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.

 

 

My Favourite Friend

 Once again, she smiled kindly on me.  I knew not why.  My early walk; I stop by the Sheelagh-na-Gig to offer my thanks.  Again.  I mention to her that her babies now approach the end of their studies; soon to set out on their own paths.  It was five years since they had been to see her.  Five years too since Gilly had returned.
  
Five long years, since Gillian and I, together, had been able to spend time on Iona.  That last visit, a post lockdown escape, had been on the campsite, all four of us.  After torrents of rain threatened the tent we walked to the village.  Dinner at the Argyll.  A huge treat.  Changed into dry clothes, we were shown to the table.  Social distancing, screens and sanitiser.  We ate well.  And warmed.

I had returned to the hotel three years later, a selfish retreat.  The opportunity came round again this year.  And this time Gillian joined me.  Candles to light; puffins to watch, whilst I communed with others.  And she saw the corncrake.

A morning walk, against the wind and through driving rain which would soon blow over, to The Bay at the Back of the Ocean.  Past the Fairy Mound, and on to Yellow Bare Hill, which I remember well from all those years ago. 

I slog up The Trough of the Cornpatch, to reach Loch Staonaig.  Wide views to the bay behind, surf curving through the arc, rolling and tumbling.  Sand swallows ferried flies to burrows.  Turning I took a breath, recognising Mouse Island and Black Island, off St Columba’s Bay.

I recalled a long walk we had made together, many years previously, when we had climbed back up from the bay, pockets weighted with pebbles of marble.  From Hector Young’s Garden the path took us through the Meadow of the Bull, towards the remnants of the Marble Quarry.

That was long, long before those dark days when Gilly had candles to light, and I a need to chat with Sheelagh.  Before two became four.

I return from my walk and, once freshened up, we breakfast together.  A civilised repast, of eggs – scrambled for me, poached for Gillian – and some delicious smoked trout.  It’s a fine way to start any day.  On my return I’d taken the coastal route, a mere nod up the hill from the jetty towards Shelagh;  nod of apology, a promise to return later in the day.

The promise of puffins, a lure, a desire, is strong.  The boat trips will be for Gillian alone. Neither of us need be concerned that each will spend most time in the company of others.  The Staffa puffins may elude her, no landings yet.  That gives her a bonus trip, one we have never done.  There is a landing on Lunga; longer there.  New isle to explore.  Untold joys and many, many photographs.

We can go there again, together, another time.  But this first visit is hers alone.  Green eyes sparkling.  And more happy tales from Iona trips.

High on the rocks, above Port Ban.  I have no camera to take in the massive vista; no Merlin to confirm the singing birds.  I relax, like never before.

The Shelagh-na-Gig
And the Answered Prayers, with
Sunshine on Iona

Reflections.  This isle is good for them.  Little Missy has a 21st birthday this August; younger brother just 14 months later.  We must have been winter visitors back then.  November.  I remember it to have been cold, and it was wet.  It mattered not.  From a base near Bunessan we had ferried to and fro, working around winter timetabling.  Time on Iona was short, and all the more precious for that.  Through the gloom Sheelagh smiled kindly, candles burned slowly.

Our time on Iona this year is coming to an end.  When I return to the Argyll Gillian will be back,  those green eyes gleaming, filled with the wonders of Lunga’s puffins.  I hadn’t anticipated the bloodied nose, stains and splashes.  Wet seaweed.  One day we’ll go there together.  Hold each other steady; or fall together.

My time this trip has been packed.  Long hours of concentration; long walks to fill the sleepless hours.  We meet up again at dinner, with other moments snatched between times.  Precious moments.  Iona moments.

It is such a perfect day.  High azure skies; a gossamer light breeze; surf turning on the sands and rocks below.  The writing exercises are done.  The puffins visited, on a new island.  We have a final Iona dinner together; one last glass in the bottle; one more fish dish.

Angela Locke, another dear friend, has this way of gelling a disparate group, some of them friends from past events, others strangers.  And her Singing Bowl, her meditations; in this place.  Spine tingling, raising hairs you didn’t know you had.  Deep, meaningful.  Massage for the soul.  And so inspirational.  As a group we all produce words from deep inside, shuffled into an order never before considered.

One more session.  Presentation of work; celebrations and readings.

And then time for Gilly.  And reflections.  In Iona’s light.  Only to Iona could we come, together, for separate purposes.  It is not an arrangement I could imagine for anyone without deep, deep friendship.  Without long years of satisfaction.  Without love.  Or for us in any place other than this special isle. 
 
We journey home tomorrow.  Our first born awaits, home from her studies in Stirling for the summer, preparing for her final year.  Her brother remains at his flat in Dundee this year, as he should, ready to spread his wings.  And with a summer job to start.  And so we remember those days in November 2003;  when Iona healed, and sealed our foreverness.  She makes fine babies does Sheelagh, makes great friends.  And it’s not just those meditations, those vibes from the Singing Bowl, that finish me off today.  On the worst journey in my world; the one that takes me from My Favourite Place, with My Favourite Friend.

The Missing Link

 When I read A Reed Shaken by the Wind for the first time, more than 25 years ago, I knew little of Gavin Maxwell, other than otters and a film from childhood days.  That book changed much more than my Maxwell awareness.  It opened up another world.  One of far away places, adventures, and Thesiger.  And it most certainly put me firmly on the Maxwell trail.

 I read all I could find, embarked on a quest, first editions.  His writing, and those that came later, about him.  And his ventures.  Douglas Botting's biography, Gavin Maxwell  - A Life, was pivotal.  Works by John Lister-Kaye and Richard Frere added to the back story.  Trials and tribulations.  And tragedy.

I paid my respects at Sandaig, and visited Eilean Ban, donated to the trust, climbed the lighthouse, stood at his window where his binoculars watched that phone box in Kyleakin.  Ran a finger over Wordsworth's desk.  Watched and waited for otters.  

And I read.  Between the lines.  And now we fill in the gaps.  For Kirsten MacQuarrie has brought us, in Remember the Rowan, Kathleen Raine's story.  And that is such an important part in everything that came later.  That came after they met, in 1949.

 

We knew that the very phrase Ring of Bright Water, came from one of Kathleen's poems.  And that Gavin hadn't properly acknowledged her authorship; anywhere.  There was a rift.  And we knew there was a curse. 

It is a beautiful tale.  Heart-wrenching.  They met, a poet and a wreck.  Writings blossomed.  For both.  From London she travelled to Sandaig, to look after the place, whilst he ventured in the marshes of Iraq, with Thesiger.  He came back with an otter. 

Before Sandaig we visit Monreith, a pile of alien aristocracy.  It was a relationship, of sorts, a marriage of minds and souls.  But not bodies.  A man's man.  That led us to that curse, the blood from a rose thorn staining the rowan.

Let Gavin suffer, in this place, as I am suffering now. 

Reconciled.  Mutual love.  For Mijbil.  More books to be written.  And then.

There's an exchange of letters about harnesses, and Mij throws a toddler tantrum, refusing to be harnessed.  Teeth bared.  Blood drawn.  On the loose. 

 Poetesses, like otters, do not respond well to restraint.

And then.  Big Angus takes his pick-axe to despatch an otter, walking south from Glenelg; no harness, couldn't be the Major's, old and mangy; allegedly.  But you know.  Word's got to Mallaig, the Major already knows.

I cringe as I eavesdrop on that meal at The Buttery; share the pain through the Greek tragedy, as he discovers that curse, reading her manuscript.

And then.  Well we know the story.  Lavinia, briefly.  Edal and Teko.  The fire.  And the film of the book; their tale.  In which she does not feature.  Her words the title.  That cancer.  I am asking you to accompany me in spirit.

There is so much I may read again, after devouring Kirsten MacQuarrie's account from the poet's perspective.  Probably Botting - it's been a long time; and possibly even Gavin Young, whose Slow Boats may have more to tell me.  I may even read Ring of Bright Water again, perhaps not; but I won't be watching that film.

 And before I read any of that I'll be delving into the poetry of Kathleen Raine.

He has married me with a ring, a ring of bright water

Whose ripples travel from the heart of the sea,

He has married me with a ring of light, the glitter

Broadcast on the swift river.

He has married me with the sun's circle

Too dazzling to see, traced in summer sky.

He has crowned me with the wreath of white cloud

That gathers on the snowy summit of the mountain,

Ringed me round with the world-circling wind,

Bound me to the whirlwind's centre.

He has married me with the orbit of the moon

And with the boundless circle of stars,

With the orbits that measure years, months, days, and nights,

Set the tides flowing,

Command the winds to travel or be at rest.

 

At the ring's centre,

Spirit, or angel troubling the pool,

Causality not in nature,

Finger's touch that summons at a point, a moment

Stars and planets, life and light

Or gathers cloud about an apex of cold,

Transcendent touch of love summons my world into being. 

  

Kirsten MacQuarrie has penned a masterful epic.  Inspired by two writers of the highest quality, the craft has rubbed off.  I'll be keeping an eye out for more from her own pen.

 

 

On the Watershed

 

Two rivers merge, in the firth that becomes the sea. The tide reaches half a mile upstream, salt waters mingling, as those springs in the mosses from battle-scarred lands give in to the inevitable. Salmon and trout head upstream, to the spawning grounds. Looking back at the paths travelled they find where they diverged. Each marks the county boundary, Ayrshire on one side, Lanarkshire on the other. The Romans camped between the two burns. The Avon Water flows north, then heads off to the east. Eventually it merges with the Clyde.

Less than a mile from where the Avon turns its back on Ayrshire, the River Irvine turns its southern flow west. Down through the valley which bears its name. To join the waters of the Clyde. Whilst the Avon burbled along its valley, for the Irvine, the journey could not have been more different.

Battle-scarred, tumbling through ancient glaciated rocks, the Irvine grows, slowly. It is not until it is joined by the Gower Water and then the Glen Water that it has sufficient volume to become the power behind the lace towns of Darvel, Newmilns and Galston. Little remains of that industry, along the valley. Where the river flows.

Upstream the headwaters have tales to tell. Roman soldiers washed their armour, their sandals and their weapons in those same waters. The garrison at Allanton stood for almost a hundred years, though the legions continued to move across Caledonia long past 163CE, when this part of Ayrshire was relieved of their occupation.

It is a part of Ayrshire not without other troubles. The burn rises in two headwaters, one in each county. On the Lanarkshire side the marshy ground saw a hotch-potch collection of pitchfork wielding worshippers inflict defeat on Claverhouse, a rare victory through The Killing Times of the Covenant.

Between that Battle of Drumclog in 1679, and the retreat of the Romans in 163, there had been two other notable events, one on each side of the burn. Both William Wallace and Robert the Bruce fought on these slopes, a victory for each.

Wallace’s Skirmish of the English Baggage Train saw the Ayr garrison deprived of a hundred foot-soldiers, and one general. As well as supplies of arms, horses and armour. His men lay in wait, outnumbered 4 to 1, concealed by the earthworks left by the legions of old. Seven years before his more famous battle Bruce took up arms, on the south side of the river. His base too was protected by a combination of Roman earthworks and soggy ground which proved the downfall of the heavy English cavalry.

It is Loudoun Hill that makes this area of special interest. A volcanic plug, 340 million years of ancient rock, stands sentinel above the remnants of glaciation, leaving steep and rocky slopes. At the foot of the gorge the waters of the Irvine flow. Tumbling, burbling and bustling as they drop 100ft or so.

It may be some years since the peregrine rested on the steep crags of Loudoun Hill. The slopes ring to the mobbing of crows, keen to send any wandering buzzard on its way. Songbirds bring joy. The bullfinch, when the hips ripen in the hedges, flits along keeping ahead of passing cyclists. The slopes play host to stoats and weasels; rabbits and hares keep wary eyes on the fox.

Water,

to turn the mills

burbles under the bridge.

Quenching thirsts and nurturing trees

for miles.

I was piped down by the willow warbler, to the little wooden bridge that spans the burn. Before the bridge the burn trickled along, losing height. It pooled under the bridge, spreading to six feet or so. I dipped my toes in the cool, clear waters. Spreading out below the bridge, threading between what used to be stepping stones, the burn works its way around both sides of a willow tree, and burbles on.

My path takes me to higher ground, between burn and crags. I focus on the waters below rather than the rocks above. They meander through trees and lush grasses, often hidden from view. In winter these waters gush, leaving icicles of spray and crusted banks. Today the levels are low, after a long, dry spell.

On the Ayrshire side thick clumps of gorse add heady tones of coconut to the warm air. Turning west, round the base of the hill, I startle a ewe with her lamb, dozing in the ruins of a farmstead, once a significant L-shaped property, now more trees than gables. Below, the burn follows the same arc.

The valley levels out before me. On the horizon the familiar outline of Goat Fell, and in the haze a hint of the sparkle of the sun on the waters of the firth. The chaffinch runs through his repertoire, as the wren and the robin rejoice. However it is the willow warbler that grabs the attention whenever I pass through clumps of woodland, trilling long and loud.

It is after the burn tumbles between the earthworks and the remnant piers of what had been the Darvel & Strathaven Railway, once a majestic 13 arch curve, that the waters take on the appearance of a river. It leaves Loudoun Hill behind, gathering from the hills on both sides.

As I returned to the Lanarkshire side I gazed back, down the valley, up those mighty crags. The eye is always drawn to the cairn atop those raggedy cliffs. Wild honking drew my eyes into the gorge. Following the burn towards the source was a flight of 18 swans, in a narrow V. In all my thirty years in the area only once I have had the pleasure of swans in flight, a mere pair. A lone crow flew menacingly along the crags. Loud, above the honking of the swans, came the unmistakeable alarm call of the peregrine.

And the willow warbler trilled in the woods as I floated back. On the day before the wildfire.

On Reading

 It is something I do, reading.  Have done for as long as I can remember.  Those early days when Kandy Meets the Bunny Babes was the tale of choice to be read to me before drifting off into dreamland; the days when tokens on the Sugar Puffs or Weetabix packets were collected, to be followed by a volume of Treasure Island arriving in the post.  That may not have been my first introduction to RLS, for there was always a copy of A Children's Garden of Verse in the house, to share those bedtime story rotas.

 

In time an avid reader became a collector.  It probably started when Book Festivals became a fixture on the calendar.  Wigtown achieving the status of Scotland's Book Town was certainly a trigger.  Long days on the road, hours between the stacks; the occasional weekend trip.  Then visits planned solely around author talks.  RLS Collected Works.  And so many more.

Second hand books.  The possibility of finding the first edition of a favourite read; of turning a paperback reader into a collectible first.  No need to decorate if the walls were covered in bookcases.

And then.  And then we reached crunch time.  It was already with us, but with a planned house move to come, a down-sizing.  It became serious.  The existing library could not all fit into the future home.

Over the years I began to record what I'd been reading.  In one place or another I'd keep an ongoing list of my very favourite Reads of the Year.  I still do.  In the early days I'd write brief reviews, and link them to the listings.  That doesn't happen any more, though my reading record does contain brief comments on every book read.  I tot up the numbers annually, though usually only for my own interest, and a little sharing with various book enthusiasts on common socials.

I've noticed that my lists of favourites have been growing longer.  That's not because I've lost the ability to discern what I've really enjoyed.  It's because I'm reading more.  The volume is way up.  From an average 50+ books annually it's now heading for 150!  And there are reasons for that.  I have more time available, often with two or even three books under way.  In different rooms.  The Kitchen Table may be a completely different type of read to the Bedside Table.  Or the office.

Mainly though my reading evolved.  It was always people and places.  That was the travel writing interest.  It was easy to move from there into nature writing, to landscapes and the natural world, as well as people and places.  And then I turned to crime.  But still with people and places in mind.  Whether it was Allan Martin (his next is out very soon) writing of familiar places on the west coast of Scotland, or Lars Kepler taking me to Scandinavia, it was the people and the places that were more important than the plots.

That and watching drama, Walter Presents, on 4.  From Friday nights, to any night, streaming, in batches.  Bingeing I think we call it now.  I've seen them all; wait anxiously for new series to appear, from Belgium or France, all the Nordic countries.  And more.  And so my reading followed, expanded.  Icelandic crime, Norwegian.  Finland too.  People and places.  Pages turning.

I still follow my old instincts; still collect in hardback whether it is Travel or Nature.  And sometimes in fiction too, though that is rare.  Douglas Jackson has a full shelf now.  And he's already made the cut.  To Portknockie.

There's another list.  On the online auction site.  Some of the volumes that won't be making the journey north.  New owners need to be found.  And many, many more need to be added to that.  But it's such a hassle, posting them on the site, then putting them in the post.

And I have plans for bookcases, against walls that won't take the existing ones, dead spaces crying out to host books.  It won't happen overnight.  Right now the collection is split, and a fair amount of what remains is in a mess.  Stock to be sold.  The ones that have to come north.  The ones that are already in their new home.  And so many others.  What a quandary.

Meantime reading cannot stop.  Of late I've been reading some old ones again.  They even find places on those lists of favoured reads. But I digress.  Increased volumes, different genres, less space.

That was why I eventually gave way.  Acquired what I'd always resisted.  An e-reader; whisper it.  But it has been life changing, I have to admit.  I read even more.  I had to be selective, in the equipment, before I could even think about what to put on it.  I had long since abandoned doing business with that major online retailer, even though it meant paying more for books.  Aside from the way they treated staff, it was the appalling delivery service that saw me end that relationship.  Books left in houses some miles away, that may have shared the same postcode.  It happened so often that a regular onward delivery via the school bus developed.  Enough, more than enough.  I'd rather spend elsewhere.

So when it came to an e-reader that market leader was never a consideration.  I found Kobo.  And have no regrets at all.  My crime reading has expanded considerably.  I discover new authors on the site.  Read entire series, wait impatiently for the next.  And it's easier on the old eyes, adjusting the size of the font, avoiding bright lights.  Then I can be so very discerning in what I do want to add to the collection of hardbacks.  Those exceptional reads.  The ones that make my lists.  That ones that will make the journey.  From Peelhill to Porknockie.

Keeping the Pages Turning

 In recent weeks my various online book related comments and sources had brought some controversy to my attention.  The Polari Prize; and John Boyne.  One of his works had been long-listed for this year's awards.  There was a bit of a rumpus.  Rather than accede to demands and remove him from the list the decision was taken to cancel this year's award completely.  And to concentrate on recruiting a 'more sympathetic panel'.  John Boyne was cancelled.

Ah, cancel culture.  His crime, it seems, was in failing to show sympathy and support for the cocks-in-frocks brigade.  All that brouhaha about men in women's toilets, sports teams and whatever.  The Supreme Court decision.  The ongoing fallout from lunacy peddled by Sturgeon and her Traniban, amongst others.

As it happens I'd had a John Boyne volume on the shelf for some years.  What better time to finally open it.  To read John Boyne.

Knowing my interest in matters Russian, from travel tales to the fate of the Romanovs, I'd been passed a copy of The House of Special Purpose some years ago.  It had remained unread.  I continue to review the library shelves at Peelhill, for a necessary cull  with reduced space in Portknockie.  What better time to finally read this one.

 

And what a fantastic tale he told.  A fictional account of life in the palaces, a love story, And so much more.  I had read much of events at the Ipatiev House.  There had remained for many decades speculation that Anastasia may have escaped the fates.  Boyne weaves his tale through the decades, of what might have been.

He left me firstly intent on reading the fourth and final volume of Aleksander Solzhenitsyn's The Red Wheel, March 1917.  That one will be joining parts 1 to 3, in Portknockie.  More so though, he left wanting to find out more, and to read more, of the cancelled author.

It is always a joy to find an author that leaves you wanting more, in the ongoing quest for beautiful writing.  In John Boyne we have a master of his craft, a teller of tales, and with a long list of published works to be discovered.

Next up was, All The Broken Places.  This is the sequel to The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which I hadn't read though I did recall the film.  Written 20 years later, a lockdown project, Boyne takes us through the decades as they might have panned out for Bruno's sister.  And her guilt.

 

Another riveting read, pages turning.  He takes us to Paris, briefly to Sydney, and thence to London.  An old lady, and her neighbours, her family.  I'm not going to tell you any more of this one.  Just read it.  Spellbinding.

But I'll be reading more of John Boyne, happy to add to his book sales whilst the Polari Prize bows to to the howling to the moon and makes a fool of itself.  And I might even have a second read at The Women Who Wouldn't Wheesht.  Boyne goes on my list of favourite reads of this year, twice already, whilst TWWWW featured on last year's list.  And deservedly so.