Life's an idiom

Burns in brief - A humble tribute to Scotland's beloved bard

2012-01-25T22:23:00.000Z

Burns sculpture in New Cumnock
by the talented Kirti Mandir

WE HAIL him as Scotland's favourite son, our National Poet, the People’s Poet, the Poet of Humanity, Robden of Solway Firth, the Bard of Ayrshire and in Scotland as simply The Bard.

Inthe mid 1700s, they called him the Poet Ploughman, and he quite liked thattitle, for it recognised him as something more than a peasant – he had recognition asa writer and an audience that wished to hear his words.

Timeswere harsh for the gardener’s son born in Alloway on 25 January 1759. Despite abrief appearance in mainstream education, his father had the foresight toeducate him at home, teaching him maths, languages and English.

Byhis late teens Robert Burns was fluent in French, spoke Latin, studied philosophy, politics, geography,theology and the Bible. He was an accomplished mathematician and in later yearsadded significantly to his impressive list of subjects.

Hard physical work on the family farm took its toll onthe young Burns: he was more a thinker than a labourer – an anachronism of his timeline.He therefore increasingly turned his attentions towards the passions of poetry,nature, drink and women which would characterise the remainder of his life.

Ayoung Burns stumbled upon poetry when, at the tender age of 15, he met hisfirst love of many, Nelly Kirkpatrick, who inspired him to write a songentitled O Once I lov’d a Bonnie Lass. Not one of his most erudite works, butone that released the raging floods of his imaginative genius that remainedwith him throughout his short life.

Women provided the stimulation for much ofBurns’ genius and the stimulus for his desires. He managed to sire 12 childrento countless lassies and twins to the curvaceous brunette who he later went onto marry.

PoorJean Armour, she must have despaired at his philandering tendencies and hischronic adulterous behaviour, but her’s is another story.

Burns was a man ofprofound thought and an incurable romantic who saw the world around him as ablank canvass to paint his ardent ideals upon. Throughcountless lines, he turned the humble into heroes; small animals into socialistchampions; blushing young lassies into pastoral pleasures; ploughed fields intostunning landscapes; and everyday objects into icons of national pride.

Burnsoften turned his obsessions towards the plight of the ordinary man and poignantpolitical social comment that he wrote in the vernacular, often leading to afew raised eyebrows and some gasps of outrage by those members of society whofound his satire a little too biting.

His firstpublished works, Poems, Chiefly in the ScottishDialect: Kilmarnock Edition, saw the light ofday on 31 July 1786.

With a growingmovement towards romanticism in art and literature during that time, Edinburgh’sliterati applauded him and an Edinburgh edition was published soon after. The work was considered to be one of the greatest poeticalcollections ever written. Its appeal was obvious not only to the educated, butimportantly, to the common man, just like Burns himself.

With his new-foundcelebrity status, Burns moved to the city where he was swept around the circlesof the important and the wealthy. No longer a lowly wordsmith he took it uponhimself to go some way into preserving an important part of Scotland’s culturalheritage. To do this, heembarked on a few tours of Scotland, gathering up old Scottish folk songs andre-working them. Auld Lang Syne and My Love is Like a Red Red Rose are just twosuch songs that started life as fragments of unpublished lyrics before beinggiven the golden Burns’ treatment.

His celebritystatus didn’t last, however, and 18 months later he found himself activelyseeking employment.

Burns moved toEllisland Farm near Auldgirth where he wrote some 130 ~ about a quarter ~of his songs and poems, and 230 of his 700 letters in the space of three years.

The hard soil of the Nith Valley proved toodifficult to farm, however, and, almost completely broke, he took a job as anexciseman in Dumfries in 1789.

Burns moved into a first floor tenement flat inthe town with his wife and family and spent most of his time at his favouritehowff – the Globe Inn – where he would apparently share a few jars with his drouthie croniesbefore lumbering home to bed.

A lot of controversy and conflicting informationsurrounds the death of Robert Burns. It has been said that his dissolute lifestyleeventually came back to claim its tithe. Whether it was rheumatic fever, heartfailure, pneumonia or indeed the consequences of too much secular excess, a chilly dip in the Solway Firth on his physician's instructions didn’t do him any good and possibly finished himoff.

Burns’ son Maxwell was born on 25 July 1796.

On that day 10,000 people lined the streets of Dumfriesfor the funeral of a man they had come to love for turning their lives into lines.

Burns died four days earlier, aged 37.

There is a star whose beaming ray
Is shed on ev'ry clime
It shines by night, It shines by day
And ne'er grows dim wi' time
It rose up on the banks of Ayr
It shone on Doon's clear stream
Two hundred years are gane and mair
Yet brighter grows its beam

THE STAR O'ROBBIE BURNS, Words by James Thomson

Brighter growsits beam.

RobertBurns has achieved immortality: his eternal lines have influenced a nation as well asimportant poets, writers, artists and politicians. They have travelled acrossthe continents to stir the collective soul of men throughout the world: he is asymbol of freedom of speech and a champion of the common man.

Over two centuries on, his voice grows even stronger and his legacy brighter. Unlike the dwindlingflame of the traditional skills of Scotland’s cultural heritage, Burns’ lessons arehanded down through the generations and are perhaps even more relevant todaythan they were in his lifetime: the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.

Hehas taught us that Scotland has never needed the heads of foreignmonarchs or statesmen to call itself a nation; for the true power has alwayslain in the hearts of its people and the spirit of the ordinary man.

Soraise your glasses and revel in his legacy: tothe glorious memory of Scotland’s national bard – a poet, a lyricist, a lover,a father, a humanitarian, a revolutionary, a socialist icon, an 18^thcentury rock and roller, but also just a man who had a way with words, for a’that.

Wish I was here?

2011-12-12T22:42:00.003Z

SHINE ON: by William Neal.

THERE are very many places I would like to be at the moment that can mostly be reached from a runway. Yet, a journey that is good for the body and soul does notnecessarily require a plane or even a grid reference. Some of the mostbeautiful and dramatic sights can be experienced on the “viewless wings” ofimagination: through books, movies; photographs, poetry and particularly art.

William Neal is my favourite artist. He paintsthose evocative landscapes that softly call your name and lure you into the beauty and solitude of their other-worldliness. They are places that cannot be reached in the physical state but, the longer you gaze, the more you are drawn into the landscape and feel yourself there.

The picture here is called Shine On. It is one of the artist's very fine snowscapes in watercolour. This is a place that will never be ravaged by man and will always remain uncorrupted. You can walk around and hear your boots crunching in the snow without disturbing the pristine beauty of its surface. You can feel the bite of the evening frost on your face and the shimmer of moonlight in your hair. Above all, it's a place that you can revisit any time or simply never leave. So there's no need to wish I was there. I already am.

This post is in response to an invitation by my friend Janice Horton. She is holding an online launch party for her new book Reaching for the Stars - her third romantic novel and one that she has been working like a Trojan on for quite some time. After an exhausting sprint to the finish line, the book is out on Amazon in Kindle format. Take a look at it: www.janicehortonwriter.blogspot.com

Janice said: "On Wednesday 14th December just put up a photo or picture on YOUR BLOG of where you wish you could escape to - for a little while - or forever! It might be a paradise island, a secluded beach, a woodland hut, a mountain ski lodge? The possibilities are endless - but fun to imagine right in the middle of December! Then on Wednesday - as well as posting a full list of all the bloggers taking part on my blog - I'll be visiting all the blogs to see where YOU would like to escape to and to leave a comment!

"There will be prizes and several draws for all those taking part."

NoNaNoWriMo

2011-12-02T00:09:00.001Z

NANOWRIMO, no it's not a character from a rough bar in Mos Eisley with trumpet snout and laser gun, its a site for writers who took on the challenge of producing 50,000 words of a novel in one month. It stands for National Novel Writing Month and was kindly introduced to me by a fellow journalist and writer.Said fellow managed her impressive word count well before November 30th and r.e.s.p.e.c.t. to her for balancing a hectic lifestyle with time out to create a masterpiece.Me, I joined three days late with the intention of keeping up and managed to write 0 - yes, that equates to nil - before the deadline.For the paper, I make three deadlines a week and a lot more sub-deadlines in between that. After work, I throw the journalist hat on the umbrella stand and get straight into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Once dinner is cooked and consumed, it's time to check the email. Sixty or seventy emails a day is not unusual: most of them don't need answered but some of them lead to a bit of trawling for further information on the web.Now, the TV is shrieking in the background and the phone rings. Six or seven conversations later and six or seven promises to sort out something for the imminent future, it's time to get down to writing.Oh, it's also time for bed to get up in the morning and do it all over again.Maybe next year.

What's going on?

2009-10-22T18:54:00.002Z

Is it really the current plummet of the global economy that has caused publishers to become increasingly cautious or are they just becoming progressively stupid? It seems that publishers, in their misguided omniscience, are making some odd decisions in the hope of increasing their dwindling profit margins.
Some are now hurling their best sellers into the bargain buckets before the ink has dried on the pages, thereby halving their profits in the hope of doubling sales. Er, now I am no René Descartes, but does this not sound like maximum effort for minimum yield? No doubt it took an army of marketing personnel years of qualitative and quantitative forensic research to do the arithmetic to come up with that stroke of genius, but I just don’t get it. I can only assume that the big publishing bosses seek to maximise their plummeting revenues by herding consumers towards what publishers say they should read.
Take the spurious biogs of some not-so-stellar celebrities that are hogging the shelf-space of our book stores and collecting only dust. It is no great secret that most celebrity memoirs make spectacular flops for being badly written, overly-hyped and just plain dull. Publishing houses do, however, continue to spit them out in their thousands in the hope that some hapless recipient will end up with one in their Christmas stocking. “Oooh! I said I wanted a lovely pair of pants and deck shoes, not this crap!”
So who is paying for bad decisions? Interestingly enough, it is probably not the average consumer. It is the author who is trying really hard to bring quality work to discerning readers but is stumped by the brick wall of backward-thinking editors impervious to change.
Publishers over the years, in their stalwart efforts to maintain their artificially created markets, have become more and more cautious about what should be placed on their lists and what should not. All published and unpublished authors have their own tales to tell of endless and bitter no-thank-yous but there are none so strange as the curious oxymoron they call a “positive rejection”
A fellow writing buddy of mine is a remarkably talented wordsmith. He has won awards for both his poetry and prose and has written a couple of crime thrillers that have been well received and highly praised by everyone who has read them – even publishers – so what is he doing wrong?
His latest rejection from one of the larger publishing houses simply defies good sense. The commissioning editor praised the work in every aspect but believed there was “too much going on”. Now, I believe that this editor had taken a little too much stupid in his coffee that morning. Either that or he considers the average reader to be overly dim.
If my friend’s novel has all the necessary qualities of a successful crime thriller, how can there be too much going on? It’s a work of fiction for god’s sake!
If “not too much going on” is the measure of a successful publication then the world would never have heard of Shakespeare, Hardy, Tolkien or even Brown! “Sorry, Dan, but you’ll have to drop the symbolism bit and the reference to da Vinci, because there’s just too much going on in the plot! William, I'd prefer Hamlet to be a night watchman in Watford and not a Danish prince, there's too much going on in Denmark. John Ronald Reuel, what's with all those orcs, elves and little men with hairy feet? And, Thomas, a little less heath please and a bit more misery!”
My advice to my friend is that he should edit out all the colourful descriptive bits; delete the snappy prose, the good dialogue and intriguing plot and paint in a grey background; make all the characters faceless and leave out the personalities. Oh, and don't forget to wipe out the murders because that would just be too much going on! Next time send out 200 blank pages and get a 12-book publishing deal for the cleverly understated genius!
Too much going on? Sadly, in the fray between successful publishing and plummetting profits, there is far too little.

Road from the Isles: Charlie never left

2009-06-15T23:05:00.006Z

Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.

Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Silvester Severino Maria Stuart has a lot to answer for. Throughout history, that pestilent albatross they call the Auld Alliance has always been a one way ticket to certain disaster for the Scots. He came as Teàrlach Eideard Stiùbhairt; he lost as The Young Pretender; and he left as Betty Burke.
What makes a nation take up the sword and follow a stranger blindly to the death?
The answer is three-fold: desperation, repression and nationalism. The 18th century Jacobites were in dire need of a cause. Harried and butchered by the Hanoverians who were desperate to hold onto their fragile throne through the violent quelling of all dissidence, Charlie saw a way of claiming his regal birthright through the strength of the White Rose Highland clans. He almost made it. After the success of Prestonpans he led his victorious armies as far south as Derbyshire and, when the news reached London, the Of Oranges were already packing their bags (or at least getting their servants to do it for them).
Whatever happened after that time to the mighty Jacobite armies can be put down to a chain of misfortune: the long trudge northwards, the faint hearts of the French allies and the multiple skewering on the fields of Culloden should have taught the Bravehearts of the Highlands that Charlie was an indefensible cause. The prince’s hasty retreat attired from head to toe in Flora MacDonald’s skirts should really have been the last straw for a hot-blooded Highlander charged with dangerous levels of testosterone.
But the pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, are higher rank than a' that — and there’s the rub. Standing in front of the Glenfinnan monument, the stone effigy of an unnamed Highlander keeps an eternal watch over Glen Sheil and the place where a young royal general once raised his standard and called the Jacobites to arms. His sword, almost cool in the sheath, could easily be a staff. He comes in peace, but readied for action in case he is once again summoned to defend his lands.
The fact that Charles Edward Stuart is not standing there is a poignant reminder that the ’45 was possibly not actually about him. The exiled Young Pretender was simply a mascot. It didn’t matter whether he fought beside his followers or preferred to flee the battle for fear of laddering his tights, Bonnie Prince Charlie was the physical embodiment of the pride and passion of a nation and the Glenfinnan monument is an eternal reminder that the Scots never really did lose Scotland. These lands will always remain in the hearts and minds of its people, the true flower of Scotland, and Charlie’s ghost will never leave the glens so long as there remains the stomach for a fight.

Road to the Isles: Part III - Back on track

2009-06-14T21:00:00.015Z

There is no doubt in my mind that the best way to travel the Highlands is with a tent. Only under the cover of canvas can you hear the whisper of the wind; know the sound of heavy rain; and become familiar with the call of the stag or the cry of patrolling eagles across the glens. Forced outdoors, a sunset becomes an emotion and the sight of those far Cuillins standing in the mist across a sparkling sea is a life-defining experience.
Of course, living on a campsite does have its downfalls but most of these can be overcome with a bit of careful planning: lots of waterproof clothing, a good quality blow-up bed, a bottle or two of midge repellent and a few buckets of good quality Cava.
Leaving Loch Sunart, the A861 heads northwards from Salen, bends east at the mouth of Loch Shiel, continues west again along the shores of Loch Moidart (of the Seven Men fame); northwards through Glen Uig; then straight on beside Loch Ailort where it reaches the A803 Mallaig to Fort William road “by Aillort and by Morar to the sea” and straight on 'til morning.
This is ancient country where the MacDonalds of ClanRanald once ruled its rugged shores until the outcomes of their allegiance to a certain Bonnie Prince forced many of them to pack their claymores and flee. Moidart is the place where Charlie took his first steps on Scottish mainland soil. Later on he would rally the clans in a place not far from here; and later again he would leave them dying in a field at Culloden and sneak off back to France via Skye, vanquished, demoralised and experimenting with transvestism.
This route takes in a bleak landscape with few tourist-friendly tracks and does not attract many hillwalkers as there are no munroes in the area to wear out the enormous tread of the extreme yomping fraternities.
Once on the A803, you can put your foot down and head up to the end of the journey: the tiny port of Mallaig with uninteruppted views across the sea to Skye.

There is obvious evidence of regeneration cash being thrown into this more affluent area of the Highlands. Many new and half-built houses dot the landscape, especially around the shoreline of Morar Sands, which has a sea-side resort feel to it. The angry grey skies and the choppy waters of the Sound of Sleat, however, are a cold reminder that these lands do not domesticate easily.
Mallaig is a bit like Oban in miniature inasmuch as it exploits its Scottish fishing port status to the extreme. Here every restaurant and cafe will boast fresh fish and chips - even the Indian restaurant - and some will go as far as elevating themselves above their rivals by claiming that they are the best. A word of advice without giving free advertising: the best fish and chips in Mallaig can be found at the back of a restaurant in a tiny close through a side door just off the high street. Trust me.
I suppose that a Road to the Isles traveller normally intends to cross the sea to seek out the blue islands from the Skerries to the Lews, Wi' heather honey taste upon each name. For me, however, this was the end of the line on a journey that opened the eyes as well as the heart. It re-affirmed the powerful adoration that the Scots hold for their land and the significance of belonging.
For a nation which has lost its lands to more powerful neighbours throughout history, the importance of reclaiming it, wee bit by wee bit, can never be properly appreciated until you are actually standing beneath the protective shade of a frowning mountain and know that you are home.

Road to the Isles: Part II — Side-tracked

2009-06-10T20:47:00.012Z

Getting to grips with Gaelic place names is part of the fun of travelling in the Highlands. Guessing the pronunciation of the jumble of letters on the road signs from the car when it’s raining certainly beats a game of I Spy. There are solid sets of paradigms to the Scottish Gaelic language but the inflection, morphemes and affixes to each word comprise lengthy sets of vowels and consonants in no particular order making articulation by a non-Gaelic speaker a lexicon nightmare, but a real bonus for Gaelic contestants on Countdown.
Beginning in Fort William and stretching across some of the UK’s most dramatic scenery, the A803, or Road to the Isles as it is affectionately known, is 42 miles of rich living narrative dating back to pre-history and the very beginnings of the Earth. It is an ancient place where dark, craggy peaks reach up to bite the skyline from wide, sweeping glens flooded with water deeper than the mountains that enfold them. It is a most beautiful, undisciplined wilderness and man’s attempts to tame it has resulted in dots and lines of tarmac, stone dykes and scattered villages scratching its surface. The crumbling crofts and mosaic scars of disused roads are evidence that, if left alone, the landscape eventually heals itself.
Travelling along the northern shore of Loch Eil, however, somehow 30 miles or so does not feel long enough. A quick glance at the map will tell you that there are actually two heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles: one that will take you to Mallaig within two shakes of the cromak and the other that requires more than a bit of braggart in your step.
Take a left some 10 miles out of Fort William and you are on the A861 in the parish of Moidart, the road that runs south along the western shores of Loch Eil, into Strontiam, through the picturesque Sunart glen and bends northwards before the Ardnamurchan peninsula, Corrachadh Mòr being the most westerly point of mainland Britain.
Having learned a bit of Gaelic through a day or so playing with road signs, I called this road Àite de móran aite seachnaidh (my humble apologies to any Gaelic speakers who are outraged by my terrible grasp of the language) but I hope it translates to “place of many passing places” — don’t ask me how to pronounce it. The A861 is a single track road that winds up and bends down then winds up and down again before it bends along the sides of the lochs. If you meet any traffic coming the other way, need to stop to take in the beauty of the sparkling water and silent mountains, or need a pee, there are loads of passing places (although it is advised that you should not stop at a passing place for the latter two reasons).
Although Loch Sunart is a pretty place, with lots to see, there are few places to eat and little to do there, unless you are into watersports and sheep.
The Ardnamurchan Peninsula is much more dramatic and faithful to the romanticism of a Highland wilderness, the road narrower and the passing places more scattered. It is here that a traveller can drive across ancient volcanic craters and reach one of the most staggeringly beautiful beaches in the world: Sanna Sands.
Dotted with a few tiny crofts and enfolded by dark mountains, a long walk across the protective dunes opens out into a breathtaking sandy beach, so stunning that it could be in the Caribbean if the rain were not shampooing your hair with sand and the wind not blowdrying it into a mass of matted dune grass.
But, then, this is Scotland: it is an experience rather than a holiday and being here is a privilege and never a claim.
Slainte mhath

Road to the Isles: Part I - Sense of Place

2009-06-09T00:05:00.008Z

McIain’s restless soul
In such a wide and diverse world, what makes an individual feel truly at home? I believe that a sense of place is inherited and is carried down through generations by nurture and genetics.
I grew up in London with a live-in grandmother. She survived to the age of 92 and was a fiercely patriotic Macdonald whose ancestors she told me were ousted from their battlements in Argyll and forced to settle for a more humble lifestyle in and around Lochaber. Janet Eton Macdonald would have rather entertained an infestation of rats in her home than patronise a dreaded Campbell. Her nemesis clan she believed slaughtered the entire Macdonald population in their beds during a fateful winter’s night in Glencoe. It’s funny how she failed to appreciate that the Macdonalds actually ousted the MacDougalls from their ancestral home in the first place and at least one Macdonald must have survived the slaughter in order to procreate and eventually produce her.
The truth is that McIain’s clan was not murdered to every man, woman and child but possibly up to 40 were killed by their treacherous assailants and another 30 or so died of exposure when fleeing into the snow. It is not until you reach the glen that the full extent of the tragedy that took place on the 12th February 1691 really hits home. Irrespective of body counts, Glencoe is a place that retains its sorrow in its dour rock faces and tumbling falls. Like my grandmother, its outrage is inherent, it does not forgive and looms as the physical incarnation of McIain’s restless soul.
Following the road north-west through the desolate boggy moorlands of Rannoch Moor, the grim mountains glower down at strangers like giant sentinels, their granite arms firmly crossed. Never did a mountain say “sod off” more than Buachaille Etive Mor and it is with great awe and trepidation that a brave traveller slips quietly through these gargantuan walls of rock to take a long exhale at the open mouth of Loch Leven.
Glencoe is not a place for the faint of heart. Although its scenery is spectacular in every way a landscape can be, it can be hostile and ferocious to the unwary. The rain is often horizontal; the midges have soft wings but a hard bite. It is true to say that kill one of them and thousands will turn up for the funeral. Many come to the glen to pursue radical outdoor activities, braving the crumbling scree, the ice and the sharp teeth of the mountains in order to find white-knuckle adventure.
Me though, I like to visit Glencoe at least once every couple of years to experience that wonderful sense of belonging. When it rains, I wear waterproofs; if the midges are particularly angry, I stay in the car. If god intended me to climb mountains, He would have given me a set of cloven hooves, a spectacular goatee and a penchant for wild scrub. Looking out over the dark water to McIain’s Isle, surrounded by angry mountains iced with black thunder clouds I feel an all-consuming pride to just be part of it.

Most daunted

2009-06-08T20:51:00.008Z

OUT of a haze of moonlight, a frowning mansion towered in the gloom at the end of a dark drive.
Banshees shrieked from shadowy rafters and ghostly silhouettes flitted across the ancient stonework as a heavy door creaked open.
Two tiny journalists held their breaths and resisted the temptation to run for their lives.
Like the opening scene of a vintage horror movie, they half expected a hairy gnarled hand to curl around the door and shake out their souls.
“Are you here for the Raehills Fright Night?”, asked a cheery voice. “I’m Allan from the Anthony Nolan Trust. Welcome. Hope the peacocks didn’t spook you too much!”
Stepping into Raehills, stately home of the Earls of Annandale and family seat of the Johnstone clan, it was not difficult to imagine why the trust had organised its latest fundraising fright night for courageous ghost hunters there.
Johnstone ancestors glowered from the walls, their disapproving eyes following the large group of strangers to the stately drawing room where the Lord and Lady; TV medium Derek Acorah; the Borders Paranormal Group; and Dumfries’ own Mostly Ghostly were waiting to host a spirited evening of spooky activity to entertain the living visitors — all hoping to catch a glimpse of Raehill’s infamous Green Lady who stalks the upstairs corridors.
But the audience was in for a shock when Mr Acorah announced that there was more than just the spirit of a lady to contend with.
“I am picking up five individual spirit people,” he said, “as well as some residual energy in this house. Bless them.”
Derek told his audience that there were two women and three men, before he also picked up on the presence of a mischievous child. A light tapping on the door at that moment confirmed that, living or dead, at least something was listening.
“Elisia and Anne,” Derek called the women’s names. He later described two men, William and John, who were in "visitation" together. He gave a date of 1867. He also said that there was another male presence, at least 100 years older, who was a lot meaner than the others: “he had an attitude to show anger in his day,” was the chilling description.
A few members of the audience were given messages from their deceased relatives — most reporting to be uncannily accurate — before everyone re-grouped in a room in the labyrinthine cellars, aptly named Ghost Central, to be given their itinerary for the evening — a ghost hunt and night vigil to find the lurking phantoms.
Armed with night vision cameras, electro magnetic flux (EMF) metres, a few dousing rods, some crystals and a large portion of courage, the visitors were split up into smaller groups and each accompanied to certain parts of the house by members of the Borders Paranormal Group and Mostly Ghostly to begin their investigations.
Blithe spirits or Scotch mist? To the sceptics, the evening was inconclusive. To the believers, the night revealed some real evidence of paranormal activity.
Fortunately for the most daunted, the spirits were reasonably quiet on the night but no one went home disappointed.
A light trail was recorded on one of the cameras close to where the Green Lady had been seen; an EMF metre was drained of battery power before it was put to use; a glass moved four or five inches during a divining session in the library; there were some inexplicable knocks and bumps around the house; cold spots; and sudden, strong smells of pipe smoke and lavender in some of the rooms.
This was all just as well, since no one really wants to be scared out of their wits on a Friday night and the event ended peacefully in the early hours of the morning as a hazy rain fell.

2009-03-01T20:40:00.005Z

Is there life beyond the grave? Do the dead really come back to haunt us?
These are questions that I have found no evidence of in the years I have been alive.
I was brought up in an allegedly "haunted" mansion house in south London where my mother and siblings constantly experienced paranormal activity that has affected them for life. For some reason, however, the dead appear to avoid me, preferring instead to terrorise those around me in their efforts to make contact with the living.
Thank god. I have no wish to speak with the dead and, if I died of fright, would take out a personal vendetta against them for eternity - it's no wonder they stay away. Still, I have never quite managed to shake off my abject fear of the dark.
And so it is that I go into the breach and join forces with the infamous spiritual medium Derek Acorah in a hunt for evidence of restless souls.
I am to join Derek in a fright night at Raehills, seat of the Earls of Annandale, in April. The evening's entertainment, in aid of the Anthony Nolan Trust, is a ghost hunt with the enigmatic Mr Acorah and the Borders Paranormal Group. The aim is to find the Green Lady of Raehills and her earth-bound buddies.
As a member of the press, I take my responsibilities seriously and go to Raehills with an open mind as well as an open notebook. As a member of the human race, I would really love to know and am hoping that the night will not go without incident.
Is the truth really out there?
I hope to be able to tell you.

Fame at last

2009-02-24T23:08:00.002Z

Forgive me moderator, for I have sinned. It has been almost two years since my last blog.
Where has the time gone?
I have not been idle during the months, however, and have been allegedly racing around the Internet and making a name for myself.
Having a spare half second tonight, I Googled my name and the search engine came up with loads of references to me. Seems that I am plastered all over cyberspace.
I can be found on an Ingrid Pitt fanzine site under blogs and beside Kryptographik's Fangoria Comics Interview, Cure for Bad Breaths and Cordless Drill Ratings.
I have a lovely acknowledgment in the Mostly Ghostly website, an article in the Scottish Baha'i Newsletter and a few random mentions across the digital cosmos.
So there, I have apparently been so busy that I have not had time to blog.
Off for ten Hail Marys now and all will be forgiven.

Where's Wickerman?

2007-08-01T22:10:00.001Z

Wickerman spotted at a recent 60th birthday party.

Hot pursuit

2007-07-24T23:11:00.000Z

TWENTY-THOUSAND festival goers were left in the cold on Saturday when a willow idol fled the site of its execution.
The midnight burning of the famous Wickerman could not take place at the eponymous Scottish festival as the sacrificial victim escaped from the field some hours before the carefully scheduled pagan rite.
And an extensive search has been launched by police and mountain rescue crews to find the effigy who is believed to be at large in the Galloway hills.
The man is reported to have run from the Dundrennan hill where he was staying as a guest after a tip-off from a concerned wicker welfare officer.
Inspector Upfront from the Kirkcudbright constabulary, who is leading the investigation, said: “It is understood that the Wickerman had some concerns with his Saturday night performance after he had watched the burning of the Wicker Boy — an alleged colleague of his — during the Friday evening revelries. It is believed that there was a heated discussion between the Wickerman and property owner Jamie Gilroy before the former proceeded at full speed in a south easterly direction down the hill and into the cover of the forest.”
One member of the press, Standard reporter Craig Robertson, managed to snap the flight of the Wickerman in his bid for freedom. The photograph is being examined by forensics.
Eye witnesses report that the Wickerman appeared agitated during the Saturday afternoon and fled the field during the performance of the Yardbirds on the main stage. It is believed that his wicker arms were too stiff to move his hands to his ears.
Police have released information on a recovered note left on the site where the Wickerman once stood. It reads: “Bring back Eric Clapton, Jimmy page or Jeff Beck and I’ll turn myself in. I apologise for my absence at the festival, but I just could not take the atrocious musical line-up any more.” It was signed “Wickerman.”
The Wickerman is described as 30-foot tall with medium complexion, with no distinguishing marks and wearing no clothes. “He won’t be difficult to pick out from a crowd,” continued Inspector Upfront, “’cos he’s about24 feet taller than the average festival goer. ”
Members of the public are being warned that the Wickerman is extremely dangerous near a naked flame and should not be approached with a lit cigarette.
Anyone with any information on his whereabouts is asked to contact the incident room on 0845 600 701 or any police officer. Alternatively, information may be left, anonymously if preferred, with freephone Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111.

Burning ambitions

2007-07-23T22:26:00.001Z

I went to my first music festival ever this weekend. I have supported the Wickerman since its inauguration into the UK festival calendar - a couple of blokes on a hill with a guitar and a corn dolly, giving it laldy.
It has grown quite a lot since those days and, despite the terrible musical line-up, was a truly unique experience.
The one thing that bothered me, however, and I do not necessarily adhere to any particular organised religion, was the burning of the Wickerman on the Saturday night.
Apparently Edward Woodward refused the role this year, still nursing the scars from the third degree burns that he suffered in 1973. He has apparently never spoken to Ingrid Pitt since that time.
Now, I know that this is a huge publicity stunt riding on the back of a famous cult movie of sinister pagan rites, but it took two artists a whole week to build this maginificent, 30-foot structure only to see it destroyed in less than half an hour.
Anyone who has been to the festival will know that the Wickerman is innocent - for god's sake, he has only just been built - he could not have learned evil ways within the space of seven days! There were no shouts of "save the Wickerman" or "The Wickerman is innocent" and everyone appeared to want to let blood in a frenzy of alcohol-induced aggression.
I was fortunate to get up close to watch everything (I pretended to be with the BBC RADIO crew - they were let in because they had a camera to record the ritual. The world's gone mad!)
The urge to free the Wickerman was overwhelming, but someone cavorting athletically with a flaming brand got there before I could raise the alarm.
The Wickerman's spectacular combustion sent the crowd into uproar! Some of the elderly ladies even dropped their knitting (and their bloomers), so much was the excitement.
There is a parallel here: for over 400 years we have been burning the effigy of a man whose only sin was to attempt to blow up a few corrupt politicians. Guido Fawkes must be the most despised character in British history. So heinous was his crime that we burn him every year on millions of pyres so that his tortured soul may never rest. For some unwarranted reason, we do not do the same to the treacherous historical Nazi sympathiser Edward VIII or even the hissing Tony Blair. The Wickerman bore a strong resemblance to Our Guy and I wished that he would make a break for freedom and mash the tight ring of Up Front security guards with his woven wicker soles.
In the style of a true martyr, however, our 30-foot hero endured the excrutiating flames in order to glut the insatiable needs of a hungry mob who had no idea what they were shouting for. Some even sang "Flower of Scotland" in an inappropriate misinterpretation of the ceremonial intention. Poor Wickerman, the sacrificial lamb amongst a herd of Judas goats.
The moral of the story? Fire purges. The old must be destroyed to make way for the new. The blood of the innocent must be let to show the corrupt and the tainted the way to salvation. Without pain, there can be no pleasure. Without evil, we would not appreciate the general notion of good. It is a Christian concept and one that we have been indoctrinated with for nigh on 2006 years.
For the 2007 Wickerman, however, fire burns and life is bollocks!

Who’s listening?

2007-05-13T22:47:00.000Z

My daughter had to choose a poem to critique for a school assignment and came to me, admitting that she didn’t know any poems.
I am astounded. Poetry, especially by the 19th century romantic boys, is one of my fortes and best loves, yet how could I have left my children so bereft of this important knowledge? I have forsaken them. What a bad mother. It appears that, owing to time constraints and a full-time job, I have forgotten to teach my children the power and passion of the written word. Whether in verse or prose, words have the ability to convey another dimension of human existence. Words can be described as dirty, magic or buzz. They can be meaningful, operative, spread or breathed. A man is his word, take my word for it, and, for want of a better word, a word can be taken out of the mouth.
This is where it all goes wrong for the word, for meaning and intention can be lost to time and subjectivity of the reader. As a writer of a full-blown epic fantasy, I often get carried away with words: moods, time of day or even hormones have a powerful role to play in how and what I write. A certain scene or reaction of a character, for instance, may spark a profound philosophical aside, just because I happen to be feeling particularly idealistic that day. There is little sense in delving into the rationale of why I wrote it: suffice it to say that I just did. Sometimes a writer says something just because he does; often things are left deliberately vague to fuel the imagination. Occasionally rhyme and reason depart to leave behind the nonsensical — take the freckled and frivolous cake or a Jabberwock with eyes of flame and try to understand the rationale behind them. No doubt, some ambitious critic would say that the authors were having an existential moment; that their nonsense was charged with meaningful philosophy. I say who cares? Writers have their own reasons and there is no amount of expert, didactic deliberation or narratology that can exhume true intentions — no matter what erudite formula is applied.
And so I come to my daughter’s poem. Having pondered long and hard over a number of verses, she eventually chose The Listeners by Walter de la Mare. Not having studied it for at least 30 years, I was surprised that I could quote it line by line, word for word. I could talk about metre, rhythm and rhyme. I could remember what the words “alliteration” and “onomatopoeia” meant. What I could not digest was the Wikipedia’s alleged understanding of the plot. It says: “The story of a mysterious man coming to a house in the night on horseback, and subsequently failing, to deliver a message and fulfil a promise.” Excuse me … The person who wrote the entry could not have read the poem properly. “He felt in his heart their strangeness, their stillness answering his cry”. Message received. Over and out! Plunging hooves, thundering into the distance … why else would this lonely traveller leave? Which one of us is right? Would the author really give a damn?
Personal interpretation can make or break a writer and so-called expert critics often do both. Perhaps the best way to get your message across to the reader is to make certain your words are clear; that meaning and intention are unambiguous; and leave nothing to the imagination. Where, however, is the creativity in that? Imaginative literature is the very essence of fiction. In turn, fiction is written with intent to affect perception. Successful writing is therefore dependant on its listeners, who's listening and whether or not they really hear you.

The F word

2007-05-02T22:54:00.000Z

Before anyone writes in to complain or express disagreement or outrage, the following blog is solely the opinion of the blogger and any similarities to fact are purely coincidental.
There are loads of words beginning with the letter F that, when blurted, can cause serious offence depending on the temperament of the recipient. In the world of publishing, there is a certain F word that prompts violent reactions from all mainstream editors and literary agents when spoken out loud during a telephone query or appearing in a covering letter. From the odd raised eyebrow, to the derisory sniff; from the stifled titter, to a broken nose by a slamming door, there is no other word more anathema to a publisher than the one beginning with “F” and ending in “antasy”.
“Fantasy” — there, I have said it, and the furious bolt of lightning has seemingly missed me. It appears that, despite a big presence in the movies and many established authors still selling well, few readers are enamoured with the new stuff. In fact, according to one literary agent, Sci-Fi (a genre that was considered passé about 10 years ago) is in and new fantasy is struggling to survive in the book world. Apparently, the British readers are gorging themselves on a three-course menu of thrillers, crime and diet books — enough to give anyone a serious dose of indigestion. I jest, of course, I really need to go on a diet. Add to this the difficulties, frustrations and humiliation an unsolicited author (especially one that has no dubious celebrity status) faces in breaking into the publishing world, and you have a recipe for probable disappointment.
So, what is wrong with new fantasy fiction? First, I think, perhaps, that there are too many people doing it. Whether they are writing it badly or not, most precious fantasy submissions — and they are legion —end up at the bottom of the dreaded slush pile, many without even being read. Secondly, fantasy readers are Orced-out. Elves, dwarves, dragons and ethereal faery creatures of shadow and light have all been done to death and are simply becoming variations on a jaded theme. Thirdly, there are relatively few literary agents and publishing houses that actually deal in fantasy — most expressly forbid it. Fourthly, those literary agents that do work with fantasy generally stick to the same formula that has brought them success in the past (go back to point 2).
A bleak picture indeed, but that optimistic streak I find cowering in a corner inside me (the one behind the disheartened murmur) tells me that, like every dog, a good book will eventually have its day. I just hope that it will not be a posthumous one.

Time and place

2007-04-23T21:21:00.000Z

As we are limited by the incessant ticking of the clock, so do most of us constrain our lives by location. In turn, it is the place where we live that provides or denies the opportunities by which to thrive.

The area known as Southern Scotland incorporates the counties of Dumfries and Galloway and the Borders. It is a land of dramatic hillsides, sweeping rivers, tumbling falls and long, sandy beaches. This part of the British Isles has had its fair share of historic drama and its border towns have been won and lost to vying conquerors for millennia. Robert Burns, the great Scottish Bard, lived and died here. King Robert the Bruce was born here and it is here where he committed one of Scottish history’s most famous criminal acts —the murder of the Red Comyn at the altar of Greyfriar’s Kirk in Dumfries. This region has many famous sons as well as a long, vibrant history.

Much of the scenery of Southern Scotland has remained unravaged by man mainly owing to the fact that outlanders know little about it. For those who are confused as to where Southern Scotland actually is situated, it is the place to the left and right of you as you drive up the M74 from Hadrian’s Wall to the Central Belt and the Highlands. For the more intrepid traveller, it is the area mainly to your right as you head towards Stranraer for the ferry to Ireland. Despite attempts by VisitScotland and the local councils to direct visitors to turn left or right off the motorway, this part of Scotland tends to be by-passed by most tourists travelling to Scotland.

It is not surprising to find that large industries, transport networks, the mass media, important educational establishments and government cash also tend to by-pass Southern Scotland on their way to the north. This area apparently boasts the lowest wages in the United Kingdom and possibly the least available jobs and business opportunities. There is a rampant drug culture, mass unemployment and all the associated socio-economic problems that come with hopelessness. A quiet, relatively cheap, housing market has led to an influx of retired couples from more prosperous areas of the UK seeking comfort and serenity during their final days. This has bumped the house prices up threefold over the past few years and many local first time buyers are finding it difficult if not impossible to compete with their richer adversaries. Most of the land belongs to a big business heritable duchy and affordable housing is becoming a privilege of a distant past.

Southern Scotland, however, is probably no worse off than many rural areas in the UK and is considerably better off than most other places in the world. People, in general, have a way of overcoming obstacles and the survival instinct inherent in all forms of life enables us to endure.

The plus factor is that this part of the world stimulates the senses of many artists and craftmakers; of musicians and writers; of ramblers and hermits, who all find inspiration and significance in the quiet serenity of the hills. This region fires the imagination with new ideas and provides the opportunity with which to nurture it and fulfil aspirations.

My preparations for glory in five years can therefore begin. I have established my time and inadvertently my place. I have the space within which to carry out my work and the bedrock upon which to build my dreams. All I need now is the energy to see them through.

2007-04-10T13:59:00.000Z

NO MATTER how hard I try to manage my time, there is never enough of it to complete life's tasks. In my proverbial house, there are many mansions — some of them partly furnished, most of them derelict and all of them half-built. The words "If only I had more time," have haunted my life as a wistful refrain. We mere mortals can interact with time by playing for it, biding it, taking it, telling it, buying it and even killing it but we cannot control it and, in the end, it runs out for us all.

The time has come to stop the clock, to take a long breath between the short moments, and prepare to make the most of time while it lasts. The only way to do this is to enjoy it and manage it properly. I, however, must strive to achieve order out of pure chaos. I am that pickled specimen in a dusty jar in the British Science Museum labelled "Living Proof of Chaos Theory". There is such a place as Bedlam, because I have lived right in the middle of it for all of my life but I have somehow managed to endure inside its crowded halls and crumbling walls to achieve quite a lot in my shortish lifetime.

My career has spanned the breadth of the employment market with various jobs including a waitress; a sales assistant; an admin assistant; a receptionist; a postgirl; a conference organiser; a computer teacher; a tutor in Chinese cookery; a journalist; and a barrister. My academic accomplishments include an LlB Hons; a professional legal qualification; achievements in photography, British Sign Language, advanced web design, computers and lots more that do not immediately spring to mind. I am at present (and this is not necessarily in any order) a journalist; bread-winner; wife; mother of not-one-but-four teenagers; web designer; photographer; epic fantasy author (unpublished - for the moment); and now blogger. I juggle these tasks with mixed degrees of competency but aspire to succeed in all. In the effort to achieve excellence, however, I often end up accomplishing little within the limitations of a day: tail-chasing can be an exhausting pastime.

So comes the reason for this blog site. Despite the orderly chaos of my life and despite the limitations of time and money, I am going to achieve the goals set out in the standfirst to this site and I am going to do all of them within five years. I wish to use this space as a record of my achievements - a time line of events - and something that will encourage me, and hopefully others, to succeed in getting time just right.