We Set off to Retrieve the Map

A Map - but not THE Map

Last night Tuppence came round for his tea.  

'It's your favourite.  Mince and tatties!'  I waved the potato masher as he climbed through the hole in the wall.  

'Oh no.  That's much too bland.'

'What?  But you've always liked mince.'

'That was then.  This is now and I only like mince when it tastes of something.'

'I'm putting plenty Bisto in it, and there's brown sauce as well.  What more do you want?'

'Cajun seasoning and tortilla chips.  Refried beans.  Maybe some hot salsa, sour cream and guacamole on the side.'

'Guaca what?'

'Mole,' repeated Tuppence.  'And I need to know that the mince was grass fed.  If it's not I won't eat it,  I want plant-based.'

We had plain old mince and tatties and he managed two helpings.   With four slices of fruit loaf and raspberry jam for afters.

After tea, we discussed The Map.  Upshot being that we decided to make a midnight raid on Tupfinder Towers that very evening.  The T-G had made vague plans to install burglar alarms and motion sensitive floodlights and although we were prepared to bet that he would never get round to it we thought we'd better get a shift on just in case.  We briefly talked about asking the T-G if we could take or even borrow the Map, but we decided that if he said no, which was fairly likely, we'd be the obvious suspects if it then got nicked. 

I retrieved our full face balaclavas, night vision goggles and our black polo-necks.  With a grappling hook, the remains of the fruit loaf, a flask of hot Madeira, glass cutters and a rope ladder we were all set.

Soon Tuppence and I were shinning up the rope ladder.  A waxing Moon shone on the ivy-clad facade of Tupfinder Towers and the vast mullioned window that led into the upper drawing room and the Aubusson.  Geoffrey had flown on ahead and was already up on the window ledge securing the grappling hook.  

Could we get access to the room without breaking the window?  Was it locked?  Would we need to employ the glass cutter?  That was our main concern as we rustled upwards, disturbing vast numbers of moths and spiders.

Next time - we gain access to the room - but how?

And  Dave reveals that he encountered a vision of Alan Watts in the sweat cottage.  Alan advised him that the current was much too strong for the wire.  At which point the sweat cottage went on fire after all the fuses blew and Dave was fortunate to escape with his life.

Plain old mince and tatties

Today's quote - from 'The Unspeakable World' - Alan Watts (Music By Adi Goldstein)- 'Too strong a current for the wire'

I can relate to this, and the more I'm thinking about it, the more it makes sense to me in all kinds of ways, as a person who has become very ungrounded at times.   As I understand it, you have to have a framework, nothing rigid, but for the purposes of sanity you have to be grounded in the familiarity of a certain routine, certain domestic rituals such as the pipe and slippers perhaps, if you like, or familial or societal totems or markers - otherwise, as he says, the current becomes too strong for the wire.  You can travel away from a framework, in fact sometimes you have to, you can make quite a journey, epic distances, mentally, spiritually and physically, but you need to know that you have somewhere to return to.  A returning, however, is not always to the place you expect.  

And of course you have to have somewhere to leave, in order to travel.  We're talking about frameworks here,  not prisons.  When a framework feels like a prison, it's time to think about why, and if you can't figure it out, maybe move on.

'The road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began...'  (JRR Tolkein)

Tolkein expressed this perfectly in The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.  Epic journeys grounded in friendships and homeliness.  Another of my favourites albeit on a much smaller scale is Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows.  Mole ventures out on a Spring morning, and has all kinds of epic adventures before returning to his much-loved home a wiser mole, and with a new friend.  These are 'children's books' apparently, but the theme of epic travel, struggle, friendship and homeliness resonates with all ages I think.   The classic Antarctic journeys of Scott and Shackleton have similar qualities that will always inspire the imagination and the spirit.

To quote Tolkein again,

'Not all those who wander are lost.'

Plans for a Hate Crime Dobbing in Centre and Two for One Brazilian Butt Lifts

 

 'We're going to drive new traffic to our yurt business by making it a dobbing in centre for hate crimes.  So Val says.  She says anyone promoting hate deserves everything they get and she's prepared to catch them herself,  lock them into her therapy yurt and chain them to the massage table till the coppers arrive.  She's even bought a hi-viz jacket and a cattle prod.  But I don't feel right about it,' said Dave. 'I don't want to grass anyone up.  When I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Indeed,' said the T-G,  'It has the potential to be catastrophic in terms of local community cohesion.  Neighbour pitted against neighbour and so forth.'

'Val says it's great publicity for our business.  It'll make us seem current.  She says we need to move with the times and diversify.  She's making a sign for it right now from locally-foraged shells and sea glass with 'HATE CRIME REPORTING CENTRE' on it in seaweed fronds.  And she's made nettle scones with H A T E on the top.  People can buy a set of four and have HATE nestled right there in an eco-cellophaned nettle-fibre refillable basket. They can then literally consume HATE and expel it via the customary orifice, thereby destroying it.  She's also going to throw in two for one Brazilian butt lifts for anyone reporting a hate crime cos she's just completed an online course in how to do the liquid injection ones.  I get what she means but I just don't feel comfortable.'  Dave fiddled anxiously with a fingerless glove. 'Especially with an open-ended concept-style thing like hate.  It's not a word I even like to say to be honest.  It's kind of strong.  You know when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'What is a hate crime?'  I interrupted.

'Not sure,' said Dave. 'But when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'It sounds like something best not to get involved with,' said the T-G loudly, poking at a pot hole with his sword stick. We were out for a walk by the tourist car park, assessing the local infrastructure in view of his plans to open Tupfinder Towers to the public.  'In my experience as the local magistrate-style person-in-charge type thing,  evidence, proof, impartiality and a sound knowledge of how the law applies are crucial when administering justice.  This rubbish sounds like it was made up on the back of a fag packet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' I said, my voice fading and echoing as I fell into a super-deep pothole.

'As I was saying,  when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ve....He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeeeeee.'

next time - Dave finally manages to tell us what exactly occurred in the sweat cottage, and Val remains determined to forge ahead with her plans.  

** for readers outwith Scotland, who may be puzzled by the above -  we have a new Hate Crime law here.  Hate crimes can now be reported at specially designated hate crime reporting centres, including a mushroom farm and a sex shop.  I'm not making this up.

Dodgy Brazilian butt lifts have also been in the news.  

What a strange world we live in...

Life's soundtrack. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Wild God (Official Audio)

Love this.  The older I get the more I appreciate Nick Cave, who is even older than me by the way and still out there.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are touring https://x.com/nickcave/status/1768562959574339655?s=20 later this year.

Glancing blows, a blood-stained map, and a Potential High-end Tourist Destination

A gloomy lochan with an island in the middle 

A map.  Or is it?

 

'You're WHAT?'  I gasped, dropping my pipe (unlit, but stuffed with baccy) on to the threadbare Aubusson fireside rug.  I knew it was an Aubusson because there was a faded yellowing note pinned to the wall beneath the fireside bell pull saying 'mind the Aubusson' in spidery handwriting with a downwards-pointing arrow.   It was Saturday afternoon and we were 'taking tea' with the T-G and his good lady wife at Tupfinder Towers.  Or not so good, depending on your point of view.  But the least said about that, the better.

For now, at any rate.

'We're Opening to the Public,' repeated the T-G, glancing at me.  'What's wrong with that?  Tupfinder Towers is a historic building, with Scottish history crammed into its every nook and its every dusty cranny.   Each spider's web tells a story.  We've every potential to become a high-end tourist destination.'

'You've been talking to Val Nark, haven't you.'  I glanced back at him.  And that wasn't a question.  Val was on a mission to transform our homely neglected backwater into a money-spinner using the powers of Instagram, Facebook and her own-made nettle jam.  Regardless of potholes, hairpin bends and a general lack of appropriate infrastructure.  

I glanced at the Aubusson as I spread my third scone with a thick layer of butter and an even thicker layer of Val's jam, which, despite its resemblance to mud was perfectly edible once you got used to the stinginess.  Several mysterious brownish stains marred the rug's original faded, threadbare pattern.  

'What's the pattern on your rug, T-G? Looks like a map of some sort.  Beneath the brown stains.'

'Yes,  I believe it is a map. Or it might be just a brown stain under more brown stains.  Who knows. I can't remember.  The Old Tup might've...' he glanced up at the large gloomy oil painting depicting a red-faced, tartan-bedecked gent sporting a periwig and posing beside a gloomy lochan with an island in the middle of it that hung beside the fireplace.   'They're not blood or anything like that.  Well, they might be.  Anyway it's too fragile to clean, even if one were inclined...'

The T-G stared at Mrs T-G momentarily, then sighed and poked the ashes of the fire with his swordstick. 

'I can't do everything!' snapped Mrs T-G. 

'No no no Mildred.  Of course not.  And nobody's asking you to.  You have logs to chop,  gutters to clear, ditches to dig, laundry to mangle, toilets to muck out, pheasants to pluck and rabbits to skin.  Not to mention keeping your moustache under control and crafting your delicious black sausage rolls and pickled worms. You can't be beating the carpets as well.  At least, not every day.  More tea, anyone?'

I glanced at the oak mantlepiece,  where a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dull brasswork of an ancient sextant.  I glanced again at the 'map'.  The more I looked at it the more I was sure I'd seen it somewhere before.  I glanced at Geoffrey, who was glancing at me and then at the map in a significant manner.  He shook his head, and glanced away.

'If you're opening to the public,  then - and I hate to say this - you're probably going to have to get some staff in.   You might even have to pay them T-G.'

The swordstick clattered to the oak floorboards. 'S-s-staff?  P-p-pay them?  Oh well I hardly think...'

'Times have changed T-G.  You're going to have to change with them and employ folk and pay them Real Cash Munny - I know it sounds dreadful but it seems that nobody works for free these days.  We hear all the news from Tuppence when he comes round for his tea.'

More later.

next time...the T-G forges ahead with his plan - or is it Val's - to open Tupfinder Towers to the public. Geoffrey and I discuss the 'map'.   Tuppence comes round for his tea, and we hear more horrifying tales of modern life...

 I'm having a pause at the moment, before writing again.  Life's taken a dark-ish turn,  or so it seems, I must get through it before doing anything else.

March is always a difficult month for me. 

Life's soundtrack. Keith Richards - I'm Waiting For The Man (Lou Reed Cover) (Official Video)

Interesting cover.  I like it.  The original has been part of my life's soundtrack, along with the rest of the 'yellow banana' album.  

Val's internal interminable monologue as she no bakes no bake gravel flapjacks

 So before the Cancer Research UK 29 day yoga challenge started, we left Dave pondering - well, pondering all kinds of things out on the moors.

I expect he was having a mid-life crisis-style-event.  Or not.  Because I don't believe in mid-life crises, myself.  Staring old age in the face as I am I've gone through enough 'crises' to know they don't just occur in 'mid-life'.  There's nothing special about mid-life, that requires a crisis of its own.  They happen all the time, depending on circumstances.  Twenty five or sixty.  Age makes little difference.  Sure, you learn a bit as you go through life. Menopause?  Nah, bollocks to that.  Likewise the andropause.  But you forget a lot also.  Although, if I understand Hegelian dialectic correctly (laughter) nothing is ever really 'forgotten'.  It's merely subsumed into the whole, creating the being we are forever in the process of becoming.  Hegel would lose the 'forever'.   

But I digress.

Back at the yurts,  Val was not baking her specialty -  'no bake' hardcore smashed gravel flapjacks.  Her fifth batch that day.  She was breathing heavily and muttering to herself as she smashed gravel with a large mallet and mixed it with golden syrup and rolled oats before pressing the mixture into a tray lined with clingfilm and refrigerating it overnight (full recipe not available, sorry).

'I know Dave's testosterone levels have plummeted.  Plummeted from, let's be honest, a very low base, to the infinitesimal.  He's not the man I thought I married.  Or is he.  Perhaps I was just stupid.  Blinded by his facility with a trailcam and his knowledge of all things otter.  I wonder if I should DIVORCE him!'  Val smashed the mallet extra hard as she said 'DIVORCE'.  A fragment of gravel flew ceiling-wards and clattered into the uplighter.  'Or perhaps he's experiencing the andropause.  Maybe I should cut him some slack.  Or perhaps NOT!'  Val's mallet hit the dwindling pile of gravel again and the hand-crafted kitchen table - hand-crafted by Dave, from local sustainable sources - i.e. the small stand of coppiced oak behind the yurts - shuddered.  Val paused, as she remembered Dave diligently sanding planks of oak and whittling the table legs out in the shed on cold winter evenings with only a small brazier and his fingerless gloves to keep him warm.

'Perhaps Dave's not so bad.  Perhaps it is the andropause and he just needs some more hot stoning, and an ear candling session to rev him up a bit. And a double strength boiling goji berry oil colonic irrigation is always a good answer no matter the question.  Mind you,  Dave's been going through the andropause ever since I met him thirty years ago.  Never mind.   If he ever returns from the moors I'll make a new man of him.'  

Val threw her mallet into the air and caught it deftly, before pressing the final flap jack mixture into its tin tray and popping it into the refrigerator.

more later - when Dave returns from the moors in a spiritually enlightened state, loses his bobble hat and gets a surprising job offer...

My Book Seapenguin

 

I published a paperback in 2017 - it's got almost all the original blog posts in it.

https://youtube.com/shorts/YdNHC7NbbtA?si=KRYs-reVcmWGKwPq

Above is a link to a Youtube short regarding the book.

And here is the link to my Amazon author page. https://www.amazon.com/author/katesmart

 I'm taking a pause here because I have something else going on writing-wise and I'm unsure whether to place it here or whether to start another, temporary blog.   I'm having a quick think.

Meanwhile, apologies for the truncated Dave post.  He is currently Hereabouts in a yurt-cum-sweat lodge - Val found him on the moors, ending his brief burst of freedom and accusing him of having 'mental health' that required immediate intervention with hot stones, a goji berry enema and three weeks in the sweat yurt.

More on all of this later.  

Dave's Hurting Soul

'Dave.  You need to spend some time alone mate.  You need to reconnect with yourself.'

Dave thought back to when he was a teenager.  Endless hours spent listening to Nick Drake on dull winter afternoons, smoking endless cigarettes and thinking endlessly dark thoughts.  It was always late autumn or winter back then, or so it seemed.  Everything grey and brown and muddy.  Mirroring how he felt inside.

He remembered longing for a cleansing frost.  And a homely house in the countryside with a welcoming fire, books, and a patchwork bedspread.  Instead of the damp featureless first floor apartment in the brutalist concrete housing estate where he was brought up.  

Was he connecting with himself, back then?  It was hard to say.  It was just the way he was, back then.  Friendless.  Introverted.  Relying entirely on his own company.  Escaping on his bike to bits of scrubby ancient woodland still hanging on amidst the concrete and rubble of new roads and shopping centres on the outskirts of town and finding solace for his hurting soul in a bit of birding.  

I haven't changed a bit, he thought.   I live in the countryside and I'm married to Val now, so I'm not on my own.  

But my soul still hurts.

Dave takes a Leap

' I'm free, to do what I want, any old ti-ime', Dave sang softly to himself as he strode across the moors. ' I can manage on my own', he thought, 'Of course I can.  I managed before I met Val - although that seems so long ago I can barely remember how.'

Dave paused briefly on the edge of a peat bog before his long rangy legs propelled him over in a single bound.

'If only I could manage to find the elixir of life', he mused, landing neatly on a patch of reeds,  'The secret to happiness.  I don't mean eternal happiness - I just mean a general sense of contentment with the day to day and perhaps an occasional spike into bliss rather than the current mindless trudge through the mire.  Is that a lot to ask?  Perhaps it is.  Perhaps I'm overstepping the parameters of the acceptable.  But then again - why shouldn't I?  Perhaps it's time I had a long hard look at my life.  Perhaps it's time to make some changes.   Am I really happy with Val?  Did I choose the correct life partner?  Well, I know the answer to that one, don't I.  And in any case, she chose me.  I didn't have much say in the matter now I come to think properly about it.  Which is not a comfortable thing to do.  In fact I'm going to stop thinking about it right now,  it's making me feel rather unwell.'

He wiped his nose on the back of a fingerless glove as he reached the brow of the hill, and looked eastwards to a descending grassy slope, studded with clumps of spaghnum moss.  At the bottom was a low building with a thin vertical stream of pale grey smoke emanating from a hole in the top.

'People say they have no regrets.  Well,  they must be lucky because I have plenty.  Mainly about stuff I didn't do, rather than stuff I did.  Now isn't that strange?  Or perhaps it isn't.  How would I know.  I've never spoken to anyone else about it.  Perhaps everyone feels the same.  But I kind of hope not because that would be a bit dull. '  Dave leapt downhill springing from clump to clump of soft spongy moss,'  I wonder who stays here.  Perhaps they might offer me a hot drink and a sandwich.  Perhaps it's time for me to step out of my comfort zone.  Perhaps I need to start saying YES to the universe, instead of anxiously hiding in the shadows with my trail cam.'

He walked round to the front of the building and knocked firmly on a bright green door.

'Is there anybody there?'

The brass letterbox swung open, pushed by an unseen hand.  Dave bent down and met a pair of beady eyes glittering in the darkness ...

Next time - Dave makes some new friends...and some new discoveries...

The Youngbloods - Get Together - 1967 - 5 .1 Surround (Stereo in)

Dave Nark has an existential crisis

'Does Santa wear a full wig, or is it a ring of white hair attached to his hat to make it look like a wig? What does he do for the rest of the year, what does he think about?  Does he garden at all?'  Dave Nark muttered as he paced back and forth in front of the row of composting toilets behind the yurts as the snow began to fall.  He was wearing khaki-coloured fingerless gloves and biting his nails. 

'I can't go on like this,' he thought. 'What am I doing with my life?  I'm 59 years old and the world has passed me by.  Or is it the other way round?  Am I really happy with Val?  Or am I just making do - settling, as they say.  I think I know the answer to that one.  Oh dear.  But it's not just that.  The wildlife vids are just not cutting it.  I'm losing my touch.  Everyone's tik tokking now.  My vids are old hat.  Nobody's interested in otters.  They want killer whales and breaching humpbacks.  I have to up my game or move on.  Basically that's it, isn't it.  Up my game or move on.  Move on into the fucking grave.'

'DAVE!'  screeched Val from inside the healing yurt.  'Don't forget that you've kindling to chop, logs to bring in and the woodburner to clean when you've done digging out the toilets.  And you can make me a cup of goji berry tea while you're at it.  Properly mind!  I want the water freshly boiled not flat and under-oxygenated like the last time.   I'm worn out hot-stoning.'

Dave stopped pacing for a moment.   He rubbed his long nose in a thoughtful manner and removed a drop of moisture with the back of his fingerless glove. 

'DAVE!'

'DAVE ARE YOU LISTENING!'

'DAVE!'

And then he started pacing again, only in a different direction.  Rather than pacing back and forth in front of the toilets (which he hadn't dug out by the way), he narrowed his eyes, adjusted his bobble hat and headed behind them - towards the moors...

next time - Dave has an odd encounter in a sweat lodge

Beginning the year with TS Eliot