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30 July, 2010 Clachan is a Scots word for a hamlet – usually with a church and a few cottages; six years ago, I visited one on a remote part of the Hopetoun estate near South Queensferry – I’ve lived here happily since. The affinity I feel with the natural world still surprises me – also, how much I enjoy being alone. Solitude used to be an occasional respite from people – now it’s the other way round – occasional people. My present lifestyle suits me – almost too much; I sometimes wonder if there’s another version of myself trying to get my attention – so I’ve decided to head off for the whole of September – see what happens. I find that travel – especially after 3/4 weeks – cuts me loose from the habitual – allowing all manner of wild imaginings. My plan is to simply load up my wee Panda – overnight boat from Queensferry to Zeebrugge – meander south to the tribal homelands in Italy – the magic of being ‘on the road again’. But now I’m getting resistance from voices of reason – my own and others; you’re too old to drive all that way yourself – you’ll get lonely – you’d be more comfortable pottering at home. In ‘Poetry of Departures’, Philip Larkin reflects on how we become trapped by ‘home’ and ‘having to be there’; the security of our ordered life and routines; our familiar room – with its specially chosen junk – the good books – the good bed – the pictures – the china: “a life reprehensibly perfect.” http://www.senscot.net/view_art.php?viewid=9829 - Read full bulletin 23 July, 2010 Unusually for me, I was on the move twice last week – Wednesday to London for work – Saturday to St Andrews for the Open Golf – interesting contrast. At Waterloo, I’m aware that my destination (Stamford St) is nearby – but the pedestrians I approach for directions ignore me – just keep walking. The ‘experiencing’ part of my mind is perplexed then indignant; the ‘observing’ part is intrigued – why are Londoners so apprehensive about contact with strangers – they seem afraid. I’ve always considered Fifers a reticent, even taciturn breed – but on Saturday I enjoyed their simple good manners – sardonic humour. I don’t want to make too much of this but there’s a lesson here about the kind of society we want to live in. The entry price for the Open on Saturday was £60 – which I consider outrageous. Can’t imagine many locals paying that – too sensible. Major celebrations of sport – the World Cup in South Africa – the Open at St Andrews etc – are part of the ‘the commons’ – the social glue which binds society together – to price such gatherings beyond the reach of ordinary citizens is disrespectful and diminishes everyone. Queuing for an overpriced hamburger, I watch shuttle helicopters deposit ‘the carriage trade’ from golf clubs all over Scotland (£300 a head) – recognise a bunch from my old club heading for the champagne tent – feel jealous. Was it Oscar Wilde who said: “Every time a friend of mine succeeds, a small part of me dies” ? Just kidding, folks. - Read full bulletin 16 July, 2010 On a glorious June afternoon I take the John Muir trail, where it leaves Dirleton in East Lothian, for a peaceful two hour stroll. In a remote wildflower meadow, I come upon what appears to be an abandoned cricket pavilion – dilapidated, weathered, leaning heavily. No larger than a double garage – the timber pavilion is beautifully proportioned and crafted – with intricate art deco fretwork features – a veranda for the scorer to sit – but now derelict. It suddenly become very important that I ‘save’ this beautiful thing – spend an hour measuring - making plans to get it home and restore it. Though they rarely happen, I often indulge such imaginings – saving ruins is a familiar theme and, in this case, the cricket connection is also evocative. At our boarding school – the headmaster was passionate about the game of cricket – from the age of eight, its powerful codes and symbolisms were imprinted in my mind. Of all my recurring dreams, the most frequent is still a cricket vignette – always the same one. I’m at the wicket – padded up – facing fierce bowling – a bumping pitch and hostile fielders; my courage fails – I’m clean bowled. This has not been a helpful story to live with all my life – but in recent years there’s been an improvement. In the dream now, I’m able to make the bowling slow motion – with time to play any shot I choose. This new symbolism could be an age thing – that over time fear becomes less – as we learn to slow the action. - Read full bulletin 09 July, 2010 When I was in Spain recently, my aunt (my mother's sister) died at the age of 95 - I was pleased to be back in time for the funeral last Thursday. My aunts and uncles, on both sides, were born in Italy and brought to Scotland as young children around 1920. She was the last of that generation - the closing of a chapter. The Di Ciaccas had three girls, three boys and three chip shops on Shettleston Road in Glasgow. My mum was the oldest - produced the first grandchildren - my sister and me. When she died we were still wee - her family opened their hearts and their lives to us - I never had the slightest doubt of my welcome in their world. From 1934 till 2004 - 70 years - they lived in a simple house at 19 Fleet Street, Sandyhills; a constant in my life - of love and support. My mum's mum was huge in my life. My aunt's parish was St Paul's, Shettleston - after the service and the cemetery, we assembled in my cousin's restaurant in Bothwell. When I'm at clan gatherings, I seek out the old-timers - urge them to recount family stories. But this gets increasingly difficult - hardly anyone there on Thursday older than me - young cousins now ask me to repeat stories about their grandparents. Wee Marco (about eight) asks if I was in prison during the war for being Italian. Explain I was too young - and was born in Scotland. He looked disappointed: ''Are you not a real Italian?'' - Read full bulletin 02 July, 2010 Some years ago, I adopted the word 'mindfulness' - to refer to being aware of the present moment. Whether washing dishes, making coffee, pottering outside - to be simply conscious of 'now' - helps me slow my life - savour it more. 'Normal' culture regards mindfulness as 'that vague insipid Buddhist stuff' - so I was surprised to find the term included in a recent NHS Contract to promote community resilience in Glasgow's East End. It seems that research emerging from fields such as neuroscience and psychology is convincing health professionals of the benefits of ancient Buddhist practices. Teachers of meditation report that fewer and fewer students identify as Buddhist. A new phenomenon of 'secular mindfulness' is evolving. The source of much unhappiness is that we tend to think, feel and behave as though we are single, separate and solid - but apparently we are not. The science shows how deeply social our brains are - that we are profoundly influenced by those around us - and prey to emotions we only partly understand. It seems the practise of mindfulness helps us see a truer picture - of how fluid and interdependent everything is. I'm just back from a week in Spain - I found the light and the heat vitalizing (life-giving). My strongest impulse this trip was to walk the seashore - one day for 5 hours - tramp - tramp - tramp. It wasn't rational - not as if I was trying to get anywhere; but I felt I had to keep going - until I became the world in which I walked. Alas I wasn't mindful enough of my feet. Terrible blisters. - Read full bulletin See all previous bulletin intros here |
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