Book Week Scotland, 16th – 22nd November

That special week has arrived. We are once again invited to celebrate books; reading them, smelling them, hugging them, hoarding them, loving them. Not just in Scotland but wherever you and your TBR (to be read) pile reside.

It’s the annual excuse for bibliophiles to look up from their current covers and eulogise without fear of ridicule from those who would replace paper with screens. And with no need to consider the bemused expressions from non readers. No judgement here but, it must be said, the bafflement is mutual.

I find myself wondering if it is nature or nurture that determines whether you are a book person. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t read, it was non-negotiable. As Scout says in ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’,

My mother was not a big reader but there were many other relatives whose noses regularly pointed towards a printed page. Either from genes or role-modelling, I guess I acquired my own habit via them.

Now, all these years later, when it has been my good fortune to become a bookseller, it would be fair to assume that the eighteen thousand or so books which daily surround me would quench my biblio-thirst. Not a bit of it. Whenever I spot a bookshop, I’m irresistibly drawn to the shimmering oasis, hunting along the shelves with parched eyes. I invariably leave clutching a tome or two, the danger of book-drought-syndrome thankfully averted. Until the next shop…

What a charming tradition this is. I suspect my fellow printed-word-lovers would agree. I rather like the idea of reading aloud to each other while munching on delicious confectionary, blocking out concerns over whether the turkey is sufficiently proportioned or the nut roast will have defrosted. Tomorrow is after all, another day.

So, at Logie Bookshop and all around the Steading, we are unashamedly bigging up books. And we invite you to do the same. What part have books played in your lives? Do you love or loathe them? Do you secretly wish for your Christmas stocking to be filled with books, never sparing a thought for Santa’s aching back? What is your favourite book and, if its not too personal to share, why?

Let’s all shout about about books in Book Week.

The Ritual Comforts of Autumn

At Logie Bookshop we are fans of Autumn. Annie and I can frequently be heard exclaiming about all the stunning shades, using words like wonderful and wow, whilst snapping artfully-angled shots with our phones or Annie’s posh camera. Gus the Sprocker shows his own appreciation by charging through explosions of leaves emitting joyful yelps and urging us to chase him.

Don’t just stand there…

We are thankful to be in the Highlands and to have the tree-lined surrounds of Logie Steading as our workplace. Like many before us, the thrill of turning into the drive on a sunny autumnal morning never seems to wane. From my perspective, it’s not just the awe-inspiring spectrum of yellowy, orangey, reddish hues. It’s the perennial rhythm; the turning of the yearly wheel in which Autumn represents a change of pace, a time to recharge and relax, maybe by a log fire, with a book, and a comforting beverage.

I don’t feel dispirited by the inevitable decay of Autumn and Winter, seeing it more as a resting than a dying. For me, it’s the seasonal equivalent of taking off your day clothes and slipping on a onesie before spending a guilt-free evening doing very little.

But it’s not just spectacular trees that catch my attention during this season of ‘mellow fruitfulness’. There are also the birds. Having largely disappeared into the hedonistic abundance of fields and hedgerows during the Summer, they now return to the garden and commence a frenzy of calorie-loading in preparation for the colder months ahead. Any food I put out invariably disappears within a few hours. The Coal, Great and Blue tits are dominating at the moment. Even the usually pugnacious greenfinches seem a little cowed by their proliferation. My, how they eat! They clearly have metabolisms of which I can only dream. I love to watch every purposeful visit, feeling flattered when they fly so close I can almost touch them. I’m sure it’s not just cupboard love.

Don’t ask about the scissors…

Once I put out sunflower hearts, the goldfinches appear, surely frontrunners for the title of most glamorous garden bird. Streaks of red and yellow whizz round the garden and in moments, or so it seems, the feeders are empty. Then I get Mr Robin and shy little dunnock casting pointed looks at the back door, beseeching me to re-stock.

This splendid photo was taken by my talented friend Paul Rankine

Spot the well-camouflaged dunnock!

Our neighbours’ Rowan tree, sagging under the weight of berries in the morning, is stripped bare by the relentless ministrations of a crowd (the recognized collective noun apparently) of Redwing by the evening. It’s my perfect excuse to stand and stare. I try to avoid too much time at the sink but today, the saucepans are scrubbed, dried, put away and gleaming.

I’m asking all botanists to suspend your disbelief here…

Away from the garden, wildfowl steal the show. Thousands of geese, mainly pink-footed, fill up Findhorn bay, blissfully unaware of their contentious status. Twice daily enormous skeins fly over our garden like a vast, spreading, squawking net. They constantly form and re-form their V formations with military precision. It’s an awesome sight and sound. At night, their incessant roosting chatter can be heard, regardless of what time you go outside.

Then there are the ducks; the dabblers, wigeon, teal, mallard, gadwall. The long-tails, scoters, goldeneye and eider. And if we’re lucky, a Great Northern or Black-throated Diver. Thank goodness for books like this one – bird identification can be a tricky business.

Shameless product placement!

I could, and frequently do, go on. Many a long-suffering friend has glazed over while I wax lyrical or stop dead and raise my binoculars, excitedly informing them that there’s a black godwit or a flock of sanderling over there. Birds are a constant in my year but I especially love the Autumn and Winter visitors. They lure me out on crisp, frosty days, flask and sandwiches in my rucksack, and delight my screen-weary eyes.

So… happy Autumn everyone. Here’s wishing you many beautiful moments, followed by a cosy chair in which to remember them.

A peaceful day

‘So I guess it comes down to a simple question.’ Beth peered round the cardboard box full of essential holiday comestibles. ‘Do we want to spend five plus hours in the car on snowy roads populated with Gung-Ho drivers, probably not reaching Wigtown in time to actually visit any of the shops today, with a wet, travel-wired dog which we will have to contain in a small guesthouse? At most, we’ll have about three hours tomorrow morning in freezing cold, windy conditions before we have to set off for Lancaster.’

‘Or?’ asked Pippa, brow furrowing as she processed the amount of information in Beth’s statement.

‘Or…would we prefer to stay in our cosy home, light the fire, maybe catch a few cheeky hours of the Winter Olympics and recharge our batteries before setting off tomorrow?’

‘And skip Wigtown?’

‘Yes.’

Pippa peered through the window at the mesmerizing snow flakes which were increasing in size and frequency. She took a decisive breath. ‘Agreed,’ she said, reaching for the remote control, ‘we’ll go tomorrow.’

It was as if a joint burden had been lifted. The trip to Wigtown, the bookshop capital of Scotland, was beginning to feel jinxed. Before taking over their own bookshop almost a year before, they had planned a visit for research purposes. Pre-purchase tasks got in the way that time and now it was the fabled Scottish weather. It was February and the middle of a Winter which had been rare in the last few years.

‘Let’s still treat this day as holiday though,’ said Beth, as she sat down to watch the gripping snow and ice-based feats of bravery and brilliance.

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Pippa, leaning back in her chair.

Beth briefly emulated the action. ‘I’ll just take the dog for a quick walk,’ she said, sitting up. ‘I’ve checked the roadwatch website. Drumochter’s covered. And it’s pretty thick around Aviemore.

‘Yes, it’ll be horrible.’

‘It would have been a stressful journey for hardly any time there. And the forecast tomorrow is windy and cold. I mean, we keep saying we should stop putting ourselves under pressure.’ ‘

‘Yes.’ Pippa shifted her focus from the screen. ‘You are ok with this decision?’

‘Yes, yes, absolutely.’ She smiled, kissed Pippa and climbed into her waterproofs.

The walk was stunning, despite the cold. She strode along, happy to be outside because she would soon be inside with a steaming cup of tea and a free day. It was the right decision…only…

No, Beth admonished herself. You will not start worrying whether this means you’re a wimp or if it’s a sign of advancing age or what people will think. You will not, she said again as another ‘only’ hovered.

She whistled the dog. He was bounding through the snow with a discarded takeaway carton. Beth chased after him and he yipped with delight.

‘Come on,’ she called, ‘let’s go home.’

He dropped the carton and followed her, totally at peace with his day.

 

Silver Anniversary Safari revisited

 

Ruddy loveliness

A year on, I still sometimes feel the searing heat, recall the sting of dust in my eyes, remember the profound thrill of daily wildlife encounters. I was so moved by Botswana. Not just because of the animals, the acres of wilderness or the stunning colours, though all these played a part. Not only because it was a special holiday for us and lived perfectly up to our expectations. I was also moved by the opportunity to glimpse a culture for which I had no existing frame of reference. It felt like a privilege and I hope I was appropriately respectful.

Predator and prey; the circle of life

The Batswana, on the other hand,  appeared to rate us largely according to their ages, their locations and our fiscal potential. In rural areas the immaculately clad school children greeted us with alacrity. They cheered and waved as if we were their celebrity idols. Older relatives, who had no prospect of profiting from us, stared. Their stares were often mistrustful, sometimes contemptuous and frequently weary. Semi-feral dogs regarded us hungrily or, being engrossed in some amorous or combative encounter, paid us no heed. Occasionally, our friendly overtures were rewarded with a stiff wave from a group of unsmiling women but in the end, I stopped waving unless they did first.

Why are you here, they seemed to ask. Do you really think you’ll learn about us sitting in your safari truck with your pale skin and your Tilley hats?

Safari Soulmates

 

And the answer is, we won’t. Reading Alexander McCall-Smith and snapping a few native animals from the security of a 100% guided tour does not give us much insight into a way of life.

But we were there; spending our money and showing our families and friends what a magical place Botswana is. With luck, this will mean that tourism, along with beef and diamonds will continue to sustain the economy long after our memories have betrayed us.

Fancy a game of Hungry Hippos anyone?

In the towns, it was a different matter. Hawkers and pedlars were everywhere. They approached with effusive bonhomie and no trace of their rural compatriots’ reserve. Many of us were charmed by a friend of Bibi’s who shook our hands and tempted us with tee-shirts, irresistibly depicting the details of our trip in whimsical form. Giddy as children, we ordered our sizes, colours and layout preferences. They were ready for us within a few days. I wear mine often, delighting in its exotic presence among the highland heather.

Who knows if I will ever return to this fascinating land. I hope I do but there are other places I yearn to see and my life has an increasingly limited amount of travel time available. I do know that the memory of my visit will always be with me.

Ultimate relaxation

 

For now, I revisit often; via my photo albums, through my blog posts, in my daydreams, and from inside my tee-shirt. Thank you Botswana. You widened my view of the world in a most majestic way.

 

Beautiful bottom

Taking the hint…

A dear friend who knows more about me as a writing person than anyone else, has issued a gentle challenge. Where are your poems, she asks? I remember some of them after…how many years is it?

She’s referring to the time, 22 years ago, when she and I spent three glorious years in Liverpool, indulging our joint passions for writing and reading. And talking and laughing and, in my case, being a social butterfly with all its associated questionable habits. We were both mature students, taking our degrees after several years in other, unconnected professions. It was a heady freedom and we quickly bonded; not least because we both listened to The Archers, a habit which earned us a peculiar notoriety among our generally much younger student group.

Cath had a quiet enthusiasm which complimented my brasher, more showy approach. She had and still has, a thoughtful, intelligent approach to her writing which I can only dream of, but which has always influenced and inspired me.

We shared a dodgy flat in the second year and a lovely house with another friend in the third. We wrote, we read, we walked Cath’s gorgeous dog, Zoe, round Liverpool’s parks and above all, we talked. Oh, how we talked! No subject-stone was left unturned. I like to think now that there are parts of Kensington and Aigburth that still ring with our enthusiastic voices.

It was a special period in my life and undoubtedly my most prolific in terms of creative output. Cath has continued to write regularly, incorporating her skills into a new career as a tutor. (She writes a regular blog on here. Check her out, she’s great. Cath Humphris should find her).  I, on the other hand, have been sporadic to say the least. Continuing the butterfly analogy, I have the Aries tendency for poor staying power. The thrill of that new bloom is always an irresistible pull.

Never say never. I may have to accept that the novel is looking increasingly unlikely but I enjoy blogging, albeit infrequently, so maybe that will be my writing destiny.

Now, back to that challenge… encouraged as always by Cath, I’ll share a poem from those matchless Merseyside days.

For International Women’s Day and for you, Cath, with thanks…

 

correction

not black or white,

not fat or thin,

just Woman.

not small or tall,

not dull or bright,

just Woman.

not sister, aunt,

not girl or wife,

just Woman.

not other half,

not light of life,

just Woman.

 

mothers#doctors#housewives#lawyers

travellers#nurses#staff-employers

barmaids#students#guides on tours

bank-clerks#farm-hands#deacons#whores

not his or yours, 

not people’s friend,

just Woman.

now and always

in the end,

just Woman.

 

written April 1996, Liverpool

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another year

 

There are fewer tears but you are back on my shoulder today. It would have been your 63rd birthday and you have been gone for almost five years. Exactly one week ago was our mother’s birthday; 87 if she’d made it. Your birthdays were close and your death-days harshly so. I hope that whatever heavenly spaces you were allocated are near to each other. I miss you both.

We were lucky. I was lucky. We mostly got on. Of course, we had childhood spats – which brother and sister doesn’t? – and there was a period in your late teens when you became remote from me, geographically and emotionally. By and large though, our relationship was good and you tolerated your kid sister with endless patience. You were my hero. You still are my hero.

As we got older, we became friends as well as siblings. We were a team, united in so many ways; our love for your children, our concerns for our struggling parents, our need to spend time near, or preferably on, water. On a yacht, your hero status was practically deified. You had an instinct for the ropes and sails which eluded me. You made me feel safe, just as you did when I was young and you carried me on the crossbar of your racing bike or talked to me when I couldn’t fall asleep.

There is a brother-shaped gash in my life which will never truly heal. Of course after five years it is less bleakly bare. I can look into it and there are memories, smiles, comforting images. I can enjoy wallowing there. The clang of  your absence still resounds but with a less discordant wail.

I long to talk to you though, especially now when I’m about to embark upon a new venture. I’d give anything to hear your thoughts, seek brotherly advice as I always did.

Your legacy lives on. I am still lucky, not least because I get to spend time with your children, your wife, our family. And when I do, you are always with us, strengthening our bonds and brightening our smiles.

You took an irretrievable piece of me when you left and that will remain a gap in my heart forever. But there’s a twinkle in my eye which will always be yours.

I love you, my brother.

Here comes the sun…  David Boardman, 1954 -2012

 

Silver Anniversary Safari 8

Tsodilo Hills, Shakawe, Botswana

Mountain of the Gods

After a mesmerising day on our houseboat and with a tweak to the original schedule, we visit this UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is, at the risk of repeating myself, rather hot. The journey is long, briefly broken by the appearance of two large (bull?) elephants who emerge from the roadside foliage as we speed past. This is our second teasing pachyderm flash but it serves as a comforting portent of things to come.

 

We think we are getting used to the roads, but as we turn off at a rare signpost, a number of strangled oaths are heard, most heartfelt from the rear seats, as the terrain becomes uneven. There is a building which looks like a public convenience and indeed it turns out to be just that. Luxury we think, as we all pile in and avail ourselves. Sadly there is only a trickle of water so our deposits remain unflushed, unlike our faces. We suffer in thoughtful silence though. It’s unlikely that a paucity of Tripadvisor stars would have much impact here.

An elderly but dapper man approaches. He is diffident at first but Bibi soon draws him in, introducing him as a member of the San tribe for whom the hills and their ancient rock art have deep spiritual significance. Equally notable and clearly admired by Bibi is the fact that our San guide has taught himself to speak English despite having no formal education.

 

Our guide sets off at a pace which is brisk but reverent. I find I am soon glowing profusely; it would feel wrong to sweat on this hallowed ground. When asked by our geologist member what the hills are made of, our guide replies ‘God made them’ with absolute certainty. The San people believe the hills are resting places for the spirits and that they will cause great misfortune to anyone who hunts or causes death nearby.

The three main hills are known as the Child Hill, Female Hill and Male Hill, all liberally decorated with intriguing rock art. The paintings are reputed to be 3000 years old and a mixture of blood, ground bones, sand and water were used to paint them. It is evidently an enduring formula, though I can’t help but wonder where the blood came from, what with the spirits being so averse to slaughter.

It is a peaceful and unusually silent tour with none of the excited gasps of our natural history encounters. The heat becomes so intense that many of us start to struggle. A brief respite is had in the relative cool of the Rhino cave. Our guide smiles indulgently when I suggest I would like to move in to it for a while.

Laurens van der Post has a commemorative panel because he described the paintings in his 1958 book, ‘The Lost World of the Kalahari.’

We finish with a ‘road lunch,’ aka a picnic, and a look round the small museum. Bush squirrels take our mind of the heat as they perform athletic feats to retrieve our apple cores. It has been an interesting trip but I am glad to return to the houseboat and the cool, colourful Okavango.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silver Anniversary safari 7

Basic Camping, bladders and other corporeal treacheries

I wake from a fitful sleep. The full moon is lighting the area around the tents to a silvery dusk. We’ve left two of the four flaps raised to keep some air flowing. Also because we dozed off to the sound of hippos and there’s a chance they, or a lion or even an elephant may wander past. One of the previous groups had their washing water ‘stolen’ by elephants, we were told. Imagine glimpsing that through your mesh window.

I check the time on my phone and an electronic glow lights the tent further. It’s 3am and pretty chilly now. I’m only covered by a sarong, the idea of placing anything thicker over myself being unthinkable when I went to bed several hours earlier. I reach for my blanket. Part of the allocated sleeping kit and undeniably pre-loved, I close my nose to its rustic aroma and cover myself. It’s at this point that I become aware of my bladder, gently suggesting that an empty wouldn’t go amiss.

Ingenious camp shower. Latrine was similar but with a lower bucket.

I am not, I now realise, a brave person. At least not when it comes to facing indigenous African animals in the middle of the night with my pants down. The advice we have been given, amidst reassurances of how safe we are, is to step out of the tent, shine our torch around and if it picks up any shining eyes, to dive back inside. In my anxious and overthinking mind, this presents a number of snags. Firstly, what if the eyes see you before you see them? I’m a robust woman but I wouldn’t give much for my chances against a hunting lion or a startled hippopotamus. Secondly, assuming you do see them first and have time to dash back into your tent, you still have a full bladder (hopefully) and now zero chance of relieving it.

Fortunately, Annie and I did predict these issues during one of our numerous pre-safari planning meetings. As a result, we had packed a couple of essentials for the nocturnal polyuric (or frequent nighttime tiddler.) Here’s one of them:-

Behold, the incomparable shewee

It’s fair to say there are one or two operational challenges attached to this feminine accessory but given the right incentive, for example, coming face to face with something which regards you as dinner, you get to grips with it surprisingly quickly. Thus, I manouevred myself, the shewee and the designated bottle into place and commenced the procedure which I swear I will never take for granted again.

It was at this point that I became aware of movement in the adjacent camp bed. I had tried to be quiet but liquid hitting plastic in the dead of night is inevitably going to result in some noise. The pile of bedding which had Annie underneath it began to shake and I realised that this was no animated dream. She was in hysterics, emitting the odd muffled snort as she tried to laugh silently. It was infectious and soon we were both helplessly urging each other to be quiet. And failing.

The learning outcomes? Balance and co-ordination disappear during bouts of laughter. Do not go camping without wet-wipes and a loo roll.

Despite its shortcomings, I’m grateful that we packed our portable toileting paraphernalia. Unlike some of my more courageous camp fellows, I would have been extremely anxious at the thought of visiting the camp latrine in the small hours.

It all seemed much less scary in the daytime

I have to admit, seven nights of basic camping was hard going for me. In addition to the aforementioned nocturnal anxieties, my chronically dubious digestive system did not cope well, an undesirable situation when your toilet facilities are far from en-suite and you’re spending several hours at a time on a bumpy safari truck. I’m thankful for Imodium and the on board fridge. It would have been a lot harder without a nightly G&T.

This is not a criticism of the tour company or the brilliant camp staff who worked tirelessly throughout our trip. They provided a plentiful supply of warm water for our sinks and showers and cooked amazing meals over an open fire, including fish every other night for our non meat eater. They struck camp and reassembled it each time we moved, including the unenviable task of latrine management. They were truly wonderful young men.

And the massive bonus was our proximity to the animals and the world they inhabit. That was well worth a week of gastric disturbance. If I visit again, and I hope I do, I would probably choose to be slightly less basic. Am I sorry I chose this trip? Not for one second.

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Silver Anniversary Safari 6

Leopards, it turned out…

Surveillance

Defiance

…came in at number two on my highlight list.

Leopards are equally at home up trees and on land. They are efficient hunters and unlike lions, appear to have an understanding of portion control. On two occasions, we observed a partially eaten impala in the larder, usually an adjacent branch in whatever tree the leopard was beautifully accessorizing.

My word, leopards are beautiful!

They are also shy and can be elusive so how lucky were we to have nine separate sightings during our trip. Admittedly, number one was more of a wary eye and a flicking tail within a bush, located by an instinct we can never hope to acquire by the ever vigilant Bibi. But the others were all close encounters of the breathtaking kind.

A leopard in a sausage tree

Numbers six and eight, which can be seen below this paragraph, engaged in a moment of big-cat conflict which ended when number six rolled over in exhausted submission. It was short but terrifying in its power and intensity and I suspect it wasn’t the the first altercation they’d had that morning. I hoped this would be the last. It probably wasn’t.

Two of the group members had an even closer encounter which raised their total to ten. It was the last day and they’d decided not to come on the late afternoon game drive because of sore backs/necks. As they sat chatting, one of the two camp staff pointed out a leopard up a tree at the far end. The boys were standing watching, obviously excited by the sight.

A and J told us they overcame their first impulses to dive into the tent and went and stood behind (!) the boys. As A said afterwards, ‘I feel rather embarrassed that I was prepared to sacrifice a young man if the animal charged.’  She felt even worse when Obi turned to her and said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’

In fact, the leopard regarded them warily for a few moments before jumping down and running off  into the undergrowth.

Even though I (sadly) didn’t witness this, the episode clarified a thought which had been in my mind for several days. Growing up in Britain, we were taught that there were wild and scary animals in Africa and if we encountered them, they would eat us without a moment’s hesitation. Clearly, if you’ve grown up in Botswana, spotting a leopard is similar to spotting, for example, a stag in Scotland. You give it respect, but it’s not ordinarily a threat to your continued existence.

This was taken from the truck. You can see how wary s/he is.

And then…gone.

As I may have mentioned…beautiful

Silver Anniversary Safari 5

 

ELEPHANTIDAE: African Bush Elephant – Loxodonta africana

I praise you for your centredness,

Your wise and knowing gentleness…

 

 

My first sighting of my lifelong iconic animal was, if not exactly an anti-climax, fairly low-impact. It was more of a suggestion, a glimpse of a familiar outline through the dense papyrus plants. This turned out to be a Bachelor Herd; a group of young males who ‘hang out’ together after they’ve become too big to stay with the Breeding Herd.

 

While it was still thrilling, I realised that what I longed to see was the classic group so long admired by me; led by the matriarch, supported by numerous female relatives and including at least one eye-mistingly cute baby.

On Friday, we left Livingstone, lingerie-nicking monkeys, marauding baboons and head-spinning helicopter rides behind and headed back into Botswana en route to the Chobe National Park. Our post-supper talk the previous evening had been all about how everything would change. Bibi was anxious to make it clear. There will be no more hotels or houseboats. The animals can go where they want and we will be camping in the middle of their territory.

I’ll describe the campsite later. I want this post to be about elephants. And that afternoon, on our very first game drive, there they were.

I’ve written a few words which I hope will convey how I felt at finally encountering my beloved pachyderms in the flesh. Other than that, I’ll let the photos speak for them selves.

 

Beautiful and wild  and above all, alive.

Your ivory proudly sported in the only place it should be.

 

I am so close I can almost feel

The breath of your curiosity

As you raise your trunk and explore us

On an inhalation.

 

I see you; close enough to touch,

Your scent caressing my nostrils.

I ache with a joy

Of dreams fulfilled,

Of a moment falling into place.

 

Your nearness delights me

But I also love to see you far away.

You march in lines,

Roam in the distance,

Paddle in close groups,

Take constant, fierce care of your young.

 

I will always remember you in this place.

My heart sings with the thrill of it.

Stay safe and protected

So your beauty may be cherished,

By me and by many others,

Forever…