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This is scenic Lamlash, on the southern end of Arran. We're back home at Longleaf. No phone yet and shocking devastation in our little town. More later. Thanks for checking in.

09:04 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack

It's the Lives

It's early morning on the Isle of Arran in Scotland. I am sitting in a celery-colored, velvet wing chair at The Kennels, Buck and my residence for the week. My view into the blue sky outside the large window is partially blocked by a tree whose leaves are bathed in shade on one side and sparkling with morning sun on the other. Janis Joplin is coming straight at me through the laptop's headset. Her growly, rough, sometimes little girl voice is a reminder from my days at the University of Florida in the early 1970's. I bought the bargain rack "Greatest Hits" CD to download onto my laptop before we left home. I think George and Ira Gershwin would have been dumbstruck by her keening version of "Summertime."

I've visited Steve, the fishmonger at Creeler's Restaurant and Smokehouse several times during our visit to pick up some tasty morsel to fix for dinner: salmon twice, scallops and monk fish.

Steve greeted me Wednesday. "Halloo, Beth from Pensacola. Have ya heard how yer fam'ly fared in th' storm?"  Steve is a solidly built guy, tall, strong with years of running his fishing boat, hand filleting thousands of fish, brining and either hot or cold smoking them for sale on Arran or sending up to their other Creeler's restaurant in Edinburgh. Standing in the doorway, we talk about Hurricane Ivan, my family's good fortune in coming through virtually unscathed, and the poor suffering people in Haiti and the horrendous loss of life from Tropical Storm (now Hurricane) Jeanne.

Steve stands with a fillet knife in his hand, contemplatively fingers the point and then wipes it on his apron. A long scar just under one eyebrow pulsates. We pass the time for a few more minutes and agree that trees can be replanted, but "it's the lives that matter, aye?"

Aye, Steve, so right.

Of Laptops and Lyle Lovett

Wednesday morning, almost 8 o’clock. Dark and cold here in the parlor, where I sit with laptop -- makes a great space heater – headset on listening to a music CD I picked up before we left Pensacola and had forgotten about. Oh my, it’s pure fun. Lyle Lovett’s “My Baby Don’t Tolerate.”

“A friend of mine He said to me A skinny girl Is misery I shook my head Because I knew he couldn’t be right That’s when I thought back to just last night

When I got home
It was maybe a little late
There was n’er a crumb
On n’er a plate
There was no martini
Nor glass of grape
And it was then I sought to contemplate

Some things. . .
My baby don’t tolerate, no
My baby don’t tolerate, no
My baby don’t tolerate from me

I said, “Hello Honey,”
She said, “What could you possibly
Have been doing until
Half-past-then?”

And not being completely insensitive
I could tell my ship had run aground
Because when I puckered up
You know she puckered down

Some things. . .
My baby don’t tolerate, no
My baby don’t tolerate, no
My baby don’t tolerate from me

Now a smaller more ordinary man
Might not appreciate the guidance
Of a good woman
Who truly loves him
He might drift and despair
During the ignorant, dumb misdoings
Of his dirty, daily existence

But that’s not me
No, yes sir’ree
I’m proof that true love will
Set you free

Some things. . . .
My baby don’t tolerate, no
My baby don’t tolerate, no
My baby don’t tolerate from me”

Lyle Lovett

 

We’re staying in a fantastic house called The Kennels. Back in the day, it was home to the keeper of Brodick Castle’s dogs and horses. The house itself has been upgraded, as a brochure might say, to a “very high standard.” It’s great, especially the huge bathtub. I’ve practically transformed myself into a prune with all the soaking. The tub is quite a bit longer than my 5 feet 4 ¼ inches, so I do have to stay awake. Either that or stay afloat.

The stables are unused now, but the original stalls and fittings are intact. Bags of coal for the fireplace are kept in one. A circular brass piece must be pushed until there is an audible click, then the original door swings open into a soft black quiet space, a couple of old horseshoes hanging on a post and a pile of ancient roof slates in one corner.

The low wall bordering the back gravel yard for the enclave of house and outbuildings is broken by stone steps leading to a grassy area which disappears into a woodsy path through the forest. Irresistible. A wild-growing hydrangea, ferns and ripe blackberries lead us for a few steps and then, like a light switch, the dense tree canopy plunges us into the darkness of a mature forest.

Buck’s natural compass tells him this is a shortcut to the Goatfell Mountain footpath. I’ve been his walking companion too many years now to doubt it. He knows things. Shoot. I can get lost driving to Tallahassee – and have. Buck, however, is an orienteering master. So I relax and enjoy the magical feeling woods, so soft beneath my feet, inhaling deeply. Oxygen therapy, mingled with healing herbs.

Shortly we emerge onto the Goatfell Mountain footpath. It’s a good rocky gravel path, noisy with the sounds of rushing streams and the ever-present wind. Lime green moss has covered many of the trees in this section of the path, and crimson mushrooms shaped like racket balls nestle at bracken’s edge. Hobbity, this place is!

We’re due at some friends’ home for an early dinner, and the the trek to Goatfell’s peak and back takes several more hours than we have on this day, so we go as far as the midpoint waterfall, then head back down, taking a detour around some other paths circumnavigating the castle. We stop for a late lunch of cheese on a whole meal bun at a bench overlooking the Firth of Clyde. We can see the large Caledonian MacBrayne ferry arriving from Ardrossan on the mainland. It is the island’s lifeline.

By the time we make it back to The Kennels, several hours and about eight miles have gone by, and there’s just time for another great soak and to dress for dinner.

I’m about to go into the kitchen and fix some extra-strength French press coffee and start to work on a cooking project for dinner with friends. Last year I brought over chile peppers and seasonings to make Machaca, a spicy beef dish, great with black beans, sour cream, guacamole, and corn bread. An encore was requested. The beef has been in a marinade of lime juice, pressed garlic, Worcestershire, Tabasco, chipoltle chile powder, and toasted cumin seeds since yesterday. This morning I’ll sear the meat, then add tomatoes, lots more garlic, jalapenos, onions and other good stuff, and just raise the roof

While that’s going on, I plan to wrap up in my shawl and read all day. Me and Lyle Lovett. I think we’ll invite Santana (the Shaman album), too. It’s got the right seasoning for today.

I’m sitting here laughing out loud. Feeling warm and bright. Thanks, Lyle.

03:58 AM in Isle of Arran 2004 | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

Arran Diary

Sitting in the British racing green Volvo rental, parked by the curb, I watch as a wide woman in a black raincoat and red boots, the flower on her hat askew, tries to maneuver two tall narrow dogs on long leads, one on either side of her, the high wind pushing them along.

A young mother in blue jeans, jeans jacket and hair flying, is pushing a black pram, the youngster inside barely visible through a clear window protecting it from the large raindrops.

There is a silver gray Volvo V70 parked just in front of me. An old champagne colored golden retriever sits in the back, his eyes gradually closing, then popping open again. He has one of those magnificent, expressive faces.

The sun is out again. A man emerges from the Royal Bank of Scotland holding two heavy-looking bags. Classic money bags. Perhaps for his business. He is driving a red mini-wagon, not any sort of armored car.

In a few minutes I will leave the car’s shelter and go to the flat above the nearby bookstore for a visit with local author Mary Davies. Last year when I visited, Mary served hot tea and shortbread. We sat in chairs at a window overlooking the Firth of Clyde. I spilled tea all over my lap and her chair. Embarrassing. Today we’re going out to lunch. Somewhere walking, I hope. This morning was my first drive since last year’s trip. I feel dizzy. No breakfast and new, stronger eyeglasses with prisms. That, plus the whole island seems to be rocking in the wind. I feel queasy, as though I am uneasy rider on a boat.

I ring the bell at Mary’s flat. The two wooden storm doors are narrow and a step up over a metal threshold is required. Even a slender person must angle sideways to enter. I step through and inside the second set of doors to properly greet Mary. She has dressed for our lunch in a beautiful long skirt. It looks like velvet, a soft gold color, with a muted print of burgundy colored roses. The skirt is topped with a blouse, sweater, a crystal pendant and amethyst ring. In her mid-eighties, short fine hair fringed around her fine features, standing with dignified bearing at about 5’10”, Mary is an imposing figure.

Mary’s living room and bedroom are up a winding staircase. I notice an electric stairclimbing chair at the bottom of the stairs, attached on a track. She explains that both of her hips are shot, and her doctor could do replacements, but due to a problem with her spine, the surgeries might not effectively ease the pain she experiences in walking up the stairs. As a result, Mary decided to have the chair installed instead. Its metal track winds beneath the polished baluster. She shooes me up the stairs ahead of her, then sits down and activates the chair. It hums quietly. Halfway up it stops, shifts gears with two beeps, then eases up to the second floor. I ask Mary how she felt the first time she rode her new chair, thinking she might say it was a little frightening. But no, Mary clapped her hands together and said “Wonderful!”

Mary has published four books:

The Journey: An Autobiography Spanning Two Thousand Years
and three Arran novels: Quiet Waters, Shifting Sands and The Restless Tide

She tells me the last novel took so much out of her that she feels now that she will not write anymore, but rather turn her attention back to painting. We watch the water turn colors from her large picture window, and wait for another sun shower before making our way to Bilsands for lunch.

05:53 AM in Isle of Arran 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

Goatfell Mountain

We're about to head out for a walk up Goatfell Mountain, camera in pocket.

Our kids in P'cola are okay despite a new "skylight" in their house where a tree fell in, so the remainder of my posts from Arran will be (I hope!) about this fabulous spot in the world.

For now, lets all try to keep it between the ditches!

05:33 AM in Isle of Arran 2004 | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)

Hurricane Ivan Aftermath

Look at this morning’s Pensacola News Journal for a clear idea of the reality of Ivan’s devastation to Pensacola and surrounding areas. The unthinkable has happened.

Buck and I flew out of Pensacola Airport on Monday morning confident that Ivan would weaken, turn and dissipate, bringing some wind and rain, maybe scattered power outages for a few hours. We were wrong.

I remember standing in the driveway Monday morning as we were about to leave for the airport. Buck was setting the alarm and turning off the water at the valve outside. I thought about the approaching storm and its uncertainties and wondered, just for a moment, if Longleaf would look the same when we returned from Scotland.

It won’t.

The only person we have been able to reach so far is our friend and builder, Ted Parker. He lives a little further out from the city than we do, and while his home was damaged and he – along with everyone else – is without power, his telephone is working. Ted drove out to our place to assess the damage, and we called at midnight last night (Isle of Arran time, 6:00 p.m. in Pensacola) for a report.

Ted had to park his truck at the gate and walk the third of a mile in to reach the house. In addition to being a builder, Ted is a wood hauler. Has been for many years, and he knows how to cruise timber.

Ted says one third of the standing old pine has been either blown down outright, or twisted off and ripped apart.

But there are two miracles:

1) Trees are down all along the corridor from the gate to the house. Power poles and lines run along the left side of the dirt and gravel road to the house. Ted says the trees on both sides fell in such a way that not a single power line was touched, except for one closer to the house where a small branch is resting on one. There’s no power, of course, anywhere in the area, but with the tree devastation, it would be unreasonable to think that the power lines which are so close to the trees could have survived when the trees did not. But they did.

2) Our home has no damage, not even a roof shingle missing. The screened porch door is gone. That’s it. Even the red aluminum storage building we had installed to hold some of our North Carolina things – mainly tools and boxes of irreplaceable old photographs – was untouched, even though a big old oak tree between it and the house is leaning. We had visions of the storage building scattered over one hundred acres. Our pick-up truck and car were also untouched. The van is out in the open in long-term parking at the Pensacola Airport, so it’s fate is so far unknown.

We believe the force of the wind spent itself on the trees sufficiently to blunt its impact on the house and outbuilding. Sounds logical, but given the surrounding destruction, we are filled with wonder, and immensely grateful.

We last spoke with our kids just as the leading bands of the storm were hitting. They are in new-construction, up to code homes, well inland. Same for Maggie’s kennel. In fact, the kennel, Magic Touch, is the most bunker-like of all. Nonetheless, the twisted feeling in my gut won’t subside until we are able to make voice contact with all.

I’ll update as soon as there is any more news to report.

 

05:28 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0

9-11 Anniversary Reflections

Our challenge is to edit life's choices, but not too carefully, and to remain fully awake in each moment to precious possibility.

That's the last sentence of my first blog post, Lunch Hour, on September 19, 2003. Today is the 12th, not quite a year of blogging, but like a horse headed for the barn, I can see this arbitrary chalk mark and have begun to reflect upon its crossing.

Perhaps I am thinking of anniversaries because the third official "remembering" of September 11, 2001 occurred this weekend. We started flying again nine days later that year, first to Casper, Wyoming, then Minneapolis, Minnesota and then Glasgow -- twenty different flights all between the 20th of September and October 15. I remember being happy to see the six burly young men at the gate in Asheville, North Carolina boarding all the way through to Casper. We wondered whether they were military guys, with their easy mannner and toned up mountain/farm boy look. Turns out they were volunteer fire fighters on their way to pick up two new fire trucks from a factory in Wyoming and drive them back to Hendersonville, North Carolina.

I remember sitting on the patio of the house we were renting on the Isle of Arran, Scotland on September 11 of 2002, an uncharacteristically brilliant blue sky day. I kept the sliding glass door open to hear the day long commemoration ceremonies for the victims of nine one one, attempting to write at the glass table, but mostly walking back inside to stand and watch.

Watched as thousands of white rose petals tumbled slowly down from the gallery in a shaft of light at St. Paul's Cathedral in London, one petal for each life lost in that day's terrorism in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania.

Watched as Yo Yo Ma played the Sarabande to Bach's C minor cello suite in New York at ground zero as former mayor Rudy Giuiliani began the roll call of lives lost.

Walked along the island's coastline late in the afternoon and was moved by the sight of the Stars and Stripes waving on the flagpole of the small bed and breakfast owned by an English woman with whom I share a birthdate. I call her June 25th.

In the Arran mountains that day, as Buck was hunting red stag during the annual managment cull, he was accompanied by a stalker, ghillie and a trainee. Mid-day, when they stopped to pull sandwiches from their rucksacks, the stalker -- a highlander -- asked if they might have a moment of silence to remember the victims and their families. And there, in the heather and the bracken, three thousand feet above the surrounding sea, four tough men cried for the world.

Perhaps I am also thinking of anniversaries because I was married for the first time on September 10. Strangely, about ten years ago, as Buck and I were at the Orlando airport changing planes on our way to Bangor, Maine, I had just finished a phone call from a bank of pay telephones rowed up along one wall of the concourse. Walking back toward Buck, he called out, "There's your ex-husband." Sure enough, there was Ralph. We were about to collide, neither one reacting to the other. I called his name, and we had a pleasant weather-talk chat, and then he continued on his way, hurrying off somewhere. How strange. We were married for twelve years, yet in that airport could barely recognize one another. Writing about this today, I can conjure up eyeglasses and brown hair, but not much else.

I pay more attention to my life now than I did in the seventies.

Today I am packing for another trip. I pack carefully, editing, putting back, trying to lighten up. It's not easy for me. Putting labels with my name and phone number in the case of my new sunglasses this morning, it occurs to me that I am preparing myself for travel as I would prepare a child who is going off to summer camp. Maybe I should hang a sign around my neck like Paddington's "Please Take Care of this Bear," in case of emergency.

07:58 AM in Travel | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

Return To Scotland

There are few enticements that can blast Buck and I out of our Longleaf cocoon, but a return to Scotland's Isle of Arran is one.

We leave September 13th and return on September 26th. All the arrangements have been made: airline and ferry tickets purchased. Rental car booked. Maggie's usual suite at the Magic Touch Dog Hotel and Spa reserved. I hate leaving her, but judging from her wagging tail on past trips, I think she looks forward to these infrequent visits with other four-legged critters. She hurt my feelings the last time by trotting off down the hall to her room without even a look back.

We'll be staying in a self-catering house, so I'll have an opportunity to cook for ourselves and local friends. I plan to pack along some pecans from Renfroe Pecan here in Pensacola, as well as some dried chiles and stone-ground corn meal. There's an excellent Co-op grocery store in the main town of Brodick and a good seafood market and restaurant called Creelers. My favorite place for fresh veggies and baked goods such as raisin scones or veggie quiche is Collins Good Food Shop. They are a combination tea shop and market. I can still recall taking refuge there once on a chilly, windy day. I had been out walking and got caught in the rain. At Collins, I found a warm corner, and resuscitated myself with a pot of tea and a cup of curry-orange carrot soup. It was thick, fragrant and came with a fresh whole-meal bun. It was soul food for me on that afternoon. By the time I left, the rain had stopped and I walked into Brodick to pick up some remarkably decadent chocolates in a tiny designer box from James's Chocolate Shop.

This small island has it all, from rich history, geological significance, standing stones and castles to mountains, a fault line crossing the island's mid-section and nearby Holy Isle, which I hope to visit on this trip.

The first time I was on Arran, a small gathering of friends sharing a wee dram or two closed out a night of music and laughter with a song that brought us all to clasped hands and tears. It's called Flower of Scotland, and was sung a capella that evening by our friend, Farquhar Ross, in her sibilant, passionate voice. Click here to link to Cantaria, a superb non-profit educational resource for aspiring bards and minstrels, where you can read about the history of Flower of Scotland, lyrics written by Roy Williamson, late of The Corries, and listen to an impressive rendition sung by Wild Mountain Thyme.

A person would have to be bereft of brain, heart and pencil not to be able to write interesting posts in such a setting, don't you think?

09:40 PM in Isle of Arran 2004 | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0