Significantly Different

The Power of Good Television

Recently I have found I want to watch less and less television. The old adage of ’57 channels and nothing on’ resonates as true as it ever has. I do love a documentary and a gripping drama or thriller but a lot of the regular shows are repetitive and boring after a couple of episodes. The Wing Commander enjoys FBI and NCIS as low effort viewing. I find the characters one dimentional and in the case of the latter, unlikeable. 911 (both iterations) at least had likeable characters but again the repetitiveness of the storylines and, lately, the silliness of the situations, has rendered it unwatchable for me. I am particularly critical of the detective who always has some kind of trauma in their past. My biggest gripe however, is the general lack of character development in many shows so I switch off.

Recently we began to watch the second season of a drama which I won’t name so as to avoid spoilers. We had found the first season gripping and enjoyable and were, on the whole, immersed in the opening episodes of the new season. The latest episode however, left us shocked and stunned by the turn of events. In short a favourite character was brutally and unexpectedly killed off.

I love how good drama, whether on stage, film or television, can pull the audience into the story. The characters are drawn so we can love or hate them, the situations, though perhaps not personally experienced, are believable and create a sense of a reality. The audience feels part of the scene and can express an emotional reaction towards the events and actors within. It is not unknown for me to weep openly or cheer loudly when watching good drama. For me it is an expression of my enjoyment and engagement in the unfolding story.

Last night’s episode of this unnamed drama has turned me inside out. It is difficult to describe without giving too much away and spoiling the episode for others. However, I went to bed upset that the character would no longer be in the series but also distressed by the death of the individual. This morning I awoke and my first thought was about the demise of the character. I feel like I am experiencing a kind of grief.

Through my tears I damn those story writers and I damn the perpetrator! Your comeuppance will be gloriously relished when it comes but in the meantime I need some space to process the loss of a much loved character.

Saints and Witches

I love a visit to an exhibition and the local Art Gallery currently has two special exhibitions which I wanted to see. The first was The Book of Deer and the second The Galloway Hoard.

The Book of Deer is a small ilustrated Gospel manuscript and is considered one of Scotland’s greatest treasures. Written around the 10th century in Latin it also contains marginalia in Irish and Scots Gaelic from the 12th century. These notes, the oldest recorded gaelic known, refer to the now lost Deer Monastery where the book may have been written.

The book itself is small but nonetheless impressive. I recently saw the much bigger Book of Kells on a visit to Dublin but the diminutive size of the Book of Deer does not detract from its importance. However, the exhibition of the book is complimented by explanatory boards and other examples of marginalia in old record books of the city to add interest to the solitary exhibit.

One of the boards explained the apocryphal story of St Columba travelling through the North East of Scotland when he asked a local man to give some land for the building of a monastery. The man initially refused. The man’s son then fell ill and only after agreeing to give the land and a prayer from St Columba did the son regain his health. The monastery was built at Deer and the Book of Deer thus written.

Such stories may be intended to enlighten the masses to the holiness of saints who pray away disease and misfortune. I, on the other hand, could only wonder what the result would have been if it was a wee wandering woman who had asked for and been refused land and the local landowner’s son had fallen ill. Considered the opposite of holy, I will wager she would have been promptly burned as a witch.

The Book of Deer Exhibition has now closed but the project web page is still available at:

http://bookofdeer.co.uk/

The other exhibition, The Galloway Hoard, is astonishing. The hoard itself is not huge as the name suggests (although the term ‘hoard’ means something slightly different in archeological speak) but has such extraordinary artifacts included within it which makes it such an important discovery. The hoard, which includes silver bullion and silver and gold jewellery, was buried around AD900. What is surprising and exciting is how far afield it shows the vikings travelled through Europe and Asia – the vessel containing the hoard is decorated with leopards and tigers not known in Scotland – and begs questions as to why it was buried in Galloway.

Furthermore, the textiles wrapping the hoard and the vessel containing them has survived and gives a new glimpse into the era which had previously been unknown. Silk, linen and leather rarely survive burial for so long but can begin to offer new insights into the Viking Age.

It is a truly amazing find and a great exhibition which continues at Aberdeen Art Gallery until Sunday 23rd October. The short films and explanatory boards which accompany the exhibition provide much information about the period in general and the hoard specifically.

One of the highlights for me was seeing the preservation and cleaning of the objects by the National Museum of Scotland. When I received careers advice at school we were told girls became nurses or teachers and boys became engineers and tradesmen. I wish I had been aware that preserving ancient artifacts was a possibility. I could have had a whole different life!

For more details on the hoard visit: https://www.nms.ac.uk/explore-our-collections/stories/scottish-history-and-archaeology/galloway-hoard/

State Mandated Grief.

The Queen is dead. I have absolutely no feelings about her passing although I empathise with the family who have lost a mother and grandmother. She was a familiar figure throughout my life but I never met nor wished to meet her. I had hoped that the death of the monarch would pass without the shrieking histrionics of Diana’s death or the manufactured outrage over Peter Sisson’s tie colour after the Queen Mother shuffled off the mortal coil. The whole ‘service and dedication’ mood of the early reports on Thursday seemed to indicate a more restrained coverage of the event.

In the space of a few days, however, the media and sections of the public have ramped up their initial tempered approach to absolute batshittery levels of crazy. I appreciate that filling rolling news reporting with interesting and informative news and opinion is incredibly difficult, especially as little actually happens in the intervening hours and days after the death and before the funeral. There are the set piece formal events of course but constant rehashing of a life and pursuit of new and inconsequential stories to tell is tiresome, especially since we apparently have a new Prime Minister at home while abroad Pakistan is under water and Ukraine seems to be making important gains in the war with Russia.

Now ‘respect’ is the watch word and ‘time and place (not the)’ the chastisement, or even arrest, to any who disagree with the whole palaver. Conformity to the state mandated mourning is expected to such an extent that apparently all other funerals scheduled for Monday 19th September have been cancelled, as have cancer operations, food banks will be closed and even Centre Parks tried to evict holiday makers from their sites for the day, a decision since reversed.

A woman in London is said to have taken the urn containing the ashes of her late mother to Buckingham Palace because ‘she ( the deceased mother) loved the Queen’ while another woman in Edinburgh was, like a hamster on some bizarre wheel, circling continuously in the queue to see the coffin in St Giles Cathedral, returning seven times to view it. Meanwhile piles of flowers and (good grief!) marmalade sandwiches are rotting on the streets.

When I was a small child I buried a doll in the back yard. I was overheard preaching over the grave, ‘To the Father, Son and in the hole she goes.’ I knew this was the proper way to conduct a funeral service then and I heartily recommend it as a speedy end to the current farce that has overtaken this country.

Learning to Paint.

Do one thing every day that scares you, said Eleanor Roosevelt. Often, however, we only have the time and inclination to get through the mundane tasks of the day; paying the bills, shopping for groceries, the interminable task of laundry (which is quite scary in its endlessness). Every day is a lot to ask, Eleanor, but I understand what you mean and, since retiring, I have been on the look out for new experiences, some of which could fit the quote. So when the opportunity arose to try a beginner’s watercolour class I leapt at the chance.

The genteel hobby of watercolour painting may not seem like a scary prospect to many but I have a history with art that has left some scars. I never considered myself an artist or ‘good at art’ and didn’t aspire to much in school art classes. I did, however, enjoy pottery classes as part of the art curriculum and for many years as an adult, ceramic painting (if that can be considered ‘art’). Be that as it may, I have a traumatic memory of school art class which ruined any desire to take part or develop any ability.

On the memorable occasion our class was assigned the task of painting what we saw from the south facing art room window. There was only one window on that wall so immediately 20 pupils jostled for pole position there. Not being of a speedy or competitive inclination, I decided I was familiar enough with the designated view over the harbour to begin without the further ado of looking. House roofs in the foreground, a couple of small islands in the back ground and some sea in between. I have prefaced this entry by stating I was not ‘good at art’ and my ‘technique’ probably explains a lot!

Anyway, I began to paint the sea areas blue when suddenly the teacher grabbed me by the ear and dragged me across the room to the now vacant space by the window. ‘Look! Look!’ he shouted indignantly, ‘The sea is not blue!’ His advice was lost on me. I was blithely unaware of the need to explore or even consider the colour changing patterns of the water and as one of thr less artistically inclined pupils I considered his outburst unlikely to garner any improvement from me of all the pupils. Now the whole class and quite possibly the whole school knew my artistic short comings. My shame was complete. I could, from that day forth, no longer pick up a paintbrush with any emotion other than dread.

Signing up for a beginner’s watercolour class was, therefore, ‘a big deal’ and definitely of the scary variety. While I readily and excitedly booked my ticket I was soon wracked with doubt and fear about my abilities and lack of sense for putting myself willingly in another art class, especially as I knew the view from the premises was, you guessed it, a harbour scene with the North Sea behind it!

On the morning of the event I had a mixture of excitement and apprehension. I need not have feared though. Our teacher was calm and patient, explaining different techniques which we tried before working up to completing a picture of the scene from the window. My final picture was no masterpiece. I definitely need to work on painting structures such as the harbour wall and lighthouse but I enjoyed the experience and left with a desire to try watercolour painting again. That in itself is a great outcome for someone with a lifetime aversion to painting. Eleanor wasn’t wrong in her assessment. I might seem scary but the outcome may surprise. If you would like to step outside your own comfort zone to dabble in something scary, go on! Do it!

The Soup, and Icecream, of Doom

The Wing Commander is a great cook. He has a tried and trusted collection of favourite recipes among which is a wonderful carrot and coriander soup. It is a special favourite for light lunches and so yesterday he decided, at the last minute, to make a pot of said soup. I had already had my lunch as I was going out in the afternoon so it was for himself with enough left over for the next day.

As he sat down to enjoy his bowl of soup he went unexpectedly quiet. This was followed by a stiffled cough after which he approached me with the bowl, offering me a taste. Unsuspecting, I swallowed the proffered spoonful. As my tonsils retreated to my stomach he smiled and asked: ‘A bit too spicy?’

Sometimes, it appears, a chilli has more bite than its kin! On questioning later he admitted that he thought he had probably added more chilli and seeds than he should but, hey, what the heck, he went for it…and the chilli returned the favour!

Not wishing to waste any I had a large bowl for lunch today. The first spoonful ellicited a cough, the second produced a spasm in my diaphram resulting in extensive and prolonged hiccoughing. By the time I had finished the bowl my mouth was numb, my ears and nose were running and my eyeballs were speaking in tongues. However, the more I persisted the more tolerant my body appeared to become of the unusually fiery soup.

Why did I persist? I suppose I am from the tail end of that generation of ‘waste not, want not’ but I was also reminded of a memory from childhood. We only got a bowl of icecream on special days and Sundays. Mum kept a gallon tub of vanilla icecream in the big chest freezer and heaven help us if we took a scoop outside the prescribed days! On one exciting ocassion she had returned from the Frozen Food Centre with a tub of strawberry icecream. We couldn’t believe we were so lucky that such a delight existed and we had it in our freezer! The first Sunday came and we knew we would be eating this divine delight. The anticipation was palpable.

After our dinner the tub was brought from the freezer and served up. With sparkling eyes and expectant stomachs we all took our first spoonful. We looked at each other and all put our spoons down. I may even have spit out what remained in my mouth back into my bowl. It was vile. Whoever had tried to combine icecream with strawberries had failed monumentally in their experiment. How was it possible for two such wonderful creations, strawberries and icecream, to taste completely horrible when combined? Our disappointment was extreme.

Our predicament became worse still when Mum announced that, even though it was horrible in every way, she had spent good money on it and therefore not another tub of icecream would enter the house until that gallon of ‘strawberry icecream’ was eaten. There was no more ‘If you don’t eat your dinner there will be no icecream’. We got the icecream whether we wanted it or not…and believe me, we did not!

So in persisting with the over fiery bowl of soup I was, perhaps, unconciously assuming I would never get another decent carrot and coriander soup if I didn’t spoon my way through this one.

Photographs

I promised photos of our rail journey over the Alps from Luzern to Locarno and here they are, finally. It is never easy to get good photos from a moving vehicle and through a reflective window but I hope it gives a feel for the scenery. If it makes you consider taking the Sudostbahn train over the Gotthard Pass all the better. I believe the future of travel has to change and trains may replace aeroplanes in the short and middle distances.

Sometimes the road engineering was as impressive as the rail engineering

An Idea For A Holiday

A couple of months ago we began to mull over some possibilities for our anniversary holiday. Forty years together needed something special to mark the occasion! I had often thought it would be a good idea to revisit he Jan Luyken Hotel where we spent our honeymoon but beyond that we didn’t know what we wanted to do.

We looked at some very exclusive holidays that would have been wonderful but at the end of the day we’re just too expensive. Then one Sunday morning while enjoying our bacon rolls, I read an article in the Guardian about great European train journeys, specifically The Gotthard Pass route.

“The Gotthard is Switzerland. And Switzerland is the Gotthard. The mountain is intimately linked to Swiss identity,” states the article’s authors, Nicky Gardner and Susanne Kries in their accompanying book Europe by Rail. The Definitive Guide. I’m not a rail aficionado but I was intrigued enough to buy the book.

Since the opening of the new Gotthard Base Tunnel in 2016 the old route over the Pass had fallen into disuse. The tunnel significantly cut travel time but at over 50km long it also misses the beautiful alpine scenery. The old line as originally opened in 1882, a technological wonder which allowed trains to traverse the mountains.

Baedeker, according to Gardener and Kries, called the route “one of the grandest achievements of modern engineering.” Like art, my understanding of engineering is limited but also like art I do appreciate and am in awe of the skills, knowledge and expertise that goes into the final achievement.

And so a holiday idea began to take shape. A revisit to our past in Amsterdam followed by a train trip to Basel where we could pick up the route as specified in the above mentioned book. The authors did recommend Luzern and Locarno as suitable stops although the train journey itself could be done easily in one day. We took their advice and stopped in Basel and Luzern. Today we have picked up our journey and are travelling over the Pass to Locarno where we will take a short break before continuing.

I will post photos later but for now I’m going to enjoy the view. See you on the other side

Crossing Europe by Train

Our usual holiday travel consists of flying through Schiphol airport, Amsterdam and onward to our chosen destination. Our current holiday travel is slightly different. We flew into Amsterdam and for the first time in many, many years we actually left the terminal building rather than transferring to another flight. From there it is an easy train ride to Amsterdam Centraal station and onward to accommodation and sights.

I have long loved travel by train but The Wing Commander is a more reluctant traveller. I view travel as part and package of the whole experience whereas he prefers to arrive to begin the fun. However, on this occasion, and for a reason which will become apparent in a later post, I have managed to persuade him to travel more slowly and learn to love the train.

Our first rail trip was a long one; Amsterdam to Basel at over 6 hours, and it was not without its problems. As we boarded I got very excited as we were right up at the front, two seats and a glass wall behind the driver’s cab. I had never see the inside of a train cab before and looked forward to seeing the driver at work. Unfortunately, we were immediately informed that, due to a technical issue with the train, we would have to travel backwards. Also a second train was coupled to the front of ours so we looked through our (empty) driver’s cab into another cab.

By the time we were leaving Utrecht we had learned that it was the first day of the Dutch school holidays and many families were travelling without reservations meaning over crowded carriages, even our quiet first class carriage. This in turn meant it was almost impossible to access the buffet car and certainly dangerous to try to navigate the crowded aisles with hot coffee.

The train did eventually turn to head in the right direction after Mannheim but we were running late and to put the icing on the cake, so to speak, we got turfed off the train at Basel Bad rather than continuing through to our real destination of Basel SSB. This meant a run up to another platform with our luggage for the short trip across the Rhine.

Overall the journey was good but the technical issues, overcrowding, and final discomfort of unexpectedly having to change trains was irksome and not the experience I was hoping would convert The Wing Commander.

We had only booked one night in Basel. We were staying in the old city and it was very pleasant just to walk along the Rhine and admire the old buildings. It is a city that is worth visiting and probably deserves a couple of nights stay to do it some justice. For instance, we could have visited the Picasso and El Greco exhibition and, weirdly, have enjoyed the massed pipes and drums of a military tattoo had we so wished! A bit of a busman’s holiday for us coming from Scotland!

Our next train ride was shorter, Basel to Luzern, and was both more comfortable and more scenic than our first trip. The one hour and fifteen minute journey was on a ‘double decker’ train. First class was also very spacious, quiet and comfortable. From our vantage point in the upstairs carriage the views were fabulous and gave a real feel for Switzerland.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I may yet convert my OH to train travel! It helps that our destination on this part of the journey is such a beautiful city with mountains and a lake to dazzle even the most disillusioned traveller.

A Love of Portraits

When it comes to art I’m one of those awful critics who ‘knows what I like’ but has little understanding of the artistic process, style, technique etc. I do, however, have a wide and eclectic taste in ‘what I like’. The Wing Commander, on the other hand, has a very specific dislike of religious art and will speed through galleries of endless Madonna with Child variations. Nevertheless, we both enjoy a good gallery stroll when we get the chance.

So, what do I like? I like the Impressionists, I like Dali and Picasso, I like seascapes, I like Art Deco and nouveau and I like female portraits. I began to appreciate the latter about 15 years ago on a trip to St Petersburg and a visit to the Russian Museum there. The National Gallery in Edinburgh also has some fine examples. I can’t remember which specific portrait kindled my interest. It was probably a painting of a wife of a wealthy merchant or statesman, a woman only considered important because of her spousal attachment, but I was drawn to them. Maybe I am imagining a story behind the eyes staring out at me but it is a story I rarely see in male portraits.

Today, at the Rijksmusuem there were several examples that caught my eye. Here are two that I particularly liked. I hope you find joy in them too.

Where Have All The Years Gone?

Time creeps up on you surreptitiously. Somehow the number 40 has crept up on us and we are celebrating our Ruby Anniversary. Where did those young people go?

We were married in July 1982. I had to live in the parish where we were to be married for 2 weeks before the ceremony so I moved back with my parents while I left my husband-to-be to make arrangements for our honeymoon. We had decided on Paris. He booked Amsterdam.

It was not entirely his fault. Paris was booked up and the travel agent suggested Amsterdam as a last minute alternative.

Travel agent’s receipt for our honeymoon

And so for the princely sum of £420 we had 4 days in Amsterdam, including flights. We were young and poor! But we had a wonderful time. The Jan Luyken Hotel prepared a room for us with complimentary gifts including traditional Dutch gold bols drinks to celebrate our wedding.

We took one tour to Delft and Rotterdam. Unfortunately, the tour stopped for lunch (not included in the price) at the Hilton hotel in Rotterdam. We were mortified! We had no money to spend on lunch so we had to share a fruit salad before re-boarding the coach back to Amsterdam!

And here we are, 40 years later. How does time pass so quickly?! To start our special celebratory holiday we decided to revisit a little of our past by booking our first stop once again at the Jan Luyken Hotel. The hotel has changed hands over the years and has been remodelled, yet is surprisingly familiar.

We are very grateful to the staff for our warm welcome and thoughtful gifts. We thoroughly enjoyed the complimentary fizz, sweets and celebration balloons and decor. Our love has survived the tests of time and we are appreciative of the years we have grown together. We just don’t understand why we are no longer 21 years old!

We are not quite as poor as we were 40 years ago and much water has passed under our bridges. We are very grateful for all the friends and family who have supported us thus far and hope we can celebrate a few more years together while we also wonder we’re all the past years have gone.