Reading through the years - more recently

 I continued to list my favoured reads each year, on a page which unimaginatively continued under the title of The Bookshelf.  The entries are copied here:

The Bookshelf at LaidBackMuse, lists my reads of the year from the current year back in time, to where we finished at laidbackviews - see variety eh.  Book reviews have diminished over the years, such that there are no links with those listed here.

Continuing the theme from LBV, I will run an ongoing list of favourite reads through the years.

So to start the page here are my reading highlights, extracted from that platform, but listed now from the most recent year, and with ongoing additions for those deserving a place:

2026

• A Scottish Wildlife Odyssey - Keith Broomfield
• The Silent Girl - Michael Hjorth & Hans Rosenfeldt
• Columba's Bones - David Greig
• Symphonic - Jim Crumley
• Finding Myrddin - Angela Locke
• The Black Loch - Peter May
• Gavin Maxwell A Life - Douglas Botting
• Borrowed Land - Kapka Kassabova
• Keeping the Dream Alive - Joanna Cherry
• The Book of Birds - Jackie Morris & Robert Macfarlane
• The Elements - John Boyne
• Geography of Heaven - Rory MacLean
• Cader Idris - Julie Brominicks
• The Nature of Seeing - Mark Cocker
• Gift of Time - Rory MacLean

2025

• Vaseem Khan - The Lost Man of Bombay
• Jorn Lier Horst & Thomas Enger - Unhinged
• Laura Coffey - Enchanted Islands
• Niklas Natt och Dag - 1793: The Wolf and the Watchman
• Johana Gustawsson - Block 46
• Thomas Enger & Johana Gustawsson - Son
• Tom Bowser -  Waters of Life
• Merryn Glover - The Hidden Fires
• Essie Fox - Dangerous
• Cal Flyn - Islands of Abandonment
• Agnes Ravatn - The Seven Doors
• Laurie Lee - I Can't Stay Long
• Gavin Maxwell - Raven Seek Thy Brother
• Richard Halliburton - The Flying Carpet
• Peter Levi - The Light Garden of the Angel King
• Douglas Jackson - Blood Vengeance
• John Boyne - The House of Special Purpose
• Lina Bengtsdotter - For the Lost
• John Boyne - All the Broken Places
• Jussi Adler-Olsson - Locked In
• Kirsten MacQuarrie - Remember the Rowan
• Olivier Norken - The Winter Warriors
• Linda Cracknell - Sea Marked
• Gerry Cambridge - The Ayrshire Nestling
• Harper Lee - To Kill a Mockingbird
• Ken Lussey - The High Road
• Christina Riley - Looking Down at the Stars

2024

• The Final Nail - Stefan Ahnhem
• The Edge of Cymru - Julie Brominicks
• The Last Grudge - Max Seeck
• The Crossing - Sophie Matterson
• The Red Wheel III/I - Aleksander Solzhenitsyn
• The Granite Kingdom - Tim Hannigan
• The Lonely Ones - Hakan Nesser
• Turkiye - Julian Emre Sayarer
• My Brother - Karin Smirnoff
• Tamarisk - Angela Locke
• Cold Kitchen - Caroline Eden
• The Women Who Wouldn't Wheesht - Susan Dalgety & Lucy Hunter Blackburn (Eds)
• Anima - Kapka Kassabova
• A Grave for a Dolphin - Alberto Denti di Pirajno
• The Red Wheel III/3 - Aleksander Solzhenitsyn
• Duncton Wood - William Horwood
• The Bridge Between Worlds - Gavin Francis
• Life on Svalbard - Cecilia Blomdahl
• The Strangler's Honeymoon - Hakan Nesser
• The Spider - Lars Kepler
• The Stonor Eagles - William Horwood
• Walking the Nile - Levison Wood

2023

• Michael Palin  - Into Iraq
• Gavin Maxwell - A Reed Shaken by the Wind
• Kapka Kassabova - Elixir
• Caro Giles - Twelve Moons
• James Raffan - Ice Walker
• Silvia Vasquez-Lavado - In the Shadow of the Mountain
• Douglas Jackson - The Barbarian
• Victoria Belim - The Rooster House
• John Lister-Kaye - Footprints in the Woods
• Tom Parfitt - High Caucasus
• Leon McCarron - Wounded Tigris
• Tahir Shah - The Reason to Write
• Mark Salzman - Iron & Silk
• Angela Locke - On Juniper Mountain
• Anthony Sattin - Nomads
• Tahir Shah - Hannibal Fogg & the Supreme Secret of Man
• Roy Jacobsen & Anneliese Pritz - The Man Who Loved Siberia

2022

• Minarets in the Mountains - Tharik Hussain
• Seven Graves One Winter - Christoffer Petersen
• Winter Flowers - Angelique Villeneuve
• Victim 2117 - Jussi Adler-Olsen
• Walking with Nomads - Alice Morrison
• The Water Rituals - Eva Garcia Saenz
• The Slow Road to Tehran - Rebecca Lowe
• Explorer - Benedict Allen
• Karitas Untitled - Kristin Marja Baldursdottir
• The Wall - Douglas Jackson
• A Sky Full of Kites - Tom Bowser
• Swan Song - Robert McCammon
• High - Erika Fatland
• The Raven's Nest - Sarah Thomas
• The Art of Patience - Sylvain Tesson

2021

• The Dead of Jura - Allan Martin
• Winds of the Steppe - Bernard Ollivier
• Agent Sonya - Ben Macintyre
• The Gardens of Mars - John Gimlette
• The Silence of the White City - Eva Garcia Saenz
• The Travel Writing Tribe - Tim Hannigan
• Outlandish - Nick Hunt
• The Border - Erika Fatland
• Lakeland Wild - Jim Crumley
• The Witch Hunter - Max Seeck
• The Scorpion's Head - Hilde Vandermeeren
• Troubled Water - Jens Muhling
• The Art of Exploration - Levison Wood
• The Amur River - Colin Thubron

2020

• Another Life - Nick Danziger
• The Twelve Birds of Christmas - Stephen Moss
• The Lost Pianos of Siberia - Sophy Roberts
• Travels With Nasrudin - Tahir Shah
• To The Lake - Kapka Kassabova
• Searching for Hassan - Terence Ward
• Horizon - Barry Lopez
• Wolf Moon - Julio Llamazares
• A Woman in the Polar Night - Christiane Ritter
• Berezina - Sylvain Tesson
• Call to Adventure - Aloha Wanderwell
• Native - Life in a Vanishing Landscape - Patrick Laurie
• The Nature of Summer - Jim Crumley
• Tazmamart - Aziz BineBine
• This Much Country - Kristin Knight Pace
• Apeirogon, a Novel - Colum McCann
• Island Dreams - Gavin Francis
• Forty Days Without Shadow - Olivier Truc
• The Unremembered Places - Patrick Baker
• The Last Giants - Levison Wood

2019

• Kings of the Yukon - Adam Weymouth
• Erebus: The Story of a Ship - Michael Palin
• Arabia - Levison Wood
• The Nature of Spring - Jim Crumley
• How to Catch a Mole - Marc Hamer
• Underland - Robert Macfarlane
• The Peat Dead - Allan Martin
• Wild Fierce Life - Joanna Streetly
• You Would Have Missed Me - Birgit Vanderbecke
• Surfacing - Kathleen Jamie
• The Summer Isles - Philip Marsden
• Going Home - Raja Shehadeh
• Sovietistan - Erika Fatland
• Antarctica - Gabrielle Walker

2018

• The Land Beyond - Leon McCarron
• The Seeing Eye - John Lister-Kaye
• Fisherman's Blues - Anna Badkhen
• How To Start A New Country - Robin McAlpine
• Why Do Birds Suddenly Disappear - Lev Parikian
• An Inconvenient Death - Miles Goslett
• From Cape Wrath to Finisterre - Bjorn Larsson
• Shadows on the Tundra - Dalia Grinkeviciute
• A Twelvemonth And A day - Christopher Rush
• The Celtic Ring - Bjorn Larsson
• A Treachery of Spies - Manda Scott
• Owl Sense - Miriam Darlington
• Hammer of Rome - Douglas Jackson
• The Aviator - Eugene Vodolazkin
• Lands of Lost Borders - Kate Harris

2017

• The Last Wolf - Jim Crumley
• Doorstep to Damehood - Katharine M E Liston
• Border - Kapka Kassabova
• In The Land Of The Giants - Gabi Martinez
• Night of Fire - Colin Thubron
• Children of the Earth & Sky - Guy Gavriel Kay
• The Writer Abroad - Lucinda Hawksley
• Going Solo - Roald Dahl
• The Dun Cow Rib - John Lister-Kaye
• Georgia - In The Mountains of Poetry - Peter Naysmith
• The Light Garden of the Angel King - Peter Levi

2016

• Leo The African - Amin Maalouf
• The Running Hare - John Lewis-Stempel
• The Timbuktu School of Nomads - Nicholas Jubber
• The Great Soul of Siberia - Sooyong Park
• The Romanovs 1613-1918 - Simon Sebag Montefiore
• The Sky Is On Fire - Magsie Hamilton Little
• The Dark Room - Rachel Seiffert
• Mapping My Return - Salman Abu Sitta
• Atlas Of An Anxious Man - Christoph Ransmayr
• Children Of The Arbat (trilogy) - Anatoli Rybakov
• The Shark And The Albatross - John Aitchison
• Black Dragon River - Dominic Ziegler
• Elephant Complex - John Gimlette

2015

• Petrograd - William Owen Roberts
• Into The Fire - Manda Scott
• Walking With Abel - Anna Badkhen
• The Dream Will Never Die - Alex Salmond
• H Is For Hawk - Helen Macdonald
• The Faithful Couple - A D Miller
• This Place Holds No Fear - Monika Held
• The Fish Ladder - Katharine Norbury
• A Book Of Death And Fish - Ian Stephen
• Samarkand - Amin Maalouf

The full list, which dates back to 2011, and inludes a separate listing of favourite authors, can be found at The Bookshelf over at laidbackviews.

And for the curious the original pages of the above can be found at LaidBackMuse.

Reading through the years - earlier years

 I thought I'd re-post for you information that has built up over the years on a couple of earlier blogs.  This is the first of three posts specifically on the topic of Books.

First up, The Bookshelf pages:

My musings on literature start with a couple of lists:

First, some favourite authors:

• Robert Louis Stevenson
• Gavin Maxwell
• Bruce Chatwin
• Nicolas Bouvier
• Stephen Donaldson
• Jason Elliot
• Mark Twain
• Tahir Shah
• Christopher Rush
• Nick Danziger
• William Horwood
• Manda Scott
• Eric Newby
• Laurie Lee
• Douglas Botting
• Alastair Scott
• Richard Halliburton
• Philip Marsden
• Anna Badkhen

From that list it will be apparent that there are a few important themes that recur in my choice of reading material.  Travel Writing has evolved into a real passion in recent years.  Scotland features prominently.  Fantasy remains an escape.

A second list highlights a few books I have particularly enjoyed over the past year:

• Along the Enchanted Way - William Blacker
• The Mango Orchard - Robin Bayley
• Treblinka Survivor - Mark S Smith
• True North - Gavin Francis
• A Carpet Ride to Khiva - Christopher Aslan Alexander
• The House of the Mosque - Kader Abdollah
• In a Persian Tea House - Michael Carroll
• Reports from Beyond - Patrick Richardson
• Crossing Jerusalem - Nicholas Woodsworth
• Adventures in the Caucasus - Alexandre Dumas

My choice of reading is wide and varied, dictated by people and places, some of the favourites of which include Patagonia; Siberia; Antarctica; as well  as a growing interest in the Middle East - all of which are pretty much inaccessible to me other than through the pages of books.

On the bedside table at the moment is a collection of writings by the late Anna Politskaya, and next up is likely to be an escape, a return to the fantastic world of Stephen Donaldson and the recently published ninth, and penultimate, epic from his Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, which have been growing at my side since the 1970s.

Another favourite from long ago is William Horwood, amongst whose works are his  six books in the world of  the Moles of Duncton, pretty apt now as the little furry creature has an almost permanent and highly visible, presence across our meagre policies.  Horwood has returned to his craft with the publication in 2010 of Hyddenworld : Spring, and I look forward to the remaining seasons evolving in the years ahead.

There is quite a pile on the 'to be read' heap at the moment but I do intend to include a few book reviews, or even just notes on what I've particularly enjoyed from time to time.  Reading has evolved into collecting, and there are some works where the quest for a first edition may follow a particularly good read, or  there is a need to include all the works of a particular author to the library.  My collection of Chatwin firsts was completed recently with a gift from The Genealogist (of which more later) of the only missing volume, The Viceroy of Ouidah.  Maxwell is complete, and Newby well under way, including his signature.  Pride of place in the Stevenson collection is the Edinburgh Edition of his Collected Works, from 1894-98.

Some early indicators on the favoured reading list for 2011:

• Travels in Siberia - Ian Frazier
• Tent Life in Siberia - George Kennan
• Sailing by Starlight - Alex Capus
• The Last Grain Race - Eric Newby
• Access All Areas - Sara Wheeler
• Lamplit Vicious Fairy Land - Jeremy Hodges
• Seven Seasons in Siena - Robert Rodi
• Dancing with Darkness - Magsie Hamilton Little
• The Sorceror's Apprentice - Tahir Shah
• Daughter of Siena - Marina Fiorato
• An African in Greenland - Tete-Michel Kpomassie
• Travels with Myself - Tahir Shah
• The Tomb in Seville - Norman Lewis

Having dipped in and out of his various works over the years, including various meanderings, dog-sledding in Alaska, sailing around Ireland, etc, and now completed the third leg of his five year wander round the world, A Scot Returns, I have undertaken to find the first two legs of that trip, and, more importantly, have added the name of Alastair Scott to my list of favourite authors at the top of this page.  He is not outdone by the company he keeps on that list.

Beyond a place on a list I have one more book to add for 2011, a book I have addressed separately in a post, which may one day be linked.  That book is not just one of my favourite reads of the year, it is by a distance, my one outstanding discovery of the year.  So it gets it's own list, and if you get the chance, delve in:

• The Boy With No Shoes - William Horwood

2012 gets off to a great start, with a new writer for me, and a bar set high for the year ahead:

• The Flying Carpet - Richard Halliburton
• A Train in Winter - Caroline Moorehead
• The Crossing Place - Philip Marsden
• The Glorious Adventure - Richard Halliburton
• Seven League Boots - Richard Halliburton
• Traversa - Fran Sandham
• The Old Ways - Robert Macfarlane
• The Sewing Circles of Herat - Christina Lamb
• New Worlds to Conquer - Richard Halliburton
• Condemned to Devil's Island - Blair Niles
• Timbuctoo - Tahir Shah
• The Ice Balloon - Alec Wilkinson
• Otter Country - Miriam Darlington
• Wild - Jay Griffiths
• Harvest - William Horwood
• The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
• Rome:  The Eagle of the Twelfth - M C Scott

As we head off into 2013, not knowing what lies ahead, the Bedside Table gives us a pretty special start:

• The Robber of Memories - Michael Jacobs
• Birds in a Cage - Derek Neimann
• All The Roads Are Open - Annemarie Schwarzenbach
• Wild Hares & Hummingbirds - Stephen Moss
• Cleopatra's Wedding Present - Robert Tewdwr Moss
• The Black Room at Longwood - Jean-Paul Kauffmann
• The World is a Carpet - Anna Badkhen
• Rome: The Art of War - M C Scott
• Consolations of the Forest - Sylvain Tesson
• A Wilder Vein - Linda Cracknell (Ed)
• My Khyber Marriage - Morag Murray Abdullah
• One Night in Winter - Simon Sebag Montefiore
• Cloud Road - John Harrison
• The Nomad's Path - Alistair Carr

Another new year and another new writer, new to me anyway, to start the list.  I'm sure 2014 will find some more great reads.  And as it is a very special year in Scotland I need to expand the usual People & Places them, with a bit of introspection, and a large dose of inspiration:

• There & Then - James Salter
• Blossom - Lesley Riddoch
• The House on the Chine - Sian Mackay
• Walking the Woods and the Water - Nick Hunt
• The Telling Room - Michael Paterniti
• Doubling Back - Linda Cracknell
• Then Again - Irma Kurtz
• Bread And Ashes - Tony Anderson
• A Journey into Russia - Jens Muhling
• In Search of Landfall - Patrick Richardson
• Land of the Turquoise Mountains - Cyrus Massoudi
• The Moor - William Atkins
• Afghan Adventure - John Fox as told to Roland Goodchild

And so the year turns again.  But in a literary sense what a cracking start to 2015.  For that festive stocking contained a number of volumes, the first of which to be picked up was:

• Samarkand - Amin Maalouf
• A Book of Death and Fish - Ian Stephen
• The Fish Ladder - Katharine Norbury
• This Place Holds No Fear - Monika Held
• The Faithful Couple - A D Miller
• H is for Hawk - Helen Macdonald
• The Dream Will Never Die - Alex Salmond
• Walking With Abel - Anna Badkhen
• Into The Fire - Manda Scott
• Petrograd - William Owen Roberts

We begin 2016 with a large selection on the TBR shelf, thanks to the largesse of Santa and to some terrific suggestions gleaned from the weekly postings on the Tips, Links & Suggestions books blog over at The Guardian.  There should be some good stuff to report in the months ahead, and we're off to a great start with:

• Elephant Complex - John Gimlette
• Black Dragon River - Dominic Ziegler
• The Shark And The Albatross - John Aitchison
• Children of the Arbat (trilogy) - Anatoli Rybakov
• Atlas of an Anxious Man - Christoph Ransmayr
• Mapping My Return - Salman Abu Sitta
• The Dark Room - Rachel Seiffert
• The Sky Is On Fire - Magsie Hamilton Little
• The Romanovs 1613 - 1918 - Simon Sebag Montefiore
• The Great Soul of Siberia - Sooyong Park
• The Timbuktu School of Nomads - Nicholas Jubber
• The Running Hare - John Lewis-Stempel
• Leo The African - Amin Maalouf

That was extracted from my original blog, Laidbackviews.  In those cases where there are links, I'll need to check that the links are still live - but these relate to brief book reviews posted from time to time.

Meandering

 I had no real expectations that it might be possible to break my ride over the crest of the hill, just as the view opened out far below.  To even think of attempting the Maud Meander, having covered so few miles this year, was perhaps an indication of the onset of an unsettled mind.

That I managed to take in that view was reward in itself.  The Meander is not a long ride, but it does a bit of climbing, some stretches on the steep side.  I have ridden it in both directions, the first time clockwise.  Never again.  As I finished my sandwich I remembered that climb, up the hillside down which I was about to hurtle.  Never again.

Riding the hill widdershins I could manage, when reasonably fit.  Today, with an arthritic knee, and a lingering chest infection on top of the usual asthmatic issues, I had a very firm Plan B.  I could always turn round.  The climbs were long.  And very slow.  

And yet, here I stood, sandwich in hand, taking in the autumn colours, that time of year when the veil may be stretched, the light thin.  And drawing in.  It felt good.

The light thin.  Samhain.  That shift from light towards dark.  Changing seasons.  I tend to the thinking that what we witness may be more to do with the angle of the light than the density of the perceived veil.  Drivers will know all about low sun.  Up here, looking down on the woodland, at this time of year, the shifting colours are in stark contrast.  Always beautiful.  And that I put down to the angle at which sunlight picks out highlights.

Round the back of the hill is The Secret Place.  It always brings a chuckle.  Roadside delights.  Over-sized, colourful, and imaginative.  I didn't enquire as to whether the eggs came from the woodpecker.  But nothing would surprise me.

From there we undulate round the hill, hurtle down, and then climb again.  This takes us over the shoulder of Maud, a dip shared with The Bin.  Now there's a walk I need to get back on the agenda.

Fortunately I had picked a day with virtually no wind.  The sun strained,  but the light cloud was stubborn.  A fine day for a bike ride on the cusp of November.  As I finished that sandwich I realised that the woods were quiet; the birds collectively silent.

As I began my descent so the chirping filled the air; only to be overtaken by windrush in the ears as gravity increased my speed.  These were the moments when you start to wonder when you last gave the brakes any attention.  Speed gathering; twisty bends, and a long way down.

The brakes were fine, and all too soon it was back to level ground.  That was when the ride had its hairiest moments.  I had to negotiate a couple of hundred yards of the A98; find a gap in the traffic, make it to the next junction.  Then turn right across the oncoming traffic.  Memories of horrific moments and close calls on the A71.  Luck was on my side, and I made it safely back to my familiar minor roads through the woods and back to base.

Meantime word comes in of a rare visitor to the garden at Peelhill - a goldcrest, in the rowan tree.  And I missed it.  Heard several in the woods in various places; but still to see one.  And there it was in the garden, when I was absent.

Instead how about a hielan' coo to brighten the day

Of Creeks and Kings

 The best things, as they say, come in threes.  I followed the well trodden path, Three Creeks to Three Kings.  Rising sun on one harbour; lowering sun by the time I gaze over the other.  That little boat that caught my eye had her usual berth, shimmering.  I wandered on, Patrol Road, past the Fishermen's Memorial, gazing out over the Three Creeks.  From the edge of the village my path took me round the clifftops, meandering through the whins, barely a glance at either Bow or Fiddle.  Other things on my mind.

The low road on the outward wander, down the steps to Jenny's Well, the shore path, high tide still some time off.  The Indian Balsam has died back, leaving the various watercourses exposed to winter erosion.  Taking to the sands, given the tide, I left the golfers in peace.  

Windrush in the ears, the sound of the surf on one side; the yelp of the whelp on the other.  As is often the case I felt a bit naked absent the seemingly compulsory hound at foot.  There were only three others in the same condition, two joggers and a surfer.  The latter found his balance, rolling in to shore arms outstretched.  Sun, sand and surf.

Also sans dug was an escapee from the beach sauna; intent on drowning smuggled budgies.  Tattoo'd torso glistening, stark inks over skin pinks, heading for the ritual cool cleanse.  As he dived beneath a curling wave, his good lady smiled, doing her own post-sauna cooling in the air, waiting with a warm towel.  Seemingly unconcerned that the budgie may not recover.

The path across the sands took me to the Three Kings, those great red sandstone monoliths that guard the fairways and the sandways.  Lingering thoughts of the 7th Cavalry in competition with the bareback skills of First Nations, or the Hole in the Wall gang on the run.  Movies from days gone by, before Odysseus sailed across the bay to Findlater Castle.

I had been of a mind to take advantage of the beach facilities, splendidly maintained by volunteeers.  However, with the Tattie Holidays behind us we are into weekend only opening hours.  Being of a certain age, and with the thought already in place, the wander through Seatown and climb up from the harbour, under the arches to the square, was not without moments of some angst.  There the facilities remain open, and I was delighted to leave a donation in the hope that the volunteers can continue their fine work.  Essential.

An al fresco lunch in the square, sandwich and a packet of gluten free pretzels, a sweet treat too, whilst jotting down some notes.  I had thought of a browse in the Antiques Centre.  An unfortunate padlock had me crossing the road to the excellent Beinn bookshop, which I know to adopt a similar hand-picked stocking policy to the Biggar Bookshop in which I'd been forced to spend some time, sheltering from the rain you understand, the previous weekend.  Sometimes you just have to give in.  They also do a fine mint tea.  Rest and recuperate.  Still a bit of walking to do.

The estate grounds, birdsong in the woods.  On to Castle Hill.  Another rest.  With sun on the bay it would be hard not to.  In late autumn, golden stubble fields, the full panoply of autumn colours in the woodlands whilst the golf course stands out bright, fed and watered.  Terracotta roofs down below.  Glories in the bay, tide at the high point, little sand remaining.  Blue-bright waters, turquoise and shifting.  Calm.  And it all just drifts over you.

The high road back, over the viaducts, past the upper fairways.  Sheltered from windrush where once the embankments rang to the whistle and the steam, the permanent way is now one of tarmac, verges trimmed, little lights embedded.  Windfalls, and birdsong.

I followed the cliffs back round to Bow Fiddle, and those Creeks, sheltered seats along the way to rest and muse as the mood takes you.  A skip in the step; oh it was no trudge at all.  And completely unaided, once again.

The Roads and the Miles

 Edinburgh.  After negotiating traffic to the Park & Ride and enjoying the tram ride to Princes Street, it's out into the throngs.  I was tight for a time, and faced an uphill slog, The Mound, North Bridge.  As ever Edinburgh hummed with visitors, usually stopping front of you to take selfies just as you try to make onward progress.

I had signed up to a short session with Christina Riley, writing and zines.  The latter was a new skill to learn.  I had picked up a zine when I met Christina at The Nature Library in Irvine, a production she had put together to showcase the work of Holly Nicholl.  Interesting.

Christina has produced some fine work; her very useful An Index of, The Colour of Water (I think she has a second variant due out soon which I must watch out for); and her close seeing skills brilliantly set out in Looking Down at the Stars.  She is involved with both North Sea Poets and Paperboats, and thus has much to teach me.  Not sure if I'm up to the tactile side, which kind of takes me back to the days of Valerie Singleton and rubber-solution glue.

It was Christina who introduced me to Werner's Nomenclature of Colour, which had been used by Darwin in documenting his travels, and which remains a vital resource to this day.  Always to be kept in mind as an aid in putting words to pictures.

Two minutes - how fast does that go -  to get some words down; then scissors and coloured paper, glue sticks and magazines to cut up.  Yes I could cut and fold an A4 sheet, glue the right bits together, and come up with a 12 page zine.  I could put words on some pages, leaving others to be decorated.  Collage and creative thinking may not be my natural skillset; I'd rather use my own photos to illustrate the words.  That might need a template, and keyboard wizardry.  More alien concepts.  But to what end?  

These things and more I pondered as I left the National Library of Scotland, no rush needed, through the throngs heading back to Princes Street, and the tram back to the car.  Much to chew over as I drove north; a much-needed return to Portknockie.  After the storm.  Check for slates down, pick up the bins.  More importantly see if I could arrange the fitting of the new front door, after the salty sea air and infrequent use saw the ironmongery on the old door seize completely.

Health issues came to the fore, a chest infection spreading to a head cold, passed on from son to father on a rare trip home for Boy Child.  Other issues, under investigation by Traditional Chinese Medicine, made an untimely entrance, laying me low for a day or two, and more than a bit concerned.

I did manage to get out for an hour or two, and survived.  With little to see at Spey Bay, other than torrents of water, a river high and fast hurtling to the sea, in the manner that may have inspired Khalil Gibran.  I braved the roadworks at Fochabers Bridge, well into their fourth month now, and took a walk in the woods at Loch na Bo, that favoured spot where mute swans nest and whoopers visit.  Tension on the water.  For the first time since that arthritis attack back in March I didn't even think of the need for a walking stick.  It was still a slow dawdle, but being able to do it unaided fair lifts the spirits.

The woods were in after-the-storm mode.  Still and calm; eerily quiet.  The paths were deep in leaf-litter, feet scuttling and shuffling.  Autumn colours all around, umbers and ochres in the canopy and on the ground.  Bracken turning from verdigris to amber gris.  So good to get out, and to breathe, long and deep.  Woodland smells overpowering throat lozenges.

A bike ride.  It was one of those late autumn days when you could almost hear the bike pining in the shed.  Sun rising in clear skies, barely a breath of breeze to ruffle the bushes and the trees.  A few miles on the roads and the cycle paths.  

A brief stop at Portgordon, where the seals were resting, hauled out, in their usual spot.  Those with energy bobbed around yet in the water. 

 The River Spey, swollen, running fast.  The old viaduct drew me,  but only so far.  Through the barrier I glimpsed the carnage, the fallen spans after the shifting currents had hauled a couple of the piers.

Some of you may recall I had written about the Garmouth Viaduct previously, a much-favoured walking and cycle route across the river, utilising the railway viaduct which no longer rang to steam and whistles.  The swelling of the river may reflect the tears of those of us distraught at the loss of this amenity.

There was a time when it may have been possible to secure EU funding for essential bridge repairs.  That however died in the wake of the worst decision, by a neighbouring country, in the history of decisions.  Having promised that I would not sully these pages with commentary on the rancid state of Scottish politics, I'd best say no more.  The Garmouth Viaduct may reflect the current state of Scottish politics all on its own.  And it saddens me greatly.

I pottered on, up the riverside, a section of the Speyside Way.  Muddy, bumpy paths; and a happy face.  Honest, there was, even a smile.  Sunlight glistening on gossamer spider threads across the path.  A brief stop for lunch at a bend in the river.  Onwards until passage was blocked by a fallen tree.  Perhaps just as well, being aware that every mile outward had to be repeated on the return, and these old legs had little mileage in them this year.

Whilst the low sun had been a bit of a problem on the outward leg, before long it began to recede from its zentih, with the air temperature noticeably following.  Once back at Spey Bay the road home was a familiar one, mainly traffic free, sun at the back and dreams of a very special spiced-berry tea from Tiree to warm the weary bones.  A fine few hours on the bike.  Must do it all again soon.

Birds and Trees

 Movement caught my eye.  The Powmillon Burn was flowing fast, swollen after recent heavy showers.  A few more days of rain and the water could rise above the stone-built banks, flooding on the edges of the Allison Green.  The little park is in the centre of Strathaven, once the common ground for drying the washing, poles remaining today.  I had been wandering the scenic path between car park and grocery store.

In and out of the burn; quick dive and back to the same spot on the bank, resistant to the current taking the waters between the bridges at either end of the Green.  I stood on the recently refurbished wooden footbridge (courtesy of Adam's Community Trust) and watched as the white-dickied dipper (thank you Nan Shepherd) enjoyed the waters, putting on a show.  Diving, disappearing, and returning to the same spot.  Dipping.

I had been reading Adam Nicolson's Bird School, the author of Sea Room and many more, spending time learning of the birds on his little Sussex farm, views from a magnificent bird house designed and built, enjoyed, from inside and out.  

He tells not just of the woodland birds in and around the farm, but of the history of species, the massive decline in numbers during our lifetimes; decline not only as a result of Rachel Carson's Silent Spring exposures of pesticides, but of habitat loss and hunting, migration traps and so much more.  Our own habits of filling garden feeders come into question.  Turning wild birds into garden pets has proved devastating.  Factor in the air miles for sunflower seeds from Ukraine, nyger from India, and we have developed a huge industry that is decimating our wildlife.

Time to rethink, planting for seeds and berries would be better.  Down at Maudslie the haws were red and round and ripe.  At home the cotoneaster and the rowan are rich with winter feed, bright and glistening in the morning sun as the frost recedes.  I must walk round and check the blackthorn.  However, our last winter in our wildlife garden in Avondale is almost upon us.  Planting for seasons to follow is not on the agenda.  

Our move to Moray will see green acres swapped for a small concrete yard.  Thus far bird feeding in the yard has attracted only starlings and sparrows.  There is little scope to plant anything that may produce seeds or berries; perhaps a pot-grown sunflower may do well in a sheltered, sunny spot, though there is little evidence yet of any tits or finches to come in search of seed heads.  Walking the clifftop whins and spotting the yellowhammers and the linnets, stonechats too, may be the local bird joy ahead.

At Maudslie Woods we returned to the parking area shortly after some kind soul had filled the feeders.  They were busy, and noisy, and not just with children keen on spotting the nuthatch.  We had wandered a stretch of the riverside path, watching long-tailed tits high in the canopy whilst thinking of catching a falling leaf as luck for the year ahead.  At least we saw the tits.

Across the river a heron surveyed the river from a lofty perch, looking every bit a refugee from the days of the pterodactyl.  I had been looking for the heron at a nesting site I had seen earlier in the year, just before a bend in the river where the woods start to rise high above the banks.  

Back in the days, before Maudslie Castle was demolished near a century ago, there had been formal plantings, mixed woodlands, orchards.  And along the drive some magnificent specimens remain.

Deep and spongy bark, reddish-brown, stretching high to the sky.  Peppered with cones.  Wellingtonias, introduced from California where these sequoias can be the tallest trees on the planet.  Being only three of us on this occasion we thought not of joining hands around the trunks, for these trees would have needed twice that number for some proper hugging.

There are some simple things we will undoubtedly miss after we head to our little home by the seas and the cliffs, exchange the Clyde for the Spey.  There are other woods to walk, and plenty other birds to follow in the annual cycle.  But the nuthatch and giant sequoia, and all the tits and finches that have flocked to the garden feeders, fleeing from sparrowhawk and woodpecker, will remain as lasting memories.

Meanwhile Adam Nicolson has left plenty of food for thought as to how we do our best for the birds that remain, both in our southern garden and in our northern yard.  Bird School is well worth a read; every day a school day.

It's an Age Thing

 We hear it all the time.  Whether it's about arthritis, cataracts, or the prostate.  Those little things that have such a huge impact on everyday life.  And yet when something happens, something unexpected.  It gives you such a fright.  Even if you might be tempted to write it off as just another sign of ageing.

We had a musical weekend planned, a couple of concerts to look forward to at the Findhorn Bay Arts Festival.  Both in the Universal Hall, such a fine venue, where atmosphere builds and feeds back to the stage.  An audience who all have a brilliant view, and each and every one may feel closely involved with the performers, who feed off that audience.  And give us more.

We had tickets, Saturday and Sunday.  Busy weekend, time to fit in family visits, cajole some into feeding us after catching up on six months of news and gossip.  It all started so well, on the Saturday.  Fed and watered, along to Findhorn, find a parking space; wondering if we'd find our way back to it later.  And so richly entertained; Julie Fowlis and Zoe Conway.  We'd seen them earlier in the year, at Celtic Connections, with their menfolk, Eamon Doorley and John McIntyre.  The time they had the full Scottish Chamber Orchestra to work with them.  In Findhorn it would be just the strings, the Esposito Quintet.

That concert in January had been quite superb, the orchestra adding a whole new dimension.  Julie and Zoe told of their work in researching ancient poetic works across the Gaeltacht, then putting them to music.  We had songs in both Irish Gaelic and in Scots Gaelic, in English too.  The language mattered not, the music soared.  They continued that work in Findhorn.  Beautiful singing from the girls; exceptional fiddle work from Zoe, with the quintet backing, whilst the boys strummed and plucked.  Such a grand night.

And so to Sunday.  Another fine afternoon doing the rounds.  Picking up some fine treats at the market.  A walk in the woods, at Blair's Loch, with old friends seen too rarely.  Family visits for chatter and a bite of tea.  Back to Findhorn.  Same time as the night before.  It's awfy quiet.  Where are the cars, the parking guides in their hi-viz?  Perhaps we're too early.  Was this one in a different venue?

Not so.  Check the tickets.  Ah, the tickets.  That'll be those things sent to the phone, the three inch screen, little but a QR code.  Oh shit.  It was a 4pm concert, not 7.30pm as assumed.  We'd missed it!

We had been so looking forward to hearing Hamish Napier, and a gathering of fine musicians, including Megan Henderson, Su-a Lee, Euan Robertson and others.  They were launching his latest album, The Hill, fourth in a series of five epic works over a number of years.  I'd been listening to it at home, in the car.  Enjoying it, hugely.  We had witnessed Hamish live several times; the bar was set high.  And so when it came crashing down the disappointment was crushing.

Then the realisation.  Tickets booked several months previously; details long forgotten.  Weekend plans emerged.  Saturday went smoothly.  Same again, and a bit more.  But I hadn't checked the timing.  Relied on memory.  Or thought I had.

It's an age thing.  When memory lets you down.  Or is it?  Could it be signs of something far more serious than just the passing of years.  That's what really rocks you to the core.  At least we'll have the chance of another Hamish Napier concert, performing The Hill, at Celtic Connections this coming January.  I think I'll print the tickets.  Just in case.

A week later.  Another date in the diary, set some time previously.  This one involved a bit of time, lots of preparation.  A spare table at the book fair, Books at the Botanics, in Glasgow.  I had been there several times in recent years, seeking to downsize the book collection before the final move north, knowing that they all could not make that move.  I had given hundreds away, to friends and to charities; sold a few on eBay; sold a few at the Botanics, though usually just enough to cover the charges for the event.

A few days were spent.  Selecting volumes with which I was prepared to depart, if someone wanted them; pricing them, and packing them into crates and boxes.  An early start on the Saturday morning.  6.30, just when I wanted to be listening to Mark and Rachel on Radio Scotland's superb Out of Doors, a weekly ritual, live from the car park in Aberdeen.  Crates and boxes to load into the car, folding bookcases for the event.  Sandwiches to make for the day; pens and notebooks and other papers.  Something to read, for it can get turgidly boring.

Arrive at the Botanics by 8.30, time to set up, be ready for the first browsers.  Oh, we weren't expecting you.  There was no table; not for me.  I have an email confirming it.  I'm sure.  Date in the diary some weeks ago.  Anyway, back in the car, the road home.  At least I'll get to the football, South Challenge Cup, Camelon away.  But nagging at the back of the mind.  Another mistake; another date on the calendar for a while.  I know I have that email.  I can't face checking.  Just in case.  It might be another sign of ageing.  Or worse.

When the match finishes with a stoppage time winner, one that your team might not have deserved, the road home is a happy one.  Into the next round of the cup.  A match I'd been prepared to miss, having missed the previous two with events in Aberdeen and Findhorn.  And knowing that I'd miss an away tie in the big Scottish Cup a fortnight hence for another event.  It's in the diary, so it must be happening...

But it's not just me.  A trip to the theatre a little while back.  High Society.  Long been a favourite.  We have the album in the car.  Always the first music when we reach the banks of Loch Lomond on the road and the miles, the three ferries - Corran, Lachaline, Fionnaphort - that take us to our island getaway.  We have the video - but nothing now to play it on.  And we even have the original vinyl, for it was the old man's favourite too, a soundtrack at his funeral - and as I type these notes I realise he would have been 93 this very day.

A much anticipated night out, in Glasgow.  We park, a short walk, in the rain, join the queue.  Check the tickets - again something that can only be viewed on a three inch phone screen, if you can remember how to find them.  Wrong theatre.  It's the Kings, not the Theatre Royal, though confusingly all the blurb does have both venues mentioned.  They must be under common ownership these days, cutting down on the marketing budget.

A brisk walk, me hirpling with a stick trying to protect that arthritic knee.  The clock ticking.  We made it.  Just.  Settled in our seats, jackets off, just as the curtain rises.  And what a show that was.  On my birthday.  Those tickets had been bought the previous year, after seeing To Kill a Mockingbird, in Edinburgh.  Get them early, Glasgow would be easier.  Or it would have been if we had remembered where it was taking place.  Tickets, on a phone, months and months earlier.  Not my phone this time.  I'd better say no more.

Tickets are things that should sit behind the bluetooth speaker in the kitchen; printed.  On paper.  A permanent reminder of where you're meant to be.  And when.  QR codes hidden in the depths of technology; tiny screens and old tired eyes.  Oh what horrors lie ahead?  As the years pass.  Already we have a phone telling us that Android Auto can't be updated; we have a television telling us that it will not access BBC iPlayer or BBC Sounds from the end of this month.  Built in obsolescence.  Forced expenditure on new technology.  I'm liking this world less and less these days.  It plays with your mind.

And we put it all down to ageing.  Time for my afternoon nap.