Shingle Shock

 The inshore waters are broiling and frothing.  The longer view is masked in grey, at times little to distinguish between seas and skies, the horizon more melding than distinction.

Ash grey above, reflected in pearl grey waters with a tinge of green inshore.

The waves begin breaking more than 100m from landfall.  At any time there are five rows of surf rolling shoreward.  Windrush and rumble, air spoondrift sodden.

From Jenny's Well, where the grasses have been gathering sea foam blown from the rocks, I pick my way through the last of the low tide exposed nooks and crannies and rockpools.  On to the beach.

Before me stretches the long curve of the bay.  Those turbulent waters tumble on, reducing until it is but a final caress that crests the sands.  Once again I find myself the only beach walker absent a hound at foot; an outsider without the credentials for club membership.

As I doddle on I realise that all is not as it should be; the familiar has changed.  Usually I'll walk the wet sand, as the soft, deep piles of golden beach can become a tough trudge.

I find myself picking a way through increasingly deep shingle.  There are stretches where the beach is no more.  The sand has gone.

There have been some very high tides of late, crashing waves.  I ponder the possibility of the rushing surf bringing pebbles onwards, depositing them on the shore.  Or perhaps the receding waters have hauled the loose sand with them, exposing the hidden stones.  Maybe a bit of both.

Might have to ask a young environmental scientist or two for their thoughts on beach erosion.

I'd like to think Old Neptune may be kind enough, over time, to return our beach.

My return route takes me into the grounds of Cullen House, and on to Castle Hill.  Despite the bare canopy of the woods in winter, there is greenery I'd not noticed by the same path in the warmer months.  A carpeting of ivy, spreading to each and every tree; worn by the trunks as a winter coat, reaching for those grey skies above.

Across the viaducts, the tumbling surf below roaring from the depths.  The bay stretches out, a white coat rippling in the wind.

Then I see the beach, more brocolli brown and umber than the familiar golden.  Shingle and pebbles and stones where once there was soft, desert sand.  And strangely, after the high tides, no piled up wrack.  No weed at all.  It must be partying in the depths, with all that sand.

Slated for Greater Things

 It was never going to be a smooth journey, this late in life move to another location.  We know from experience that older properties do not come maintenance free.

Some months ago, after one of those storms that have naming rights, arrival in the north east was welcomed by a slate lying in the parking space.  A quick check on the neighbouring roof left no option but a glance, with some trepidation, at our own.  And there was the gap, under the ridge tile.  A weighty beast, still with attached concrete.

Find a local roofer.  Easier said then done as it turned out.  Just as they are down Drumclog way, they're all busy, in demand.  Little time for what sounds like a tiny job; one slate down.

The hard bit was getting attention, getting commitment, a promise to call out when next in the village.

Eventually we got expert eyes on our roof.  And this week Kevin and James get down to some real work.  Replacing one slate is the trivial bit.

It seems that years of papering over the cracks has caught up with the property.  Water is going to places it's not supposed to reach.  Thus far there is virtually no internal evidence.  There was a time we had suspected a plumbing issue.  Now we know, water from above to below, without touching the internal walls.  That however is down to the thickness of the stonework.  What might be happening underneath, beneath the concrete floors, is best not discovered.  Not yet.  Let's stop it happening.

Cracks on the chimney stacks, slates held down by silicon, roughcast that is not adhering to the gable.  I have every confidence that Kevin and James will ensure that the years ahead do not become troubled with a need for internal works.  Their external expertise will see us wind and water tight, able to relax.

It has been a stressful few months, just finding this father and son team, and getting to the stage where initial inspections lead to time in the diary for essential reparations.  In some respects we're at the nervous stage, wondering what will be exposed when outer layers are chipped away.  This week it's chimneys and slates.

They're already suggesting that the roughcast could be replaced by pointing the stonework, a common finish hereabouts, as an alternative to new roughcast.  Much will depend on what they find when the walls are laid bare.

Still, it has to be sorted, and done now.  All thoughts of bathroom changes will have to be put on hold, the budget gone on unexpected roof repairs.  It wasn't long ago we read a clean Home Report.  That'll be the sort of document riddled with caveats.  As Kevin tells me, what looks nice from the street, even if we are told that binoculars may have been used, is a different matter altogether when you get the ladders out and have a proper look.  Up close, scratching the surfaces.

Welsh slate and local sandstone, the law of sod says supplies may not be easy.  I'm sure Kevin will let me know soon.

And then, before too long, it will be time to arrange another Home Report.  Best get the builders in first, knowing that papering over the cracks is simply cheating someone else.  Not on my conscience.  Not at this stage in life.  Finding the experts, that's the hard bit.  Wonder if Kevin and James fancy a trip south?

A Year Between the Covers

 It might be a bit sad really - keeping track of everything read through the year.  And what a year it has been, with a total 182 books read, which is an average of two-day reading.  Quite astonishing, though it might suggest that I haven't spent enough time cycling.  More likely too many hours where sleep may have been a distant bedfello.

The end of the year is always a good time to delve into the records, to produce some numbers:

Fiction - 147; Non Fiction 39.  These break between male and female authors pretty evenly on the non fiction, 21 to 18, with the males edging ahead 82 to 65 in fiction.  (the numbers get skewed very slightly with a few jointly authored works, often featuring Thomas Enger, either with Jorn Lier Horst or with Johanna Gustawsson).

There is a huge increase in my fiction reading, particularly crime fiction, (even from the massive total of 141 recorded in 2024) and that has to be down to reading on my Kobo.  Non fiction remains largely in hardback, and predominantly Nature and Travel and those numbers have held up well under the onslaught of the Kobo crime.

I have then tried to select a top three reads in each category (though not placed at all which would be a step too far).  From the lists I keep over at LaidBackMuse, the following emerges:

Male Fiction - Niklas Natt och Dag - The Wolf and The Watchman;  Douglas Jackson - Blood Vengeance; Olivier Norken - The Winter Warriors.

Female Fiction - Agnes Ravatn - The Seven Doors; Johanna Gustawsson (with Thomas Enger) - Son;  Essie Fox - Dangerous.

Male Non Fiction - Tom Bowser - The Waters of Life;  Gerry Cambridge - The Ayrshire Nestling;  Richard Halliburton - The Flying Carpet.  Special mentions too for Laurie Lee and Peter Levi.

Female Non Fiction - Kirsten MacQuarrie - Remember the Rowan;  Linda Cracknell - Sea Marked;  Merryn Glover - The Hidden Fires.  Ones to watch are Cal Flyn and Christina Riley.

So, much delicious new writing for the Female Non Fiction category, whilst there has been some re-reading of old favourites for the boys.  Interesting.

It is noted that John Boyne is the only sole author to appear twice on that list at LBM, though Thomas Enger manages appearances with two different joint authorships (with Jorn Lier Horst and with Johanna Gustawsson)

It has been a splendid year for discovering new authors and delving into their back catalogues.  The girls are surging ahead here with, amongst others, Johanna Gustawsson; Maria Adolfsson; Kristina Ohlsson; Mari Jungstedt; Mari Hannah; Cal Flyn; Kati Hiekkapalto.  New boys on the block have included Ken Lussey; Anders de la Motte; Orjan Karlsson.

Old favourites holding their own include Sylvain Tesson, Bruce Chatwin and Laurie Lee, whilst Allan Martin continues to keep a Scottish crime fiction interest (though both Douglas Jackson and Ken Lussey are adding to that genre).  The Icelandic pair of Eva Bjorg Aegisdottir and Lilja Sigurdardottir continue to fly the flag for the girls, new works awaited very impatiently. 

Let's hope for more of the same in 2026.  Pages turning.  As always there is a quest for beautiful writing, with my non fiction interests spreading slowly into poetry (which is all down to the promptings of Angela Locke).  New crime teams hold a fascination, with the characters and interactions, as much as the plots, keeping interests through entire series of works.  Most of my crime reading tends to follow my historic non fiction interests - people and places, overseas, though Mari Hannah adds a Geordie accent and Ken Lussey tours favourite places in Scotland.

Onwards.

Humbug

 It's that time of year; you'll have noticed.  Every time you switch on the radio, walk into a supermarket, bombarded with muzak.  All those tunes from decades ago, again and again and again.  Spend, spend, spend.  Just as well we have Shelagh Fogarty and Test Match Special to keep us sane.  One day the cricketers might go to work for the full five days.

Time to find a tree, late as usual.  Or at least later than most.  Limited choice.  Find a good one; have it delivered.   Firstly you need to attend to the base of the trunk, which, of course, doesn't fit into the tree stand.  Power tools, the plane, so much easier than hacking about with a saw.  You leave the wood shavings to be scattered by the wind, mulched under hedgerows.  In it goes, claws tightened.  Stands majestically.  All you have to do is lift it through the doors and set it down on the table.  There is no extra pair of hands.  It's a bit of a struggle.  But it's beginning to look  - ach you know how that one goes.

Then you spend hours decorating it.  Lights first, after buying a couple of new strings.  Unpack all the treasured memories gathered from travels over the years.  Gifts from special friends.  Perhaps even remnants from childhood.  Put on some music.  Tim Edey, his own version of festive tunes, acoustic guitar, a wee touch on the melodeon.  Then The Outside Track, taking us to Killarney, and beyond.    Eventually, it's looking good.  Lights blinking, sparkly baubles.  Precious memories to ponder over.  And relax.

Next morning.  The tree's down.  Glass everywhere.  You look at the cats.  They've never done that before.  Neither them nor their predecessors.  They whine for breakfast.  As they do.

The carpet is strewn with remnants.  Paper thin shards of glass.  In all colours.  Strings of lights trail.  Then you remember pouring more than half a gallon of water into the tree stand.  There are four plugs in an extension cable.  In a puddle.

Eventually you clear a path, a safe space.  And struggle to lift the tree and set it back on the table by the french doors.  Half an hour later, whilst still hoovering up the debris, down it comes again.  The cats are sleeping on the stove, fast broken.  It wisnae them.  Must be the weight of the tree, off centre, badly set into the stand.  Finger pointing.

The clear up continues.  The silvered glass of the wolf head; remnants of hot air balloons.  Broken hand painted goose eggs.  Brief times in Budapest, or Krakow.  Orkney too.  The stained glass puffin.  A plant pot overflows with what's left.  The carpet sparkles like the lemmel tray under a jeweller's bench.

Time to set it up again.  On the floor or back on the table?   Change the waterproof picnic mat on the table.  One needs drained, then dried.  We opt for the table again.  Most of the stuff left might be the unbreakable bits and pieces; the non-precious.  The ones that don't immediately remind of special places with special people.  If we can manage to rearrange the lights on a half-dressed tree.  Not risking plugging them in yet.

You dress it again, not really caring.  Does it matter which side faces into the room; or if it leans to one side or another.  Nup.  Don't care.  Not one bit.

After trying to reset the tree in the stand, it then gets tied on to the handles of the french doors.  We have used the curtain pole before, but this beast might take that down too.  Such is the Law of Sod.  Then we add another anchor, a long stretch of cable ties, fearing the string may not have been strong enough.  If it goes again.

And still the hoover has work to do.  And the cat sleeps on the stove.  Oh the festive fun.  Let it all begin.  Humbug.  Outside the steps were sheltered.  It rained overnight.  Wood shavings and bark chippings  have turned to mush on the doorsteps.  There's a plant pot on the kitchen table filled with all that remains of a half a lifetime of memory prompts.  But the memories remain.  Precious times.  Must get working on those brain exercises.  Now that the prompts are gone.

Have a good one folks.

Spynie-tingling

 Raucous raucous?  Anser anser came the response.  Greylags.  Cygnus cygnus, the signal.  Whoopers.

Arriving at the loch I am met by half a dozen mini icebergs - those solid triangular white blocks that can only be swans inspecting the waters below; balanced by splayed black webbings.

 

Taking the wider view I gasp.  The loch is busy.  Swans dotted everywhere.  Mutes and whoopers, family groupings.  Youngsters pining for true plumage.  Flotillas of geese on the far side.

 

Mesmerising, in sight and in sound.  A family arrives, apologising for a chattering toddler spoiling the peace.  It is far from quiet, the littl'un disturbs nothing, her wonder to be encouraged.  There is cronking and honking; there are landings and lift-offs.  The deep and solitary cronk is the mute, the whoopers more vocal.  The geese yammer out the chorus in the background.  We have the full symphony.

 

The sounds of loud flapping and slapping carry over the loch.  As one, a group rises, runs across the surface, wings beating, picking up the rhythm.  And they rise, gracefully, gliding above the water,  gaining height, honking their farewells to the languid beat of wings.

 

The return is a lesson in calm.  Undercarriage deployed, gliding, losing height,  setting down.  Wings fold as rumps settle.  At rest, as one.  Barely a ripple.

 

The skies fill with chattering.  High above, the flight leader brings his squadron over, trailing far behind.  Line after line, wing to wing.  Skeins, and more skeins.  On passage.  Each calling to their wingmate.  Pinkies.  anser brachyrhyncus.  Hundreds.  More hundreds.  The air is alive.  Grey skies.

A raft of greylags rises from the water; they fly past.  Higher pitched, from lower skies.  Smaller groups.

There is another gathering, above the loch.  Small groups arrive, smaller birds, quieter.  They mass, form a throng.  And they dance.  In front of the hide.  Choreographed as one.  Murmuration.  Starlings.  Mesmeration.

 

The light begins to fade.  That gloaming hour.  Shifting fades to grey.  Dull skies descending.  The murmuration takes its leave.  To where I know not.  We have been blessed; the full repertoire.  Swans linger, though in the twilight the orange and the yellow bills meld into one; whoopers and mutes become simply swans; pinkies and greylags, geese.

 

The camera loses focus, the cataracts lose potency.  All becomes grey, and dull.  Light takes its leave.  The water borrows the hues of the skies; trees on the far banks become silhouettes.  And still the skeins pass in waves across the skies above.

The spine tingled again, returning the following day.  Dull it had been, and getting wetter as I drove west towards Lossie.  A gap appeared in the gloom, clouds receding, sun spreading.  And as I arrived lochside and took a seat in the hide, so the waters bathed in sunshine.  Calm descended.  Fewer swans, but serenity all around.

 

Drifting in the sunshine, the only soundtrack the rippling of water and the soft paddling of wide webbed feet.  Three flights arrive, whoopers whooshing in to splashdown in formation, gliding and settling.  Among them were a clutch of youngsters, excited to make it down safely.  And so the honking and the cronking, the bugling, begins.

 

The light slowly fades, heralding the arrival of the starlings.  They come in droves, and more droves.  Small groups join in; we have a massive murmuration, significantly more than the previous day.  And the party begins.  They display against the grey.

And as the starlings steal the scene so the swans begin to chatter.  High above skeins of geese drift over.  To my left a robin chatters, a fragile sound, descant to the wider choir.

The pack gathers and turns, rising, falling, swirling.  At times they nudge closer to the hide, close enough to hear the whirring of collective wings thrashing the air.  They entertain the three watchers for an hour and more.  Slowly we lose the light.  The first batch peels from the pack, and collectively dives to the reed beds on the far bank.  Ah, so that is where they go.  The rest party on, for a while longer.  Before joining them in the reeds.

On the water the swans are joined by rafts of greylags, arriving in packs, flying over the hide to circle and make their entrance, all splashing feet and honking.  Raucous takes over as the darkness descends.  Cacophony, rising on silent air.  Swans, and geese on the water; starlings drawing the eye.  I suspect the otter may have been out to play, to fish, chuckling away, whilst all eyes and lenses were trained on the skies.

 

Spynie Loch.  In all its glory.  Anser anser, and cygnus cygnus.  But not forgetting sturnus vulgaris.  For their aerobatics stole the show, despite the noise from the orchestra pit.  What a huge privilege to be allowed a peek at, and to eavesdrop on, these triple migrations; in the gloaming.

 

One from the Road

 The radio was on, chatter and song; background.  Then we heard a conversation, words caught the attention.  We were on one of those drives, returning from Portknockie to Peelhill, whiling away the hours.  Mockingbird.

Len Pennie it was, on her Arts Mix, and she was speaking to Gabriel Scott.  Jem.  On tour, Edinburgh, then Glasgow.  Full houses, going down a storm.  Huge enjoyment.

Can we get tickets?  Eh, what's that?  To see the play.  Haven't watched the film for years; video's broken.

Few seats left for any Glasgow performances, and all up in the gods, dynamic pricing.  Try Edinburgh.  I had been warned.  Offensive a friend had mentioned.  That word.  Good thought I, for it has to remain true to the book; reflect the times in which it was set.

And so it was that we edged into the familiar brewery-fumed air of the Auld Toon, reeking yet, on a dark and wet night, satnav doing the grunt work.  Heading for a theatre out by The Meadows.  Pre-booked parking down a dark lane.  Brisk walk along crowded streets.  Not used to busy pavements.   Found the seats.  Restricted view, one small portion of the stage out of sight.  The jury, which may have been fortunate.

By the time Scout and Jem had taken us to the interval I knew I'd be reading the book within days.  Enraptured, captured.  The play is brilliant, picking out the main plot, the players.  Shocking us.  Bringing it all back.  Standing ovation.  We need more Scouts, and Atticus.

And what a book, to mark my 150th read of 2025.  Much more background than the theatre could possibly provide in less than three hours.  1960 it was published - of course there was a first edition on the shelf - the year after my birth.  In my lifetime.  Albeit set earlier.  In the final stages there's a discussion between Scout and her teacher, Hitler, Democracy and Dictatorship.

 

I had been to the US of A just the once, a wedding, some time ago.  Where are Kelly and Stephen now?  As it happens the event was in Alabama, rural, a plantation house.  Stepping back in time.  Not that far back.  Not quite.

We escaped, a flight to N'Orleans, and a few days of jazz, a bit of voodoo, Bourbon Street and Preservation Hall.  I heard last night that one of my favourite jazz musicians, Jack de Johnette, had passed away.  Drummer, coloured.  Only Keith Jarrett remains of The Trio, and strokes preventing him from performing.  Glad I took that chance, London's Southbank, the night sleeper back in time to get the children to school.

But I digress.  Harper Lee's classic tale.  To Kill A Mockingbird.  So beautifully presented in Aaron Sorkin's stage adaptation.  Lessons from yesterday.  Lessons for today.  Voting rights; jury selections.  That N-word may have gone, but have we really made any progress?  I am left thinking of the detritus that fills our screens day after day; of that conversation between Scout and her teacher.  Of today's dictators.

And I recall the atmosphere in the theatre last week.  An audience much younger than I expected, which gives a bit of hope.  Ovations.  And tears.  The book was hard to put down, less than 24 hours, finding the hours when other things should have been done.  Thinking of that community.  Of Calpurnia, and of Atticus, remembering that Scout was a young child.  And recalling Anna Munden's feisty portrayal.  That was what Len Pennie was trying to get out of Gabriel Scott, the difficulty in playing a child.  Looked pretty well practiced to me.  But that was Harper Lee's characters, children moulded by their father, and their house-keeper, more mature than their years.  In those times.

It's a book that should be compulsory reading.  A play that does full justice.  To the injustice.  Now, where can I find the film, replace that old DVD... 

In the pool of the moment

 Having been somewhat immersed in matters relating to Gavin Maxwell (over many years), and more importantly the role played by Kathleen Raine (much more recently), and of whose writings I'm starting to become more familiar, imagine the delight at coming across this little gem:

 

The Otter

 

When you plunged

The light of Tuscany wavered

And swung through the pool

From top to bottom.

 

I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,

Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders

Surfacing  and surfacing again

This year and every year since.

 

I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.

You were beyond me.

The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air

Thinned and disappointed.

 

Thank God for the slow loadening,

When I hold you now

We are close and deep

As the atmosphere on water. 

 

My two hands are plumbed water.

You are my palpable, lithe

Otter of memory

In the pool of the moment,

 

Turning to swim on your back,

Each silent, thigh-shaking kick

Retilting the light,

Heaving the cool at your neck.

 

And suddenly you're out,

Back again, intent as ever,

Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,

Printing the stones. 

 

Those fine words were written by Seamus Heaney, whose work I come to late.  Another learning curve to guide in the years ahead.  As I read them aloud, again, I muse over those few otters of memory, enchanting in the pools of their moment.  Rare glimpses.

The first, Jura, running along the sea wall, before plunging  into the shallows;

At Kyleakin, where better, scavenging with youngsters, on the pontoons by the harbour;

Scampering across the road, outside Strathaven, on the day of my father's funeral; 

And just last year, at Spey Bay, cavorting where salt and fresh waters mingle, escaping up river.

Then I recall all the dawn and dusk hours spent in hides, typically above the Kylerhea narrows, so close to Sandaig.  Fruitless hours, midge-ridden, eyes nipping from peering through field glasses and long lenses, desperate for a glimpse.  And the lesson from that is watching and waiting is a mug's game; chance encounters, the unexpected ones, bring the delight.  And of course none of them were captured on camera.