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.

More information about an interesting old Paisley Shawl

A little while ago I was blogging about an interesting old Paisley Shawl which I'm currently listing on eBay. I didn't know whether it had been mended or not, because it seemed to fall into two semi matching halves. Now that it has finally stopped raining here I have been able to hang this fabulous textile up outside in the garden and get a better look at it. It seems obvious now (as it wasn't before!) that the divide is quite intentional. This would have been folded in the middle and then worn as a wrap, with one or other side showing - and as somebody pointed out to me, it would look as though the lady wearing it possessed two somewhat different shawls!

Glasgow East - just have to mention it!

'Catastrophe for Labour as SNP triumphs in Glasgow East · Nationalists overturn 13,500 majority in heartland.'
That was how the Guardian reported the results of the Glasgow East by-election today. And in a blog called The Scottish Home, even though I'm usually writing about textiles and gardens and things like that, I just have to say something about it before I go back to the latest novel - called the Physic Garden - which is progressing nicely at about 30,000 words.
I've said it before on this blog, and I'll say it again. I love Glasgow. It's my favourite city in the world. Its people are surely among the most friendly, bright, irreverent, inventive and creative in existence. But the city's east end has extreme problems of poverty and deprivation that all these many years of a Labour government have done little to address. The fact that this poverty sits cheek by jowl with the newly gentrified Merchant City, where £1000 handbags and designer chic are commonplace, doesn't really help.
I'm no political economist, but I remember attending a conference a few years ago and hearing somebody speak about how he had taken photographs of some of those sixties tower blocks in Glasgow with heat detecting cameras in an effort to assess why the buildings were so disastrous for the residents - full of damp and bronchitis-inducing black mould. Asthma was endemic among the children. Clothes were ruined. The residents themselves were always being blamed for this. They were boiling kettles, breathing, that kind of thing. (I kid you not!) He said 'we looked at the pictures and wondered what all those little blocks of insulation were. Then we suddenly realised that they were curtains in the windows. We had taken the pictures at night. The drawn curtains were providing infinitely better insulation for each of the flats than the walls!'
Over the past few weeks, the English press have sent representatives north to trash Glasgow's east end. And they've made a pretty good job of it. A.A. Gill (gonnae stick to cookery pal?) in the Sunday Times produced a predictably glib piece of non analysis. None of it has gone unnoticed. The East End has serious problems but it is by no means as wholly bleak a dystopia as was painted. And this from guys who live in London for God's sake. A wee biblical quote comes to mind: 'And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?' Away and consider a few beams, eh?
All of which amounts, I suppose, to a lot of votes for the SNP. As a lifelong and instinctive Labour party supporter myself, I voted for them (the SNP that is) in the Scottish parliament and will probably vote for them in a general election too unless Labour stops marching us relentlessly backwards towards 1984 and lecturing us about how we don't really understand them.
I started watching the election results programme last night but when Labour demanded a recount at about 1.30 I decided that enough was enough and went to bed. Still I put on the radio only to realise that Radio Scotland stops broadcasting around midnight and switches to Five Live which is the general UK news programme. I drifted off to sleep only to wake up in the early hours when the results were being announced. We got a wee chat with a professor from Strathclyde University, and then suddenly we were off on the Obama trail. No more analysis or comment from Scotland. And it's that sort of thing, folks, that really gets your goat when you live north of the border. That and the relentlessly London centred news. Wall to wall Boris when it was the London mayoral elections. SATS disasters which we don't have in Scotland. (We don't have the dreaded SATS up here but we do have assessments in reading, writing and maths, pupils are tested "when ready" and there's no big deal made of it. It's marked internally. The results are private. Teachers do their job. It works. )
And don't get me started on the new weather maps which condense the whole of this huge country into a distorted squidge at the top end of the screen. And as somebody pointed out recently on a comment programme, Glasgow has had a knife problem for years, but it's only when it starts happening in London that the politicians suddenly start focussing their hand wringing on it.
So food and fuel prices may have a lot to do with the election result as Labour would like to believe. But a general dissatisfaction with Westminster, coupled with the perception that the SNP have done pretty well so far is surely an even bigger factor.
Enough politics for one day. I'm away back to my textiles and my book.

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!