ailsa Craig, while a paddler steamer motors along on its way 'doon the watter.'

I don't know why I like this one so much, except that there seems to be something wonderfully evocative and atmospheric about it. The composition is lovely - the eye goes straight to mother and child, but then picks up on the paddle steamer - quite detailed - and drifts across to the distant Craig. There is something so typically West of Scotland about this day - warm but not sultry - always a little breeze in the Clyde. And the little boy with his bucket and spade has, I think, had his attention caught by the paddle steamer. (As anyone who has seen the Waverley pass by knows, they are impossible to ignore - just beautiful vessels.)

The painting is currently for sale in our eBay shop - but when it sells, as I'm sure it will, I'll be very sorry to see it go. He'll just have to do me another one like it!

Alan has been fairly desperate to get away from woodcarving for a little while now. It's not that he doesn't enjoy it, and - as you can see if you visit his site - he is very good at it. But he was constantly being asked to make ever larger carvings for ever lower prices, and each time it seemed to effect his health adversely - carving on this scale is definitely a young man's game. He had always sketched - most of his carvings began life as a series of sketches - and painted, but he himself was aware that his paintings were too stilted and photographic. As a sculptor, a certain meticulous quality was in them. I've been bending his ear for ages to try to get him to free his imagination, but it was when he began to paint in acrylics that things started to go right for him. What he was aiming for, I suppose, was that sense of freedom that he managed to encompass when he was doodling and sketching for a carving - the drawings he produced then were lovely. Acrylics demanded a certain speed. He couldn't possibly hang about! And at the same time he began painting not what he saw but what he felt. There is a certain narrative in these pictures - but there is an evocative quality about them - sometimes nostalgic and timeless, as with this one - but sometimes right up to the minute.

Now that he has begun, he has almost more ideas than he can cope with - so watch this space!

Edinburgh - The Royal Yacht Britannia

We're just back from a weekend in Edinburgh which involved a number of touristy things, The Royal Yacht Britannia, Holyrood Palace, The Queens Gallery, and a handful of good pubs.
Britannia is beautiful, particularly the engines (I have a really soft spot for these stunning elderly Clyde built engines!) How could they ever have thought of scuttling her? The tour is well done and informative and because it's still early in the season we had plenty of time and space to look around. You'll find all kinds of useful information on the link above, but I have a couple of personal observations - one is to wonder why on earth, as a Clyde built vessel, she isn't berthed on the Clyde? And the other interesting observation is the relative lack of opulence aboard her. I mean there are some pretty opulent pieces of table silver, usually of some historical significance (they always make me think of that quote from Dickens, I forget which novel, where the silver is assumed to be saying 'wouldn't you like to melt me down?') But the interiors are relatively simple. No gold bath taps here. And all, so they say, at the Queen's behest. No fuss. It is a very restrained interior, much like (one assumes) Her Majesty. The other wonderful place is the vast laundry. All those uniforms, all that linen to be laundered every single day. They never closed. And it still smells of soap powder.
More about Holyrood in another post.

Frost Flowers

These were taken in our conservatory the other morning - and a very cold night it had been too. If I had been just a little earlier, I would have captured these amazing frost flowers before the windows misted over. The insulation worked well - the conservatory was quite warm and the insides of the windows were totally clear - but you could see the most amazing natural forms covering the glass on the outside - like seaweed or ferns perhaps, more than flowers. I remember these beautiful shapes all too clearly from my early childhood. My parents used to say that 'Jack Frost' had been and breathed on the windows in the night, and I vividly remember running my fingers over the glass to melt the patterns. But back then, the frost flowers were on the insides of all our windows - since central heating was unheard of for all but the wealthy few. The water in the glass beside your bed was known to freeze over in the night as well. However did we survive, I wonder?

Steam and Sail on the Clyde and a Wee Observation about the Weather.

Snow is forecast here for this afternoon and tomorrow. Certainly it's cold, and we've had the occasional unpleasant hail shower, but so far the snow has only amounted to a few flakes. And as I type this, the sun is shining. Every single year at this time, we have a wee media frenzy to do with the weather. What happens is this. In February we generally have a warmish spell. The wind blows and the smell of spring is in the air. The snowdrops are in full bloom, the trees are in bud, the very earliest of the blossom, essentially 'winter flowering' is on the trees, and a few timid daffodils are beginning to show yellow blooms instead of green spikes. You may even manage to do a bit of gardening without getting trussed up in warm coat, hat and gloves. At this point there will be a sudden outbreak of articles in the press about Global Warming and the ridiculously early spring and how we are all about to go to hell in a handcart. A couple of weeks later the temperatures will fall again, quite dramatically, and we will be well and truly back in winter. A meteorologist will be trotted out on the television to discuss it. Boringly (from the interviewer's angle) he or she will point out that all this is completely normal, par for the course, all part of a typical Scottish winter weather pattern, and so on, but nobody will really listen.

I actually heard an interviewer asking a seismologist last week if the (quite large) English earthquake had been caused by climate change. No, he explained, patiently, although you could hear his inward sigh. No, that's on the surface of the earth. This is deep inside. Sometimes the media chatter (to which I suppose I am contributing here and now) is so loud that nobody ever stops to listen.

Here, meanwhile, is another picture, this time of Steam and Sail on the Clyde - one for those who loved Para Handy, and his Puffer, The Vital Spark, I think!

Gallus

Now there's a good Glasgow word for you - though it's virtually untranslatable. It means daring, mischievous, cocky, self confident, iconoclastic, all of the above, and more. Often coupled with 'dead' as a suitable intensifier. A story to illustrate: when my son was first living in Glasgow, he and a friend were walking home late one night. They met a man coming the other way, slightly the worse (or better) for drink. He brandished a couple of broken bottles at them and as they recoiled in horror he grinned and said 'Only joking!' and went on his way. That's gallus. In fact it's probably dead gallus.
I've been writing a piece about Glasgow, and the word has been much in my mind. But I was thinking about it even more today, when I posted what I thought was a faintly humorous observation about something on a professional website, to be met with a series of what can only be described as spiky responses. And it struck me that I have been living in Scotland for so long (we moved up here when I was twelve - it's my country, my home) that I now take ironic self deprecation coupled with a certain gallus sense of mischief completely for granted. It never occurred to me that somebody might actually take me seriously. The Scots I know and love regularly puncture pomposity with a few well chosen words. I'm used to it. It's a baseline for all interactions. But I had forgotten that not everyone understands or approves and I do sometimes wonder if this isn't one more symptom of the chasm which seems to be slowly but surely opening between our countries.

Painting Scotland

My husband, Alan Lees, who has spent many years working as a woodcarver and sculptor, is doing more and more paintings these days - although he's working on some carved 'waymarkers' for a woodland walk at Straiton in South Ayrshire, even as I type this. However, it's hard and dirty work, with - as usual for craftsmen and women of all kinds - poor remuneration for the effort put in, never mind the actual artistic skills involved. Increasingly then, he is turning to paintings, and increasingly he's working in acrylics, liking the speed and vivid, 'primitive' colours. The pictures too have a primitive, folk art quality about them, and other people seem to like them too. One of his recent feedbacks, in our online shop, The Scottish Home says that he will be 'famous' one day. We certainly hope so! He's quite famous already for his carvings - people are forever coming up to him and shaking his hand when they find out what he does - but I think at the moment, he would rather be painting, and the vivid, graphic and very Scottish quality of some of these makes them ideal as interior design pieces, as well as for people who may want to be reminded of Scotland - industrial Glasgow, as well as the landscapes of the west.

A Burns Supper an Amazing Damask and a Spooky Observation

A few weeks ago, we hosted a Burns Supper for a group of sixteen friends. The table took a bit of time and trouble to get right - what with candles, Burns napkins (had to scour Glasgow for those - couldn't find any in Ayrshire, though doubtless there were some, just not where I was looking!) tartan ribbons for the whisky bottles and heather from the garden - there is always heather of some sort in bloom in the garden even in February. I used one of the Scottish Home's tablecloths, an enormous banqueting cloth which has been sitting in my 'stock cupboard' for a couple of years, and which I have not yet brought myself to sell, partly because I always suspected it would come in handy one day. It is a lovely, lovely old damask, with a stunning design of game birds, stags and so on woven into it, and I reckon it probably came from a hunting lodge somewhere, and was used for those mammoth dinners that people would once have had after a day out on the hills. It is truly enormous - you can see just how big, from the picture on the left: 12 feet long by just under 8 feet wide. Unfortunately it does have a little damage, mostly along the edges, one or two worn places, and a few very small cuts, but nothing that anybody noticed while it was in use.
We provided the venue, the cock a leekie soup (traditional, with prunes) home made oat bread, potatoes and cheese. The rest of the meal was brought by assorted friends, including haggis, home made steak pie, and three spectacular trifles, all different. As we sat there over coffee, there was a sudden power cut, but since we had a great many candles already lit, nobody much cared. There is a sense in which this old house comes to life when the electricity goes off. I always feel it, and it seemed peculiarly powerful that night. When our guests had left, I pottered about by candlelight, gathering up glasses and dishes. I paused in the sitting room, listening - and as always, felt that there are people living here still who prefer candlelight. The next day, I wrote a poem about it.

Arran from Maidens Bay

Alan titled this recent picture 'Digging for Worms' and it reminds me of doing just that, years ago, when our son was a wee boy, and we spent a happy but hectic morning on the beach at Ardminish, on the Isle of Gigha, digging for worms in the sand to use as bait for fishing. Not, mind you, that they ever caught very much, he and his dad. My own father was a more successful fisherman and used to take his beloved grandson to local trout lochs, with the permission of various owners (my Polish dad used to be able to charm the birds out of the trees, as the saying goes, so getting permission to fish was a piece of cake. Or trout. ) But whenever Alan and our son went sea fishing they very seldom caught anything. They did enjoy the process. And digging for worms was peculiarly satisfying, though not - I suspect - for the worms. But most of them escaped as well. And at least our son liked to eat the fish that he did manage to catch - usually barbecued with herbs and lemon and black pepper.

Today feels like the first day of spring, although it is still January - but for once the rain has stopped, the sun came out (briefly) and the hedgerows seemed to be suddenly full of snowdrops. The colours in the picture above - although they look exaggerated - are, as anyone who has visited the West of Scotland will know - absolutely true to some days and times. Lovely!

New Scottish Artworks Available Online

Here at The Scottish Home we have decided to take the plunge and devote a section of our online shop to Alan's artworks. We've tried selling them this way with varying degrees of success but feel that we've never been wholehearted enough about it before. And besides, he's working in a new and interesting way. For the last six months or so, he has been painting in oils and acrylics rather more than he has been woodcarving - although he hasn't abandoned the carving altogether and is still available for commissions, here. He has worked his way through horses and cattle, tackled the odd illustration for Tam O' Shanter, painted a selection of boats and is now obsessively painting scenes from Clydeside and Glasgow - semi-industrial scenes, with various 'naive' figures going about their business. Of everything he has done, I find I like these pictures very much - there is a sort of primitive, folk art quality about them which seems quite original to me - most commercial Scottish art these days tackles a Scottish rural landscape, particularly that of the highlands and islands. But these are urban, full of life and interest and charm (like the picture of a football match in the snow above) and I suspect they might appeal to a worldwide audience, particularly of people with a Scottish ancestry - and there are a great many of them about!

The prices, at the moment, are exceedingly reasonable, mainly because we are aiming to build a market so have a look at them and let us know what you think.

Still January, Still Raining, Still Cold

But two signs of hope this morning. As we lay in bed, my husband and I, wondering which one of us would get up and make the tea - actually, I'm fibbing, because it is always him, but just very occasionally on Sundays I do it instead - we heard the unmistakable cadence of birdsong from the garden. It was thin and half hearted and it didn't go on for very long, but it is still a sign that spring is on the way. Yesterday, on my way to town, I drove past a few little drifts of snowdrops at the side of the road.
On the other hand, real snow without the drops is forecast for tomorrow, and I am writing this with a fan heater blowing on my feet, but my hands are still freezing. This is mostly because those of us who live in old houses and attempt to make a living from the creative industries can barely afford to heat our homes in the UK at the moment.
We have double glazing where we can. We could do with replacing the upstairs windows, with double glazed units, but since this is a listed building, they would have to be sliding sash windows and we can't afford them. Downstairs we have lovely old shutters, which we use as soon as night falls, and they are a godsend. We have put secondary glazing over the upstairs windows, but it is never as efficient.
We have insulated our loft. Cavity wall insulation is not an option, since our immensely thick stone walls do not have cavities. There is no gas in the village. We once lived with a multi fuel boiler for several years, but it had to be fed constantly, and the house still felt cold. Now we heat the place with a mixture of oil central heating, oil radiators run on electricity, a hugely efficient multi fuel burner in the living room, which we mostly feed with smokeless fuel - and the odd fan heater to keep the workers' toes from freezing off. The oil is so pricey that we can only afford to run the heating for a few hours morning and evening, and even then the bills are appalling. I scatter vintage blankets about the house and use them. I wear layers. I wear woolly socks. And some days I am still cold.
We are hardly souls in Scotland.
On New Year's Eve, we visited some friends in the village, who are living in a lovely new build house. It looks very like one of the old cottages, it is quite small, and exceedingly well insulated. All those of us who live in the more 'historic' properties were, within minutes, fanning ourselves and saying things like 'My God it's so hot!' Body temperatures adjust. But sometimes it does cross my mind that a nice, small, insulated city flat might be the answer...

January in Scotland

Not a good time of year, on the whole. Also, I've been neglecting this blog, in favour of wordarts because I've decided to post a whole novel on there, a bit at a time. It's called The Corncrake, and I've only got as far as posting Chapter 4 (although the whole book is written). It's something of a Hebridean homage to Wuthering Heights so if you like that novel and/or if you love Scotland, you might enjoy it. I'm already working on something quite new, which I hope will be sent out by my agent in the usual way. But, for reasons too complicated to go into here, involving extensive rewrites, she can't really send this one out. I reckon it's a good commercial tale, and I've decided to post it and see what happens. But it will take a long time to get through it - midsummer by my reckoning! When, hopefully, the rain will have stopped.
Early in December a friend told us that the autumn had been the dryest for thirty years, here in Ayrshire. Since by that time the fields around the village were a sodden mess, he got fairly short shrift, while stoutly maintaining what his rain gauge was telling him. He may have been right, but the statistics were only an indication of the thankless task of judging the weather here in Scotland, because it hardly seems to have stopped raining since he first mentioned it. Predicting droughts from dry spells lasting a few weeks is impossible in this country. Right now, it is dark, wet and windy. In between times, it is cold. You would not want to be here.
Meanwhile, I have decided to broaden out the scope of this blog a bit, and post the odd reflective piece about what is going on in Scotland just now - socially and politically, as well as all the nice stuff about houses, gardens and antiques - in fact a little more about what it means to live and work in Scotland in the early years of the twenty first century.

Memory Foam Mattress - an update

Those of you who follow this blog from month to month may be wondering how I am getting on with my loathed memory foam mattress. Not very well is the answer. I am now beginning to wonder if it wasn't all a plot on the part of my insomniac husband to inflict the same problem on myself, except that he's far too nice to do that to me. But sleeplessness induces paranoia you know. If pushed, I would say that I have 'got used to it' to some extent. That is to say that the smell has disappeared, and I also manage to fall asleep on it. But this is because I delay going to bed until exhaustion really sets in, and then read for half an hour or so. So I fall asleep at one or one thirty ....and then I wake up again. You know that feeling when you look at the clock, hoping and praying it will be morning, only to find it is three thirty, or four at the latest? At that point I will be (a) so hot that I feel as if the whole bed is going into meltdown and me with it (b) utterly uncomfortable with pains in various joints and (c) stuck. I now think that whether or not you can get on with these mattresses depends very much on the kind of sleeper you are. Some people move around more than others. My husband lies like a stone. I fidget. But you can't toss and turn with any ease on memory foam so you don't fidget, you struggle. It's like lying on very firm mud. It also seems to have the same effect on my lovely duck down pillows, so that they start to feel as though all the individual feathers have solidified. So I toss and turn (with extreme difficulty) and alternate between extremes of heat (under the duvet) and cold (outside the duvet). In the morning, Alan's side of the bed looks as neat as when he got into it. Mine, by contrast, looks like that scene in the M R James ghost story 'Oh Whistle and I'll Come to You' - you know - the horribly crumpled bedclothes in the spare bed. My sister in law, well warned by me in advance, tells me that they have just bought a new sprung mattress with a thin layer of memory foam on the top. She tells me it is extremely comfortable. This does not make me feel any better. I need sleep. I need to knit up my ravelled sleeve of care a bit. Dear God, I need a new bed.

Dry Rot - The Joys of Owning Old Property

Apologies for long silence on this blog. We have had dry rot. Invasion of the body snatchers. The curse of old houses everywhere. Dry rot was a late introduction to Britain and came in on imported timber in, I believe, the nineteenth century. If I could find the grave of the man who first imported it, I would dig him up and kill him all over again.
The spores lurk in the structure till conditions are just right. Then they germinate, and set off in search of water, through whatever happens to be in their way, stone walls in this case. When they find wood, they suck it dry (much like a Doctor Who or Star Trek alien) and continue on their merry way in search of more. The big 200 year old oak lintel over one of our windows was badly infected and had to come out. One end was like cheese. Unfortunately, the other end was rock solid and took forever to remove. The whole corner of the downstairs study had to be opened up, the infected wood removed - the stuff looks and smells alien as well as causing so much damage - and the walls treated with fungicide (and a blow torch, just to make sure!)
The only saving grace was that the chemicals are much less noxious than they once were and don't smell at all. Was this introduced for the benefit of humans? Not on your life. It was because dry rot treatments were adversely affecting bats. Call me old fashioned but I'd put human health before bats any day, but hey, what do I know?
We thought for a while that we would also have to dismantle our son's room - only just redecorated - but because ours is a very old cottage, with a great deal of space inside the walls, it wasn't necessary.
I think if I were starting all over again with this house (heaven forbid) I would open the whole thing out, taking much of it right back to its original stonework, which is beautiful. It would make a much bigger house, and there would be nowhere for the dry rot to hide. But since we have neither the time nor the money to do that, we'll just have to work with what we have. Even as I write this, my husband is starting to attempt to rebuild that corner of the room, and the window. And when he's finished what will amount to three week's intensive work, the room will look pretty much as it did before. Soul destroying or what?

Afternoon Tea

Had the pleasure of a real old fashioned 'afternoon tea' last weekend, courtesy of some friends who live in an old farmhouse. The home baking was fabulous - scones, several sorts of cake, buns, home made jam, clotted cream, millions of mouthwatering calories heaped on one long damask tablecloth! (and a perfect use for these tablecloths, I might add.) Among the offerings, all served with pots of good leaf tea, was a chocolate cake so rich and dark and dense and gooey that somebody aptly described it as a nuclear reactor among chocolate cakes. Not that anybody could manage more than a thin slice. This lead to speculation about a possible 'chocolate cake' diet - one slice of said cake for breakfast, with a couple of indigestion tablets for good measure, and you wouldn't want to eat anything else at all for the rest of the day. Worth it though. Definitely worth it.
The other revelation was to do with the classic British 'cream tea' which is normally a combination of home made scones, good jam and clotted cream. There are regional arguments as to which goes on first, cream or jam, but it does rather depend upon the consistency of the cream, which can vary from very thick and buttery, to slightly softer, depending upon where y0u acquire it. Either way, it's a delicious dish, but another one that does rather take the edge off any desire to eat for many hours afterwards. As well as the traditional scones, however, our friends also served small, fluffy, white rolls (freshly home baked, naturally, with just that faint tang of yeast that seems to be disappointingly absent from bought bread). A 'cream tea' on a bread roll instead ofa scone is a revelation. Light as a feather, not remotely sweet and sickly. It should have a name all its own but I can't think of one at the moment.
Afternoon tea seems to be making a bit of a comeback here in the UK: a very civilized meal although , unlike our more robust Victorian and Edwardian forebears, most of us can't really manage to eat dinner or indeed anything else, for the rest of the day!

A Scottish Cottage Wall

A few weeks ago we stripped all the plaster off one of the walls in our old cottage sitting room. This was a wall which had been slightly damp for years and years, and every possible cure had been tried, inside and out, on roof, chimney, walls. Eventually our friendly builder intimated that the plaster itself had turned 'sour' and the only cure was to strip the whole thing off, with the possibility of adding a false wall, with a space behind to allow air to circulate. In the event, the stonework behind the plaster (which was indeed very sour) was so beautiful that we decided to point it up and leave it. It became clear, moreover, that when the cottage was built (some time between 1808 and 1811) it was never intended that these walls should be plastered at all - hence the problems on this, the chimney wall. What really fascinated us though, was the sight of the 200 year old lintel stone, which had once sat on top of an enormous old fireplace - you can see it in the picture, with a layer of ancient soot along the edge. This would have been the kind of fireplace where all the cooking went on, possibly, back then, with an old fashioned metal 'swee' to swing the pans in and out, over the flames. High in the wall to the left is a very definite space - either for a lamp, or a candle, or just possibly for keeping the salt dry. We're not sure - but a candle looks very nice sitting in it!
The other surprise is just what a change it makes to the room - opening it out somehow, and making it, possibly the darkest room in the house, seem much lighter and altogether warmer. The stonework will, I hope, look even nicer at Christmas time, when I get going with the holly and ivy!

Scallops

Went out for a very posh lunch yesterday. My main course was salmon with 'scallop' which turned out to be just that: a single (albeit delicious) scallop, used as a garnish. And no wonder. Commercially, they cost a fortune.
Which took me (inevitably) back to Gigha, earlier this summer. We were given a large bag of cleaned scallops by a fisherman friend. We took them to our self catering cottage, and Alan cooked them, flash frying them in a little olive oil and pressed garlic. We ate them at the picnic table outside the cottage, looking down into the bay, at the turquoise blue waters from which they had been dredged. We divided them between five of us, one each, and another, and another, until they were all gone. Fortunately the teens in our party didn't like the look of them. We didn't press the point. We must have had about seven or eight each. They were completely delicious, tender, and with a real tang of the sea about them - that faintly astringent taste of really fresh shellfish from clean salty waters....
Afterwards it struck me that all my most memorable meals seem to have been fishy: sardines with salty potatoes and spicy sauce in a small restaurant in Candelaria on Tenerife, mussels in Bruges, and again, this year, in the south of France, fresh crab on Gigha, and now scallops from the same place. But the scallops were most definitely the winner.