Bread (I used the heel of a freshly bought loaf, which is generally OK for this type of thing) butter and jam. I used damson. Marmalade is also quite good on a piece. I'm with Paddington there.
I quite understand that this level of cuisine is beyond most people's capabilities but go on, have a go at it. You might surprise yourself.
'Oh really. Any ideas?'
'Maybe move into the 90s or something. What about doing some covers of the Verve or the Stone Roses?'
'I thought maybe Simple Minds?'
'The Minds were shit!' spluttered Val. Shards of gravel flapjack ricocheted off the window of Val's eco-cafe. 'For pity's sake. They were the 1980s anyway. Which was all totally shit. You really have no musical knowledge whatsoever.'
'They were indeed shit,' said Dave, as he fried a plant-based burger on the compressed-wood-dust-fired stove. 'And I should know. I was their first drummer, till I left through mutual agreement. Just before they got their recording contract.'
'You got fired then.'
'No. It was through mutual agreement, like I said. They said I was great but just not a good fit for them at that time. I'd be better off moving on and looking for something else that showed my talents off to the full.'
'Fired.'
'No. They said they didn't actually need a drummer at that time and I'd only be bored with nothing to do.'
'Fired.'
'No. They said I was perfect for the band and a great drummer, only not right now with them kind of thing. It was all good, I was fine with it. I was totally thrilled for them when they started having massive chart success. Ow!' Dave burned his fingers flipping the burger and adding a slice of vegan cheese-style topping. 'Shit. That's the finger I use to press 'record' when I'm doing my wildlife vids.'
'Let's face it they were a shower of bastards Dave,' said Val briskly. 'Dark days. But we moved on, didn't we? We coped. We thrived! I picked you up out of the gutter, and forced you to face the world again. And here we are! Living the good life on a croft-style place in Scotland, renting out yurts and selling eco-goods and putting wildlife vids online and stuff. If Jim Kerr ever turns up, he'll get the doing of his life.'
Next time - Jim Kerr turns up and gets the doing of his life
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| Toad in the compost bin |
A year or two back there were toads in our garden. They lived in the compost bin and hibernated underneath it (see photo, of toad emerging from hibernation). Now we have mainly frogs. I really miss opening the compost bin and being confronted by a large toad (see photo). They are extraordinary creatures, and far more interesting to watch than the telly.
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| Toad, emerging from hibernation |
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| The coracle (kindly designed by BW Nicol) |
'Yes, and so has Tuppence. He's been upset about his band. They want to play decent gigs but all they can get are care homes and kiddie's birthday parties. That's why he's been drinking so much. He's depressed and humiliated and he's worried it's affecting his actual brain chemistry on a permanent basis. And no wonder. He wants to play Madison Square Garden but he's got Bide a Wee care facility instead.'
'It's a shame that Stormy won't allow him back into the Puff Inn. Those Friday night gigs were great. A few purple perils and Tuppence's rendition of Egg's 'A Visit to Newport Hospital'. Them were the days.'
'Yes. Indeed they were Geoffrey. But you can appreciated his position given that tine that Tuppence overloaded the electrics with his Moog and burned the place to the ground. The rats were problematic as well, to be fair.'
'Well if you will have rats rather than actual bandmates. You need to use a long spoon if you sup with the devil, and Tuppence clearly did not. By the way did you really say 'problematic'?'
'I think your bonbons are burning Geoffrey. I told you to put them in the pan last, they're much smaller than the other stuff and TAKE THEM OUT NOW YOU'RE RUINING THEM.'
Next time - Tuppence is convinced he can smell an old person before he sees them and wonders if he can monetise this startling new ability. Alexa continues to seek help from the star as she struggles with her existential and moral dilemmas
Mrs T-G poured some of the plopping, steaming green liquid into a cracked ceramic mug, with 'World's Best Dad' emblazoned on the side. The mug split open and the squash splashed onto the wooden floor, immediately burning a hole in it.
'Oh. Well, it was a charity shop mug so no great loss. I'll fetch you another.' Mrs T-G clomped towards the spiral staircase. She turned at the first step, and said,' Perhaps the squash is a bit on the strong side. Perhaps I should add some more fluids. Toad milk might help with the acidity. I think I have some in the pantry.'
Alexa returned swiftly to the telescope. 'Well?' she asked, silently, as the star appeared. 'Do I help Mrs T-G with her beastly Kantian paradigm, and drink her beastly toad milk, or do I do more cleaning for Val beastly Nark? Or should I just run away perhaps. I don't want to be a slave to money till I die. I don't think I even want to go to uni. There has to be a better way to live, that doesn't involve entering a nunnery or some ghastly sandals and wholegrain communal living type situation. I can't face a lifetime of wage slavery. I just can't.'
The star twinkled sympathetically.
'I think you're the only one I can talk to and you're not even a person. You're a star and you're so far away you might not even exist any more. You might only be a ray of light. Life is so lonely sometimes.'
Next time - Alexa's boyfriend Tuppence has too much to drink and declares that he was once in the SAS, but nobody believes him. And Alexa has some major decisions to make.
Alexa peered into the eyepiece. A bright star twinkled at her from somewhere deep in the vast Magellanic Cloud.
'Wow this is awesome. I feel like my entire body is going to be sucked right through the telescope towards the star eyeball first but it's prob'ly only my immortal soul or whatever. It kind of makes two weeks in Lanzarote seem very tame and pointless,' she thought. 'I wonder if I should bin my Onlyfans career...I don't like to admit it but I don't like it...wait is that star getting brighter? Yes it is...OK so this is kind of a celestial two blinks for yes, one blink for no kind of deal, which is totally fine. So, should I just not do Onlyfans? I'd never admit it out loud but it doesn't feel right. Imagine if Mr Stevens the dairy produce manager at Speedispend saw me. Or even the Tupfinder General! I can't bear the thought of that. Yes I think I should just bin it.'
The star twinkled even more brightly and seemed to dance a little.
'But if I bin it, I'd have to do even more hours as a cleaner. And I don't think I could hack that.'
The star faded disapprovingly.
'Or perhaps I could...'
The star brightened a little.
'Should I...?'
CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP
The star vanished.
Someone heavy-footed was climbing the spiral staircase. The door creaked open and Mrs Tupfinder General appeared carrying a tray of steaming black sausage rolls and a large jug of murky, bilious green liquid which plopped and bubbled and seemed to be producing some type of noxious gas.
'I thought you might like a refreshment. Consulting the telescope can be draining. By the way Alexa, I happen to be looking for someone to help me with some written work I'm doing. It's a monograph on the Kantian hermeneutic paradigm and its irruption through the symbolic order and I need someone who can work a computer and basically type the bastard out for me. Val Nark says you're quite reliable for a young person. Not that I pay any attention to what she says but I was wondering if you might be available? I will pay real cash money.'
Alexa stared at the blank spot where the star had been. 'Well?' she asked, silently and in trepidation...
Next time - Alexa and Mrs T-G engage in discussions about mirrors and the authentic self - plus, why the star cannot cope with Mrs T-G, and why cheese footballs are only ever available at Christmas time except at Home Bargains.
I'm sure this must have been discussed and written about ad infinitum, but I rarely read forewords and introductions, I never read exegeses, because I don't want to know what some supposedly learned person says I SHOULD think about a book. I want to experience the book for myself, first hand, with no mental clutter.
Favourite quote from To the Lighthouse (regarding a witnessing of Mrs Ramsay's changing state of mind) 'something clear as the space which the clouds at last uncover -the little space of sky which sleeps beside the moon.'
What more can I say? I love it.
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| the T-G |
Tuppence thumped on the two feet thick, iron-studded oak door with his fists.
'CRUMP CRUMP - ugh. I'm knackered.'
'No wonder. You've been banging on that door for ten minutes. Maybe if you stopped shouting CRUMP CRUMP at the same time as banging it wouldn't be so tiring though.'
'That's easy for you to say standing there eating - what is it? It looks like wood.'
'It's one of Val's gravel flapjacks. Want some?'
'No.'
'How will they ever hear us,' said Alexa. 'Look at the size of the place.'
Above them, vanishing into the clouds, loomed a towering ivy-covered Tower - the only remaining Tower at Tupfinder Towers. The other three collapsed so long ago that nobody could remember when or why - not even the Tupfinder General, or Mrs Tupfinder General, with a combined age of nine hundred and forty two. Piles of abandoned rubble indicated their previous location.
'Yes. Stuff this.' Tuppence whipped out his pistol and began shooting. Bullets whistled through the air and lodged themselves into the centuries-old oak making barely a dent. A few ricocheted off the iron studs and flew who knew where, only a few random screams indicating that they had landed 'somewhere'.
CREEEEEEEAAAAAAAKKKKKKKK
The door swung open slowly, and a shotgun barrel waved them inside.
'A bit of target practice never did anyone any harm,' roared the T-G. 'Come inside.'
They asked what had happened to the other three towers.
'Perhaps the Old Tup might have known,' mused the Tupfinder, waving an arm at a dusty oil painting depicting someone almost identical in appearance to the Tupfinder General, except with white hair, cross-eyes and a kilt. Oh and only the one cloven hoof. 'He lived to a decent age. Four thousand and fifty I think it was. Anyway. Perhaps you'd like to visit Mrs T-G's laboratory. Where she makes her black sausage rolls. No? Then perhaps we can go to the observatory on the upper floor and you can have a shot of my inter-galactic supra-space-time-dimension telescope. It's so pleasing to have young visitors for a change'. He continued ushering Tuppence and Alexa up the vast staircase.
'Come along,' he beckoned, his cloven hooves clip-clopping on the wooden floor as he made his way briskly along a narrow book-lined corridor with an even narrower spiral staircase at the far end.
'Why do you have cloven hooves T-G,' asked Alexa. 'I'm quite envious it's a strong look.'
'Like long noses, they run in the family,' he replied. 'Here we are.'
He opened a door at the top of the spiral staircase revealing a room evidently at the top of the Tower. A large telescope occupied much of the space. He pressed a lever and a humming sound filled the room
The telescope began to rotate.
'This is a special telescope. It can be used in the usual way, to look at the stars and such-like, but you can also ask it questions. For example, you, young lady, are wondering whether now is the right time to quit your job as a cleaner, and if Onlyfans is going to provide you with a sufficient revenue stream to see you through uni and maybe have a couple of weeks in Lanzarote.'
'H-how did you know that?'
The T-G smiled mysteriously. 'I have certain powerful listening devices set up in various locations. It's part of my supervisory role as Tupfinder General. Anyway - gaze into the eyepiece and focus your mind on your question...'
Next time - Alexa gazes questioningly into the eyepiece and focuses her mind on her question...Tuppence questions the legality of the Tupfinder General's questionable 'listening devices'....
Peanut butter (crunchy), marmite, cheese, and lime and chilli chutney. Sometimes I might lose the cheese and add a banana. Or I might have both. Either way it's a good sandwich for when you're starving. I used Lurpak spreadable again. I think ordinary butter would be too much, with the peanut butter and the cheese.
'Dunno,' replied Tuppence. 'You never know with old people. They kind of want things both ways. One minute my uncles are demanding comfy seats and help lifting their shopping bags and the next they're annoyed because I keep telling them they might as well go to Switzerland cos they're past it. But age is still no excuse for them having problematic attitudes and ignoring current tech. I'm going over to Tupfinder Towers to ask the T-G. about some other stuff now. Want to come along?'
'Sure. Is he sort of like an oracle? Because I want to quit my job but I don't know if it's the right time, I need some advice from a sage or something. I'm not earning enough from Onlyfans and - oops!' Alexa glanced quickly at Tuppence, who was gritting his teeth and staring determinedly at the horizon.
Next time - Tuppence and Alexa enter the strange world of Tupfinder Towers
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| The gorse bushes mentioned in previous post. |
'How does he know about the opium tabloids,' murmured Geoffrey out of the side of his beak.
I shrugged and rammed some more Black Bogey into my pipe. 'What precisely is the question, nephew?'
'I'm not sure I can say. It's a personal matter and probably too embarrassing. Especially when I know that you pair won't understand.'
'How do you know that?' I asked, already knowing the answer. 'That's okay, you don't have to say. We're too unworldly, aren't we. We've never been in 'physical relationships' and we don't have any experience of the internet. We don't spend all day staring at phones looking at other people's front bottoms in order to avoid dealing with our emotions and engaging in meaningful interaction with real flesh and blood people. We don't even HAVE phones.'
'We have a gramophone,' said Geoffrey.
'Shut up. We understand that in your eyes we lack sophistication and brains. But what we do have, Tuppence, is Life Experience.'
'Oh no,' groaned Tuppence. 'Here we go.'
'Yes!' I continued,' Life Experience that cannot be bought, cannot be learned from Tiktok and Youtube vids. We've been through the mill Tuppence! We've seen it all! We've done it all! Shipwrecks, smuggling, thieving, killer whales, giant wasps, nettle underpants...'
'Right that's it I'm off. I knew you'd never understand. You pair are useless. I'm going to try the Tupfinder General now.' Tuppence adjusted his bandolier and headed for the hole in the wall.
'Will you be back for tea?'
Tuppence paused on the threshold, turned slightly with narrowed eyes. 'What is it?'
'Soup.'
'Definitely not. Bye.'
'It's not soup, is it Tuppy?' asked Geoffrey anxiously, as our nephew disappeared into the swirling mists.
'Don't be stupid, of course it's not. It's a full fry up including kidneys, liver, sausages, pork chops, fried bread, tattie scones and white black and fruit puddings washed down with six bottles of 80 shilling and a Gaviscon chaser.'
'Phew. You had me going there.'
Next time - Tuppence tries the Tupfinder General. And gets some surprising answers involving 3rd wave feminism from Mrs Tupfinder General.
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| The upper field |
'Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the fairest between me and Mrs T-G? I know we're both d'un age certain, or whatever - but come on. It must be me and not that hideous old bat.'
Enter the cleaner, an empath, wearing rubber-soled Skechers and holding a bottle of glass cleaner and a blue microfibre cloth. It is Alexa, Tuppence's on-off off-on on-off girlfriend.
'I'm not being judgmental or anything, I'm sure she's a very nice person and all...' babbled Val, unaware, 'and I do feel really bad for being so appearance-obsessed and superficial, but honestly she has a complexion like corned beef, no discernable neck, a black moustache, liver spots and a torso the size, shape and texture of a large sack of potatoes. She lives off black sausage rolls and crisps and I've seen her swigging cheap gin and smoking cheroots while lurking in the ha ha. At least I think they were cheroots. They might have been spliffs. In fact they probably were, now I think about it. If I were married to that old devil the Tupfinder General I'd require more than spliffs, I'd need weapons-grade opiates just to cope with the knowledge that I'd wantonly destroyed my own life. Anyway where was I. Oh yes. I bung on a bit of jojoba oil, I do the old pelvic floors, I breakfast on goji berry tea and my own-baked gravel flapjacks. I think if it came to it most people would say that I am definitely the more well-preserved. Or at least I deserve to be. I...'
Alexa coughed gently, unfolded the blue microfibre cloth, and set the glass spray to 'stun'.
'Alexa! you evil little creep!'
'It's my Skechers. They're silent. I can't help that. Perhaps I should wear a bell round my neck.'
'Or you could just say hello when you come in, like a normal person. But you aren't normal, are you dear? You're a CLEANER. So I don't suppose you understand about the social niceties, like not eavesdropping. Give the car park Portaloo a really good scrub today by the way. We don't want any more complaints on Tripadvisor. The yurt's fully booked and Dave says there are wild campers in the upper field. He caught them in his wildlife cam shitting in the gorse bushes. If they'd only keep to that there wouldn't be a problem but no, they have to go all civilised and use the fucking Portaloo...'
'This is very tedious,' thought Alexa, squirting glass cleaner on the mirror. 'That Dave is a total arsehole. I don't know which one's worse, him with his wildlife vids or Val with her nettle underpants. Still, they're paying my wages and it's getting me through uni. This and Onlyfans.'
'Did you just use a chemical spray on my artisan-crafted mirror, you troglodyte?' shrieked Val.
'SKREEEEEEEEEEEK.......SHATTER.......................SPLINTER..................SKREEEEEEEEEK'
'Sorry....'
Next time...Tuppence re-launches his band via the power of the internet, gets no interest whatsoever, and also finds out about Alexa's Onlyfans revenue stream. Unsure how he feels about it all except that it isn't anything good he turns to his uncles Tuppy and Geoffrey for moral guidance....a lengthy, pointless, philosophical deconstruction over Madeira and pipes of baccy follows.
Written eleven years ago, and published somewhere in a long-forgotten online magazine or website.
When I was about twelve I wrote a composition for my English class about a holiday with my great-aunt on her croft on Skye. My English teacher told me how lucky I was to have seen that way of life, as it was fast disappearing. He happened to be a Skyeman – and he was right.
I'm now fifty two, so this is going back a bit. I can't remember what I wrote, except that I mentioned my aunt's fondness for dulse, the seaweed that grows on the rocky shoreline, and that she'd sent me to fetch some for her, and that I returned with the wrong thing. I wish I still had a copy of that composition, freshly written as it was, and from a child’s perspective.
I returned to the croft often as a teenager. My aunt was a MacAskill, and my grandmother's older sister. Her croft was half a mile or so away from the former family home, which had been a traditional black house. At that time, which was the 1970s, most of the people within a radius of a couple of miles were related to me, and even if they weren’t I could turn up at their door confident that I'd be invited in for a "strupach". This usually involved stewed tea, home-made girdle scones or Mother's Pride bread, with crowdie or jam. People were generally pleased to see me, I think, most of them being very old and possibly lonely and bored, but with hindsight I'm sure at times they could have seen me far enough although they were far too polite to say.
In summer, there was a stream of visitors, all family, from Glasgow and the central belt mainly. They all referred to Skye as "home" and they were all made welcome. The tiny cottage with its outside loo became so crowded that on one memorable occasion I'd to share a bed with my aunt. I lasted about five minutes before shifting to the sofa.
I remember once one of them bringing with them from Glasgow the remnants of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Having been brought up in the country I'd never seen such a new-fangled thing before. I thought it was great.
My great-aunt's first language was Gaelic, of course, and I learned some when I was there. The thing I was most proud of was being able to command a sheep-dog, in Gaelic. I like to think I probably still can. I also learned Gaelic at school, and recited in the Provincial Mod, coming fourth (in a group of four - and that was with much coaching from my grandmother!) The mobile library used to come round occasionally, and I remember the librarian (who was English) refusing to address me in anything other than Gaelic, and scolding me because I'd stubbornly reply in English. I was never good at it and I've forgotten most of my Gaelic now.
In addition to the mobile library, every week the mobile shop came round. You went inside and got your tinned ham and peaches, and your bread and marmalade and so forth. There was a butcher who came on a Thursday, I think, sometimes at two in the morning depending on how his round went. Not many people had cars.
My great-aunt told me many stories about crofting life in years gone by. I wish I'd written them down, because I've forgotten such a lot. She was a thoroughly kind-hearted and good-natured woman, who had never travelled further than Inverness, and that was only because her sister, my grandmother, invited her every winter. She was an avid reader, and like many of her generation, could recite impressive amounts of poetry from memory. She was also, like many Highlanders, a devotee of the Free Kirk, and besides attending church every week there would be a nightly prayer and Bible reading. On one occasion I assisted with "Communion", which lasted if I remember correctly, a whole week. Food and tea and constant general hospitality had to be provided for the communicants and the minister. This was at another aunt's house. I felt quite uncomfortable because I had to wear a skirt, rather than my usual jeans. Trousers were still, at that time, considered unsuitable for women and definitely not to be worn to church.
On the sideboard was a strange lamp with a photo of - I think - a waterfall, which lit up and revolved when switched on. Sadly it didn't work. I think someone brought it back from South Africa - a cousin once or twice removed had emigrated there.
Another crofting relative would rage at me because I didn’t know my family history – some, and I still don’t know who – had been among the Land Leaguers of Glendale. They’d fought for their rights, and subsequent generations had forgotten. He kept sheep, but he hated them for what they represented. “This way of life is over,” he’d say, disgustedly. “We’re the last of our kind.”
When I’d mention Skye to friends in Edinburgh (where I lived for a time) they'd say "Oh yes - the Cuillins - have you been there? Do you know Loch Bracadale, or such and such a place?" No, I didn't. I only knew the croft, and the distance I could explore round about, and the journey there.
My aunt died in the early 1980s and her house was sold. It was renovated by its new owner, and rented out as a holiday cottage. Trips to Skye were very different after that. I'd camp, or stay in B&Bs. I felt bereft. But the positive side of that was that I got to know the island in a different way and explored a much wider area.
It wasn't until about fifteen or so years ago that I learned of my connection to the Giant MacAskill and I went to the museum in Dunvegan to check out his enormous socks, among other odd items. My MacAskill ancestors - one branch of them - had apparently moved from Harris to Skye in the 1700s. They were shepherds near Neist Point, I believe.
My grandmother was in service in the local landowner's house on Skye when she met my grandfather, who was the local police sergeant. I think he had very little to do. When he retired they moved to Inverness and I have very happy memories of their cosy and welcoming home there. Sitting by the coal fire after a good tea, watching the black and white television among comforting wafts of my grandfather's pipe tobacco. My grandmother was an expert oat-cake baker. She made them with fine oatmeal, whereas my aunt's were thick and "coarse". She could also bake a fabulously light "fatless sponge", which she sometimes made as a treat when she visited us. My grandmother loved to speak Gaelic, it was her first language and to her English was a very poor second. She was a lover of fine hats and a believer in - well, it was not really spoken of, but "second sight". There were tales of ghostly funeral processions being seen before a death, and so forth, but it was all very hush hush. My grandfather was from Petty, near Inverness, and he did not speak Gaelic although I am quite sure he could have done so and that he most definitely understood it. He was a tremendous story-teller and would regale us with amusing tales in the evening or sitting back digesting after meals. The one that sticks in my mind is about the Well of the Seven Heads. If only I'd had a tape-recorder.
My grandfather served in the trenches as a Scots Guardsman in World War 1. I have a letter that he wrote to me in the 1970s about his harrowing experiences when I was studying O Level history. His father's cousin was Sir Hector Macdonald, an extraordinary, brave, and, to some, controversial character who was knighted by Queen Victoria and whose sword is now in Edinburgh Castle. There is a monument to him in Dingwall. He was a hero of the Empire, hugely popular at the time, but tragically he shot himself in a Paris hotel room in 1903 as a scandal about his private life broke. Several books, a play and a television programme have been made about Sir Hector, most recently The Devil's Paintbrush by Jake Arnott, which I found riveting to read because of, among other things, the theory that he shot himself following lunch and a drug-fuelled binge with Aleister Crowley. He certainly travelled far from his crofting roots, but he did not forget them. Thousands came to mourn him, and many refused to believe that he was really dead. He is buried in the Dean Cemetery, Edinburgh, and to this day his grave is decorated with scarves and flowers.
There is a theory that Hector made the wrong choice when he accepted a commission. In those days, it was a remarkable opportunity for a soldier from the ranks and one can completely understand his decision. I suspect that, like me, he was brought up to believe that he was "just as good as the next man". Unfortunately, while he undoubtedly had his supporters, many of the officer class did not go along with that and would not allow him to "fit in". It must have been a difficult and lonely life, and when rumours about his sexuality and private life became a scandal, there were few to whom he could turn for help.
I didn't learn about my family connection to Sir Hector until very recently. We are still unsure why such a well-known character was not widely discussed in the family, considering that our grandfather was such a prolific teller of stories and legends. It may have been modesty, or on the other hand it may have been because of the "scandal". We will never know. One thing I'm sure of is that memory is fickle; this is my account of what I recall of the past, but my brother for example – and my other brother, who emigrated to Canada over thirty years ago, and no doubt other family members - will have a very different set of impressions. I suppose that is why it's important to have a written account.
As for me, I’ve lived in Perthshire for many years and don’t intend to move. If I win the lottery, I’ll buy a place on Skye, but that aside, I’d never be able to afford it. I worked as a nurse for many years, then after an illness I started writing as a hobby about five years ago; on the advice of a local writer I started a blog, which became a long-running series of Tales inspired in part by my affectionate memories of evenings spent by the firesides of Highland relatives and friends. I was surprised and very proud when my blog was reviewed in Northwords Now in 2011. The blog has been very much a reflection of Me and as such as taken various odd and dark twists and turns, but the heart of it will always be those firesides and the people who sat round them telling tales.
