Writing, lichen and highland cattle

I’ve spent the last few days at Cove Park, writing and watching the view.  The weather has been changeable as ever and it’s not quite matched the still clearness of the shot at the top of this blog, but it still demands my attention.

I have taken so many photos of it, but, inevitably none of them quite capture it.

Telephone and radio reception here is variable because of the topography.  Last time I was here I discovered that I could get mobile phone reception on the terrace just outside the French windows. This has encouraged me in the eccentric habit of sticking my arm out of the window to check for emails; this involves wrapping my hand and phone in a plastic bag when the rain is particularly inclement.  Practical yet peculiar, I freely admit.  But then the radio will only work when the phone is off and neither my laptop nor my iPod docking station are plugged into the mains.

Half way up a hillside overlooking Loch Long, sitting in a converted freight container, you learn not to question these technical quirks.

As well as sitting in my Cube in front of my computer, I’ve been making the daily

trek up the hill in order to log onto the internet.  I enjoy the walk even when it’s raining; it’s not long, but it is quite steep.  I love the smell of the damp earth underfoot and the brackish aroma of the air.  This is a wet place and there are tussocky mounds of moss in the grass, and lichen growing on all the tree boughs still bare of leaves since autumn.  The sound of water running fills the air; every burn is at full tilt, every little waterfall, a tumble of flashing light.

This is West of Scotland countryside, so I thought I’d share some of the local wildlife sights with you.

Cove Park has half a dozen or so Highland cattle which roam the area.  They are superbly disinterested in you when you walk up to them.  They look up when they hear you approach and then slowly turn their heads away and back to chewing as you are beneath their interest.  I know that the truth is that they are very short sighted and anyway the long hair that keeps the flies out of their eyes stops them seeing anything very much, but they have such a slow, stubborn sort of dignity that anthropomorphism just creeps up on me every time.

Then there are the ducks which apparently only ever come here during the Spring.  A very busy lot they are too; a squadron swooping down and landing together before chasing each other around the pond and then taking off again filling the air with splashing and flapping.

There are also a prodigious number of frogs.  More frogs than I ever thought I would see; more even than in the final scene of ‘Magnolia’, but here they are alive, and evidently somewhat frisky as when the evening comes the path is full of courting couples; care is required to avoid stepping on them.  On sunny afternoons they bob around in the pond when the ducks aren’t there.  But you’ll have to take my word for it as every time I try to take a photo they hide under water.

And just before you write this down as a lost backwater here is the last but by no means least local speciality –Trident.  Loch Long is one of the deepest waterways in Britain and the submarines are based here.  There’s nothing quite as black as the skin of a stealth predator.

And here, just a quick juxtaposition of MOD and nature……

If you have 5 minutes check out the Cove Park short film made last summer.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

I have just finished reading ‘The Help’ by Kathryn Stockett.

Set in the early 1960s in Mississippi, it is the story of the relationship between black women working in domestic service and their white employers.  It’s a story of women and children, as men appear only in the background and the providers of home, money and someone with whom to go to parties, but not much more.

Told through the eyes of its three main characters in separate first person narratives, it was a compelling, if not always easy, read.  The book was first recommended to me by a South African friend who said that, although the novel was set in the US, it presented a recognisable echo of South African social history, both during the same period, and even more recently.

When I started to read I feared that I would not get on well with the novel as the first section is in the voice of Aibeleen, heavily idiomatic and southern.  Writing dialect is a tricky business.  The author wants to give each character an authentic and true voice because that conveys so much about the personality of the protagonists, but as a reader I dislike being tripped up by trying to work out the sense in each non standard English sentence.  But I gradually became accustomed to it, as it became less pronounced once the tone had been established.

I have no experience of ever having had ‘Help’ at home; my only small brush with it was when I was a student living in a university hall in France, and used to make a point of being out when the cleaning lady came round.  I simply couldn’t bear to stand and watch her work.  So I have no idea of how one would establish a working relationship with a maid; the mutual mistrust shown in the novel does have an uncomfortably appropriate feel.

The extra ordinary aspect of the situation set up in the novel is that white families were prepared to have maids assume the main responsibility for looking after their children and cooking their meals and yet still subscribed to the belief that it was more sanitary for them to have separate toilet facilities because of their special black diseases.

At the same time the maid was privy to all the details of her employers’ domestic life, while the white family have no notion of the maid’s life, and it would seem not a jot of curiosity either.

In each domestic microcosm, Kathryn Stockett mirrors the inequalities of Mississippi society that in that period were about to be turned upside down by the Civil Rights movements, although events such as the lunch counter protests and the March on Washington are only mentioned sideways, as when Aibelene tells her charge stories about Martian Luther King the green man from outer space who’s just as good as anyone else.

We are always clear exactly what is at stake for each of the characters as they collaborate on an anthology of stories about the maids’ experiences in their jobs; the fear of physical violence against the , and of being socially ostracised for Skeeter, the white would-be writer.  They are engaged in a dangerous enterprise; that of writing the truth in a society that doesn’t want to see it, and from this comes a great deal of risk and tension.  Who knows what?  Has anyone spotted them talking together?  Could anyone have taken the drafts?  It kept me turning the pages fearing for them and their book.

As a reader and a writer I enjoyed the fact that the drama circles around the acts of writing and of storytelling.  It is therefore very satisfying that each of the trio finds extra strength for their lives ahead after they have completed their book.

Do give it a go.

True Grit – Mumbling, Lisping and Enunciating

I went to see True Grit a couple of weeks ago, and have been thinking about it a fair amount since.  I should declare up front that I am a fan of the Coen brothers’ movies.  Mainly I think because of their sly humour and the often odd angles through which they appear to view the world.  While they have moved away from the strange long shots from floor level that they used so eerily in films like ‘Barton Fink’ and ‘Miller’s Crossing’ their framing of the shots is still a pleasure to the eye.

The landscape behind the action of True Grit is wintry; the viewer feels the cold; it is no surprise that the earth is frozen too hard to permit the burying of a body.

The clothes on the actors’ backs are bulky against the chill and grow ever dirtier as the film progresses; you can feel the distance they all are from the nearest settlement: is ‘civilisation’ the right world?

They are all on their own and will have to rely on their joint resources to survive and to achieve their objective to track down Tom Chaney.

But I think the greatest pleasure for me was the dialogue, or if not the dialogue the manner in which it was delivered.  There was a real sense of humour behind it, I think.

Jeff Bridges spent most of the film mumbling and Matt Damon, after coming off worst in a fight in which he bit his tongue, spoke for the remainder of the film with a pronounced lisp from behind a ridiculous moustache, while Hailee Steinfield, the young actress playing Mattie, spoke in deliberately arcane formal sentences which might have come straight from the Bible.

The dialogue was sharp and witty, and rewarded careful listening, as sometimes Jeff Bridges’ mumbling made it difficult to hear; it was dry and underplayed all the way through.  I enjoyed the minimalism of it.

‘That didn’t go the way I planned’ as he surveyed a row of dead men; but equally he became nearly garrulous when telling Mattie of his marital misadventures; painting for us a picture of a self-centred, deeply flawed man.

By lisping with his damaged tongue, Matt Damon gave the character of LaBoeuf a sustained but low-key comic air.  Behind his moustache and underneath his tasselled, hide jacket there is a man of some principal, forced to throw in his lot with Cogburn, because he too is motivated by money in his quest to track the villain Chaney.

It is Mattie who is the one solely motivated by vengeance in the search; but it is her speech idiom and clear-eyed determination that lets us know that she has right on her side.  She seeks the retribution that is her right according to the Old Testament.

So there it is…once again I’m recommending a film on the basis of its dialogue and the manner in which it is delivered.

An Icy Heart

I listened to Mariella Frostrup interview Hanif Kureishi on the radio with interest a couple of days ago.  I listen to novelists speak in the hope that they will reveal some great secret that will provide me with that extra little bit of insight I need to get on and finish my novel, or whichever piece I am then working on.

I’m still waiting, of course, but it doesn’t stop me listening.

Kureishi banished that hope straightaway by saying that something no-one ever tells aspiring writers is how difficult it is to sustain it over a whole career; that is can be a constant battle to retain the interest of one’s readers.

Only a month and a half into this blogging challenge, I am well aware of that as a real concern; like a bad tempered Jiminy Cricket it comes to perch on my shoulder each day, ‘No-one’s reading….’ and I have to push it away and carry on writing…regardless.

Regular readers will know that I frequently raid my memories for tales to tell; I have a butterfly brain and an ability to retain a miscellany of random facts and stories that I enjoy linking together in random patterns to please myself.

I also think quite a lot about how my perception of an event can and will differ from those who may have shared an experience with me.  How a reliable narrator am I of my own experience?  And does it matter?

Kureishi commented that as a writer he is more thoughtful than as a man: that he thinks much more about what he writes than what he says.  This is, hopefully, true of all writers, so that reading their books should be a more complex and challenging experience than simply talking to them.

This appeals to me, as one who so frequently thinks of something better to say after the conversation has long since moved on to another topic.  It also allows for the belief that the story I will tell in a novel has layers of complexity to it that I would never want to have to explain; I’d much rather dramatise it and leave the reader to paint their own picture in their imagination and draw their own conclusion.

Kureishi is a writer who mines his own experiences for his fiction, sometimes brutally.   In the interview Mariella commented that sometimes what he writes is ‘illuminating but ugly’, especially when he writes about family members or former partners.

Although his response was arrogant, (‘people love to be in my books’) I could see a grain of truth in what he said when challenged on that assertion.  It is something I have considered very carefully myself: inevitably in writing you reflect not only yourself but those around you.  How far should you go to protect them?

Kureishi said that an artist cannot operate thinking ‘I wonder what Mum would think of this?’

You must write the world as you see it.  He drew an analogy with painters depicting people with no clothes on; every writer to a greater or lesser extent is a spy on their own experience.  Even when you are not writing about things which you have directly experienced you reveal something about your imagination and your view of the world.  You should not censor yourself if you feel the truth of what you are writing.

He quoted Grahame Greene, that there is a chip of ice in the heart of every writer; and I think that every time I stand back and view something as ‘material’, perhaps it is more than mere objectivity.

I still would not want to cause deliberate hurt, but am growing to understand that I must be prepared to ruffle some feathers and even start a few fights.  In the meantime, some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Is Ignorance the Key?

I read an article about a forthcoming series about the Universe to be presented by Professor Brian Cox with a sense of anticipation.  I’d really enjoyed his series ‘The Wonders of the Solar System’ and had become geekily engrossed by the Stargazing Live season a few months ago.

Apart from being caught up in the fever of the Space Age as a child in the 1960s; watching the Apollo launches and the first landing on the Moon are very clear, if distant, and regular school visits to the Planetarium in St Louis, I know very little about astronomy or astrophysics. Indeed it wasn’t until I watched Stargazing that I learned that Pluto is no longer a planet.

I do enjoy listening to people talk knowledgeably about their enthusiasms though.  There is something very pleasing about watching an articulate expert at work.

As I made a mental note to look out for the scheduling of the new series, it occurred to me that my interest in it was in marked contrast to my reaction to the series ‘Faulks on Fiction’.  I think there have been three episodes now.  I’ve already written about my disappointment in the first programme; I procrastinated for over a week before I attempted the second, and I’m afraid to report that I fell asleep half way through.  It’s not looking good for the third.

Yet I am a fiction enthusiast; I read constantly and always have an opinion.  Even though I disagreed with most of Faulks’ choices from literature, I couldn’t summon enough interest in him or his view to stay awake.

It set me wondering.  Am I bored by Faulks because he is speaking, about something about which I have some knowledge, and he is not satisfying me with any extra insight?  Or is he just dull?

How do scientists react to Brian Cox?  Is he presenting something at such a simplified level that they fall asleep with the tedium of it all?  Or are they pleased that there are programmes on television that are awakening an interest in their field in even the most scientifically ignorant?

Are practicing artists turned off by Andrew Graham Dixon’s programmes on art history?  Is it only people who share my untutored curiosity who consume it so avidly?

(I should probably confess that while I will also watch programmes on Mathematics presented by Marcus de Sautoy, or the history of scientific discovery by Prof Jim al Khalili, I actively avoid natural history programmes and am not part of the David Attenborough fan club, so my interest may be a minority one, but it is not indiscriminate!)

Some 16 or so years ago Panorama did an ‘exposé’ on the company I worked for; I wasn’t in a senior role, but I had witnessed some things which were ripe for challenge.  I watched the programme, tensed, ready to witness some uncomfortable revelations.  Everything ‘revealed’ was astonishingly trivial; ‘star witnesses’ that no-one at the company could remember, interviewed in clichéd close up.  The ‘investigative team’ had entirely missed the real story.

So, that’s the question for today: is enjoyment of factual television programmes predicated on ignorance?  Will knowledge always spoil it?

History and Changing Fashion

I’m in Helensburgh this week.  It’s the town in which I spent my teenage years, and something about coming here always makes me think of the past, brushing up memories and reflecting on them through the prism of my subsequent experiences.

While there was the promise of some sunshine on Sunday morning, I walked to The Hill House, the property designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh for the Blackie family at the turn of the 20th century.

It’s a tourist attraction now, administered by the National Trust for Scotland.  There are brown signs to it on the road from Glasgow, there’s a tarmac car park with lines to park between on land that used to be woodland, the street lights in the road outside were built to a Mackintosh design in 1990, and in the season there is a tea room and souvenir shop on site.

Mackintosh is fashionable; it probably started in the mid 1980s.  Between the Glasgow Garden Festival in 1988 and the year it was the European City of Culture in 1990, you couldn’t move for trinkets carrying the distinctive Mackintosh pink rose design or the uncomfortable straight, ladder-back black chairs.  Was that when his renaissance began?

The Hill House, Helensburgh

It was very different when I was at school.  I did my ‘Highers’, the Scottish school certificates in 1976. As part of my Geography exam I had to do a project; from a list of options I chose to do a land use survey of a square kilometre, because I thought it would afford me plenty of opportunity to write the blindingly obvious, without having to do too much work.

Helensburgh is a largely residential town, and in common with more famous cities, the west side of the town is regarded as more salubrious than the east and the higher up the hill you are, the larger the houses.

It would be a very dull land use survey if I picked a square in the middle of the town because then I’d have to invent activities in each of the houses, so I spent a little while studying a map and selected a area that covered the northernmost edge of the town encompassing the reservoirs, some grazing land, and pylons carrying the cables from Loch Sloy hydroelectricity generation plant.  I contacted the Electricity and Water Boards and received literature from which I ‘quoted’ extensively.

I was still short of words, however, so I took a walk around the streets within the square: huge gardens which I investigated by peering through hedges and over walls, and even larger houses the roofs of which peeped through the shielding trees and shrubbery.  Then, at the end of Kennedy Drive, there was a rather stark ugly house, covered in grey stucco with small mullioned windows.  It was different from all the other houses I could only glimpse, and it looked like it should be ‘something’, but I didn’t know what.

I had an appointment to meet Norman Glenn, a former Provost of the town and local historian, to hear stories of the history of the skating pond, built after a fatal accident at the reservoirs, so I asked him about the strange house I’d seen.

An architect ‘famous in his day’ had designed it.  He couldn’t remember the name, but the house was owned by the Architectural Institute of Scotland, so they’d be able to tell me.  So I wrote to them, and they gave me the name Charles Rennie Mackintosh.  That was all I needed.  A photograph, three sentences in my project essay, and then I forgot about it.

The Hill House gates, February

Awareness of him as a major architect, and that The Hill House is one of his major works dawned slowly.  First, only a couple of the rooms were open to visitors, and you had to imagine the furniture in place; now they have acquired some of the original pieces he designed for the house at huge expense.  In the early days of opening I could be the only one there marvelling at the brightness of the interior when from the outside the windows looked so mean and small; now there’s usually a queue.

The house hasn’t changed, just my appreciation of it.

What else will I change my opinion about when I understand it better?

Refuge

Refuge is a word for which there are many synonyms.  Consult a dictionary and a thesaurus and you are presented with a rich list of alternatives; there’s a safe haven, a sanctuary, bolt hole, retreat, a shelter, a place of safety, a harbour.  But the challenge this week is to choose an image to represent it.

As in previous weeks, a couple of photos I have already immediately came to mind.  They represent different aspects of the feeling of refuge or comfort and safety that are the predominant emotions that I associate with the word.  You’ll not be surprised that they also come with a story.

This is my flat.  A real fire. It sounds like something out of a retro advert from the 1970s, but there is nothing quite like it, is there?

It’s a lot of messing about in making sure that I have all the bits and pieces needed to get it going because I am far from proficient in managing it, as I came to its joys late in life, and there’s the tidying up afterwards, but I can sit for hours and watch the dancing of the flames and absorb the comfortable wintery aroma of burning wood.

The second picture is from about as far as it’s possible to get from that hominess.  This is Nepal, high in the Kumbu, the area of the Himalayas around Everest.  A few years ago I did a trek here, off the beaten track away from the more well trodden routes.

After four or five days during which we saw no other trekkers we were descending and the plan was to camp in the grounds of a lodge.  The attraction of the lodge was that we would be able to sit in its large dining area near the stove instead of huddling all together in our sleeping bags playing scrabble by the light of our head torches until it was a respectable time to go to bed.

When we arrived in the village, the lodge camp site we were aiming for was already occupied, so we had to search for an alternative. 

This young boy ran up to our leader and smiling, and tugging gently on the sleeve of her jacket persuaded her to go to inspect his mother’s lodge.  In the absence of any other viable alternative we accepted.

We all tried to put a brave face on it with only moderate success.  The lodge was dark, unheated and a bit grim, but the boy’s mother had beer for sale.  As we were on the descent it seemed like the best way to survive a cold evening: we all contributed a little of the secret stash of treats each of us still had, a tin of salmon, some almonds, biscuits.  Our chef made us some popcorn and we broke out the Yahtzee die.

The boy, whose English was modest, but whose eyes and comprehension beat that of one of our group who, even after nightly games of dice throughout the trek, still couldn’t grasp the basics of the game, played game after game with us.

It was still freezing, but there was something about the fun of it that makes it the perfect response to ‘refuge’; that anywhere can provide it, and that it is the people around who can make it.

Caught out by my own ‘efficiency’

By my calculation this is my 48th successive daily post; that’s quite something for me – it’s four dozen, or a day short of seven weeks and 13% of the way towards the 365 day target.

Although I have called this blog ‘Reading and Writing’, ‘rithmatic is never far from my mind.

Give or take a bit, each post is about 500 words long, which gives me a year to date tally of getting on for 24,000 words.  In the context of the speed at which I produce words for my fiction, that is a lot.

Not such blue sky thinking

As a neophyte blogger, to complete the challenge to post something daily, at a reasonably regular time each day to satisfy an early request of one of my readers, I have had to develop a system.

Rule 1 is that every viable idea has to be used; some are better than others, but it is vital to the process not to be too self critical, and not to spend too much time agonising about each one.

Rule 2 is that I always have a completed post ready the night before, so that I do not have a panic in the morning.  I have become adept at using the facility to ’schedule’ ‘publication’ for a particular date and time.

The combination of Rules 1 and 2 operating in harmony is that, recently, I have had at least a couple of posts all ready in my back pocket at any given time.

I have upped my pace this last week as I was going to be away from home with no guarantee of access to the internet, visiting friends and family, and hopefully will have too many other things to do.  To ensure continuity of service I have ‘banked’ a number of posts in advance.

I found a problem with this approach today.

The amusing thing I found on the internet on Tuesday, and which I wrote about then for the post for Saturday, was published in, of all places, the Daily Mail, on Thursday.  So when I thought I was sharing a minority amusement with you, you may have already read about in the outraged columns of the bastion of the reactionary.

It is a reflection of how quickly information flows around the internet, and that I was not the only person whose attention was caught by the wit of Lydia Leith’s idea; and I hope that the report that she has already sold out of her ‘Throne Up’ sick bags is true.

But I have learnt that if I want to be first-ish then I have to work smartly and efficiently as the latter alone may not always be enough.

Radio 4

There is a great debate under way about the services provided by BBC Radio 4; an article in the newspaper invited a number of contributors to suggest changes they would make to the programming if they were in charge.

I have a radio in every room in my flat; there’s one in the bathroom because a bath without ‘Book at Bedtime’ just isn’t the same pleasure;  and one beside my bed because I need the even tones of a Radio 4 speaking voice to lull me to sleep and to wake me up in the morning.

When I’m away from home I either listen to the podcasts of favourite programmes I’ve downloaded specifically for the purpose of rocking me to sleep, or catch programmes over an internet connection to my PC.

Still there are programmes that  I only ever hear half of, because I’ve fallen asleep or because I’ve been listening in the car and arrived at my destination before the end; sitting in a car park to hear the last few minutes somehow feels a little odd.

With more time I could plan my day around the programmes I would like to listen to and catch up on, but so far I’ve never achieved this.

Needless to say then that I am the holder of strong opinions about the service, and never one to let the opportunity for drawing up a list go by, here are some of my favourites as well as my personal black list.

Likes:

Today Programme, but only before 7, after that they become far too argumentative and shouty.

The World Tonight , but I prefer Ritula Shah to Robin Lustig.

In Our Time and Front Row which I listen to as podcasts

Thinking Allowed which quite frequently keeps me company very late at night.

Desert Island Discs, of course.  This is one of those where I don’t think I could have as a friend a person who couldn’t discuss the whys and wherefores of guests’ choices, at length.

I also quite enjoy the late night Saturday quiz shows Round Britain Quiz and even Brain of Britain, although I wouldn’t necessarily seek them out if their timing changed.

And finally, I like some of the drama; last year’s version of the Smiley novels starring Simon Russell Beale were programmes I waited for.

Now for the ones that make me turn the radio off:

Something Understood – regular readers will already know my opinion of this

You and Yours – oh dear, so dreary.

Those awful unfunny standup comedy shows/ the shouty performance poetry shows that are on at 6:30 in the evening and sometimes at 11 too.

Today in Parliament it’s far too noisy for the time of night it’s on.

Any Questions/Any Answers/Moneybox Live and anything  else at all involving public phone ins.  Just Don’t.  Isn’t Radio 5 Live the place for all that painful audience participation?

And finally those two holy cows Gardener’s Question Time and The Archers. Can’t bear ‘em

So now I’m ready for a good debate.  What are your favourites?

I wish it were over….

On a day where there was a dispiriting amount of coverage of the up coming ‘Royal Wedding’ I am grateful to Creative Review for this which made me laugh out loud, and was just the alternative view that I needed.

It was such a relief to know that there is someone else out there uninterested in the number of bridesmaids and/or if Victoria Beckham may or may not do a dress for the bride.  I like the way designer Lydia Leith thinks, and I hope she sells a few.  They would suit very nicely alongside any number of commemorative mugs, t-towels and oven gloves.

I have the feeling that the coverage is only going to intensify over the next couple of months.

I know the arguments about how much foreign tourist revenue the Royal Family generate for the country.  I have no objection to coverage in tourist literature, OK magazine and the inside pages of the Daily Mail; but it’s not news, and I resent hearing about it on serious news programmes.

I wish it were over already, so we could all be spared.  I am no more interested in this wedding than any other strangers’.  If I was walking past a church I might pause for a minute to look at the bridal party and their guests all got up to the nines, but then I’d walk on and forget about it.  I wouldn’t expect the photographer to run after me forcing copies of the shots he’s taken into my pockets.

Perhaps I am in a minority; there are people who believe that Dot Cotton is a real person, and soap opera viewing figures increase if there’s a wedding coming, so a ‘Royal Wedding’ satisfies those viewers on both counts.

There has also been a disturbing increase in the references to Diana, and it appears to have become a great excuse to rerun stock footage of her, especially in that frilly meringue she wore on her wedding day.

I was in Australia when she died and I remember sitting in a hotel room in Cairns watching news coverage from London wondering what had happened to my homeland; it looked like everyone was insane.  I simply did not understand what motivated all those people who went into a shop, spent money to buy flowers to lay in a great pile of other flowers on a pavement, which after a couple of days were swept away by Boy Scouts drafted in specially.

It was even more peculiar to see the same flower-laying fetish being played out on the steps of Sydney Opera House.

What I did find interesting in all this wedding nonsense, however, is the absence of comment that Prince William appears to be allowed to retain his hobby job as a helicopter pilot at a time when it has just been announced that half the young RAF pilots currently in training face being made redundant.

So, meanwhile, I’m with Lydia Leith and her ‘Throne Up’.

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