A Taste of Scotland

I am a lucky man. Not only do I live in a beautiful part of Britain (right now I am looking at a stunning sunset), I am also only a couple of miles from an organic farm that has a shop, a restaurant, things to see and walks to go on. There is nothing pretentious about Whitmuir (for more, click on their link) and they are so good, and all work so hard, that they seem to be winning all kinds of awards for their produce, their food, and for the farm itself as a visitor attraction. There are signposted walks that I have yet to go on. They also run little events (see here).
Tomorrow, being Halloween, there is something for children, including (amongst several other things) throwing apples to the pigs. When I first saw the list of events I misread it and thought it said ‘throwing apples at the pigs’. This, from my previous observations of these creatures, would not be a wise thing to do.

J M Coetzee – Summertime

I am reading J M Coetzee’s ‘Summertime’. A year ago I read ‘Disgrace’, which came with a sincere warning from the bookseller at the till that it was harrowing. I wondered what I had bought (it was one of those books picked off a shelf – not quite at random – when I want to read something by an author who is new to me). The lady at the desk was right. The story was harrowing. I could understand why it upset her.

Summertime is very different. I think if I had read the first few pages in the bookshop without having read a Coetzee novel previously I would have put it back on the shelf. That doesn’t mean it is bad, far from it. It’s simply that I am one of those people that likes to get hooked by the first page and that didn’t happen. However, I started the book at 8pm yesterday and still hadn’t put it down at 11.30 – so you can guess from this that I eventually got hooked.

All I will say about what I have read so far is that it is an impressive and possibly unique way to write your own obituary while you are still alive – assuming it is all true, of course. If it is not, then he has done a very convincing job.

More pastoral stuff…*

This time, Greylag Geese. I thought they were Canada Geese, and when I got home I had to look them up. Apparently they migrate here in winter (why should anything want to migrate HERE?). I am definitely not a ‘twitcher’ or a ‘birdie’, but I do know the difference between a robin and blackbird – and swans and geese. This was a flock of geese only a few feet from me in a cornfield. They were camera shy, because most of them flew off (there were many more than this, about one hundred – Oh for a wide-angle lens!). Note the way they are all looking towards their less-brave mates, out of the shot, circling away toward the Pentland Hills. They all came back as I was driving away. Clearly they don’t like diesels.

I have started taking a camera with me, a small one borrowed from my wife (taking it everywhere deals with that problem of having to say to myself ‘Wow! I wish I had a camera…’). I was on high ground between Penicuik and West Linton (if you don’t know where it is then Google it) in a spot where until recently there was the possibility of having a field of massive wind turbines. I see thousands of geese migrating through here every year, including the odd solo swan (where are they going, these sleek, long-necked guys, and where have they come from, they are so amazingly graceful!).

A wind farm in the valley would have chopped them to pieces.

*Even more here

Those motorway signs…

The motorway signs didn’t have much to say yesterday so they were wasting the nation’s energy resources again, telling everyone to ‘Drive Smart’ (whatever that means – presumably you should be wearing a suit and tie and have polished shoes). Last week’s effort was just as bad, with ‘Drive Smooth’ as the nanny-state message of the week (Hey man, get a load of the way I drive, I drive real smoothhhhh…!). Another read ‘Tell your passengers to belt up’, which I actually liked, because it could be an indication of a sense of humour in the room where they compose this stuff. Or maybe not. There were a couple of even more patronising messages that I won’t bore you with, like ‘don’t smoke in the car’ (‘don’t smoke at all’ might have been better, but I suspect such a global instruction goes beyond the ‘be-patronising-but-only-only-to-motorists’ remit.

As I approached the Forth Road Bridge the signs told me there were high winds, which I didn’t believe because the leaves on the trees didn’t appear to be moving. I crossed the bridge at a cautious 40mph like everyone else and halfway across I opened my front windows. It turned out to be a very good way to check for crosswinds because my hair stood out sideways. Had I been wearing a toupee (which I don’t need, thanks to some odd hairy genes inherited from my maternal granddad) it would be floating halfway to Holland by now.

The signs are excellent, and the traffic and warning messages are super. So why do we get all that Nanny-State stuff? It’s like being back at school, don’t do this, don’t do that…

Why not simply stick to the genuine warning messages and informative traffic information? Turn the bloody things off if there is nothing useful to say. Because if you don’t, we shall soon be seeing ‘don’t poke your tongue out at your granny,’ and ‘don’t pick you nose, it’s rude.’

The quick and the dead

Driving at 70mph on the Edinburgh bypass yesterday I realised I was being closely followed by a hearse. I learned two things 1) that hearses can travel at such speeds and 2) that ‘the quick and the dead’ are not mutually exclusive. Seeing it there reminded of the saying ‘never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly’. I signalled, pulled over, slowed down to 60, and let it pass.

John Lill Plays Tchaikovsky

It’s a while since I’ve been to a live classical concert. Last night I heard John Lill at Edinburgh’s Usher Hall with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra performing Tchaikovsky’s 1st Piano Concerto. Whatever your taste in music there is really no substitute for hearing it live. I didn’t recognise John Lill but he probably wouldn’t have recognised me either, seeing as the last time I heard him perform live was in Salisbury, forty years ago. I don’t feel qualified to comment on the performance. To me it was simply exceptional.

Composers of symphonies and concertos are considerate people. They leave gaps of a few seconds between each movement so the audience can cough.

I like the Usher Hall, it is spacious, the acoustics are brilliant and the seating is superb. As far as theatres and halls go, Edinburgh seems to have the best and the worst. For me, the worst theatre I have ever been in is the Edinburgh Playhouse where, a couple of years ago, I sat in a seat with so little leg room that my knees were up near my chin – and it wasn’t a cheap seat. Could it be a coincidence that the theatre is owned by the same company that owns the Apollo in Oxford, where a few years ago part of the row of seats in front of me collapsed sideways like a pack of cards? Yes, of course it is a coincidence. And why doesn’t it surprise me that the company that owns the Playhouse runs seven private jets? (according to Wikipedia anyway, a website not best known for its accuracy). My experience at the Edinburgh Playhouse was so awful that I wrote to the company and managed to get a refund, the first time I have felt so outraged to do such a thing (not “Disgusted of Guildford” but “Outraged of Edinburgh”). Perhaps more people should complain about the state of the seating at the Playhouse. I know I’m not the only one who has had problems because whenever I raise it in conversation I get that instant, recognisable response from others who, until then, believed they were the only ones out of step.

The reason I didn’t ask for my money back after the fiasco at Leuchars is because I know that a proportion of the small fortune I paid for my four tickets goes to charity (and it had better be a LARGE proportion). Also, I know I haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a refund because the delays have already been blamed on road accidents. That’s like blaming the loss of the Titanic on icebergs. As with the Titanic, the design was all wrong, guys! Read my lips – you cannot get that many cars into Leuchars in such a short space of time, trust me, believe me, work it out with a pencil and paper using average speeds, numbers of vehicles and time available. It is NOT rocket science! My crystal ball tells me it will be just the same next year unless they limit the number of tickets sold. But they won’t do that, will they?

Jeez, I must have got out of bed the wrong side this morning…

Back to John Lill: When we arrived at the Usher Hall they were tuning the piano. It wasn’t one of those uprights that stands against the wall in great aunt Agatha’s sitting room, it was a huge, shiny, grand piano about the size of my kitchen and no doubt a Steinway or Bechstein. I wondered whether it was John Lill’s own piano and if so, did it travel around with him? I can see advantages and disadvantages in this. The most obvious disadvantage is the size of the instrument and the expense of transporting it. The advantage, of course, is that you are less likely to leave it behind on the bus than a flute or a violin.

You’ll never guess what I like best about this post…
When I wrote Tchaikovsky, the spelling checker didn’t correct me.

Zebras Crossing

No, the zebras aren’t on the farm at Whitmuir Organics, they are at Edinburgh Zoo. I can’t say I’m a great believer in zoos, but they do have their uses when you want to entertain the TYO (still not quite four, he keeps telling me) for four hours on a chilly October day. We were walking past the zebras when I was asked if we could go to see the ogres. I reminded him that we were in a zoo, not a movie. It was only when I got home that I realised he probably meant gorillas.

Oh, and beech nuts (he waded through fallen leaves and beech nut husks) are called beech nuts because you find them on beaches, apparently. Not a lot of people know that.

He was impressed by the flamingos. Years ago I was told in all seriousness by a work colleague that flamingos were pink because they ate prawns. Presumably they had found a way of cooking them.

Sow’s ear to silk purse… eventually

More about bogwheels*
A few years ago I found one of the police motorbikes I used to ride. As you can see if you compare the top and middle photos, it bore little resemblance to my old constabulary bogwheel. The bike on the trailer is the same bike as the one at the far end of the lined-up trio. Well, not quite the same, as you can see. The bike on the trailer doesn’t look too bad, rust-wise. What you can’t see is all the rust under the chrome plate and the paint.

I removed the engine and stripped the bike down. Now I am about to reassemble it. The engine can wait, I shall do that when I have put the rest of the bike together. Engines are like people – no amount of looking at them from outside can reveal their inner secrets. The wheel hub’s inner secret (bottom photo) was scary. I’m hoping that the inside of the engine doesn’t look the same.

[For the few Triumph purists who read this blog – yes, the front forks are from a Honda. Luckily for me the owner had the Triumph originals.]

*Previous post here

Goodbye Mister Chips

We don’t grow enough potatoes to supply Albert Bartlett, but I don’t suppose he would want them anyway, not when some of them turn out like this. I thought it would be naff to put a ruler beside it as you can easily see how big it is from the size from the bricks. It is 8″ long (excluding its tail) and weighs 1.2kg (that’s about 2 1/2lb in old money). If I was a complete idiot instead of a partial one I would probably attempt to peel it in one continuous strip… or maybe that should be in the practical exam for a degree in topology.

kilobytes, megabytes and gigabytes…

or gigglebytes, according to the three-year-old, who misheard us when we were discussing computer hard drives.