Flutterby

I was a little late this year to see the Botanic Gardens in St Andrews at their full-on HEEEEERE'S SUMMER routine, but took the opportunity to have a wander around the late Summer splendour with my brother, at the same time he would have been visiting me in Holland. Had I, yannow, still been living there. :: sigh ::

Anyhoo, there was still plenty of colour to capture in memory and on film, even though many of the flowers were already past. Pff, who needs irises and orchids and early flowerererers when you can still have all this?:

Although, true to say, there were irises and orchids in the massive greenhouses, each of which are regulated for different climates: desert; mountain; tropical; and all varieties in between. This time around, though, there's an extra greenhouse: the butterfly house.

Climate controlled at a ‘balmy' 32° (ie, the temperature is bearable as long as you don't run around. Which is not something to be recommended when there are butterflies everywhere, for who knows what untold chaos we could inflict upon the future by an unfortunate Rhopalocera squishing...) you have to walk through an airlock to get to it, basically something to keep the cool out and the butterflies in, and then something happens. Something wonderful. 

You turn in to a child again!

I defy anyone entering a lush, green palace full of delicately flapping flashes of colour not to be overwhelmed by awe and wonder! I certainly was to the extent that more time was spent staring in delight as they fluttered to and fro than trying to make my phone take decent pictures!

And if one of these exquisite beauties actually landed on your hand and stayed for a while? Well... 

Squeeee!

Sun Dogs

It had been a trying day, beautifully topped off at tea-time when I had lovingly created tuna melts on special gluten-free pitta bread with my favourite Comté cheese for my evening noms and had watched them fall (in painful slow-motion) squidgy-side down on the floor before nary a taste was had.

Solitude called me after that, and beckoned me away for a walk far from frustrations and noise.

By the end of the road (the dead-end leading to next village by means of a muddy public footpath, in oxymoronic style) the sun had started going down, but something weird was going on with the light. I couldn't quite see what it was through the trees, but a man walking his little spaniel passed me going the other way and told me that there was a single sun dog in the sky.

Ah, said I. How wonderful, said I. I must have a proper look, said I, and left him, thinking that I'd somehow time-travelled back to ancient Egypt and was half expecting to see the sun being herded to its far-horizon rest by a particularly brave wingèd border collie.

Yes, yes, I hadn't a clue what he meant, but after finding a break in the trees I saw this, and realised that something special was going on, even if it wasn't solar deity-related.

No, that's really not a fault of my camera, although you'd not be penalised for that assumption. That, my dears, is the atmospheric phenomenon know as a left-hand sun dog. 

From what I understand, they generally come in pairs, one to be see on either side of the sun amongst some kind of halo effect, but this is Scotland, so you're not going to get two for free...*

I walked further east and watched the sun go down hounded by that dog, and have to admit the effect was incredible through the wispery clouds.

And then it was gone. It did, however, leave behind a spectacular sunset in its wake.

*Ah, stereotypes, gotta love 'em!

Early Morning Ruins

I was in St Andrews pretty early, so early, in fact, that I had time to have a wander around the castle and cathedral precincts before I was due to be elsewhere.

The August morning was crisp and clear, and a surprisingly chilly 6° at 8am. Well, surprisingly chilly for me, not yet being used to the generally cooler, more northern climes. Which is strange in a way, born Scot that I am, but it appears that in the last twenty years I've turned into a soft Southerner, even with coming back for four weeks a year to remind me that temperature truth is stranger than fiction. Living in France for so long has obviously done more damage to my inner thermostat than previously thought... That, and having lost so much of my own external central heating, are playing havoc with my ability to keep warm. Havoc, I tell you.

But I digress. (Hah, who am I kidding?! I am well aware that the temperatures of Scotland will be featuring heavily here from now on. And when I say ‘featuring', I mean ‘I shall be complaining'.) 

But I digress again. And now I've forgotten what I was going to say, so instead of more waffle, here are some photos of crumbly ruins that I took on my perambulations.

Crumbly Ruin No. 1: cathedral precinct wall with lookout tower, and the east facade of the cathedral.

Crumbly Ruin No. 2: castle

Crumbly Ruin No. 3: cathedral precinct wall with carvings

Crumbly Ruin No. 4: the castle from the cliffs near the harbour

Crumbly Ruin No. 5: the pier. Which isn't really crumbly, but why let the truth get in the way of a good photo story!

The Establishment Of Epic Walks

There's an ancient right of way that continues from the end of my road (technically a dead-end) to the next village to the west, past the old Bonfield Farm (now a gentrified estate with two ridiculously expensive houses in its place), along a muddy pathway to a copse of trees (under which I attempted to revise for my O grade history exam back in nineteen coughty-cough), which then follows a slight curve between a couple of fields (full of ripening wheat when I passed by). 

The path turns into a farm access track that climbs on up to the top of the hill (during which you can turn back and see beautiful views of the village, St Andrews, and the coast),

and eventually passes Clatto Farm to meet the track on the other side that joins the farm road to the dead-end coming out of the next village, Blebo Craigs. So only dead-ends if you're in a motor vehicle! Huzzah for shanks' pony!

There are options from here to continue on through Blebo and further west, or you can avail yourself of another little right-of-way that works itself north to the Blebo offshoot hamlet of Flisk, and then wends its way further north and east down an old and rocky tractor path with pretty views of the surrounding countryside,

that eventually ends up on the Dura Den/Strathkinness High road, where there are still verges wide enough to jump on to avoid approaching cars! (Yes, I do know my highway code - walk on the side facing traffic!)

Roughly 12,000 steps: Epic Walk No.1 Established!

The Green, Green Hills Of Home

I decided that a gentle re-introduction of my fair self to my new/old surroundings would have to include a walk in the woods at the earliest opportunity. Day Two Back Home was suitably early opportunity!

It was gentle in that Magus Muir (or, as Google insists ‘Bishop's Wood', being, as it is, the scene of Archbishop Sharp's murder in the 17th century) is only just under a mile from where I'm staying. It was not gentle in that there be hills in them thar... hills.

Don't be fooled by the benign degree of the slope on celluloid. Nah-ah. That, there, is the Valley of the Kinness (the name of the village as translated from the Scots Gaelic for ‘valley of the Kinness Burn'), and those ‘gentle' elevations were an absolute bugger to try and cycle up when I was wee. They haven't gotten any easier on the old knees since, either!

Magus Muir is found on a plateau up a steady climb that eventually tops out at Drumcarrow Craig a mile or three away (somewhere I hope to walk to once I figure out a way to get there that doesn't involve narrow roads with no verges), where you can find the monument to Archbishop Sharp's assassination by Covenanters in 1679 next to a little path that roams around the woods. 

The woods themselves have changed hands in the recent past, and are now maintained by Fife Council, who updated the layout of the pathways from those I remembered as a youngling, to something making the area both easily accessible, and less spooky.

Although whether the woods were really spooky, or just made so in our imaginations by means of ghost stories, I can't say, but it doesn't help matters that just outside the tree line to the west lies the final resting place of five Covenanters who were executed to teach a lesson to other religious dissenters. That they weren't  Archbishop Sharp's actual murderers adds something eerily poignant to their grave site.

The woods are on the whole a pleasant place to wander around. I'd reckon the square-footage of the grounds is roughly the same as Sorghvliet park in Den Haag (if you allow yourself more wandering along the old, more overgrown pathways that can still be found to the north side of the woods), and as it takes roughly the same time to walk to Magus as it does to Sorghvliet, I've allowed myself to call it my surrogate.

There won't be any bluebells here come Spring, though, but that's okay, as I've found somewhere else that looks very promising indeed...

(tbc)

Fàilte Gu Alba!

It's been a while... A long and winding road, as the song says. One not unlike the motorway from Hull to Fife, the UK leg of my transit-van-full-of-not-quite-all-the-belongings-I-had-left-after-giving-away-2/3-of-everything-I-owned-just-so-I-could-fit-all-my-belongings-in-one-transit-van. I still had to leave some stuff behind. I'm still sad about that.

Anyhoo. This was my ‘Welcome [Back] To Scotland' moment. You'll notice the sign is partly written in the traditional Pictish rain dialect.

But let this be your official warning: I have a working computer again (my, but it's been a long time...) so I'll be adding quite a few posts over the next week or so to bring us all up to date. I was swithering whether to just add them dated when actually written, or add do a back-dated flip-type thing, but finally decided on the latter just to confuse you all when you see posts arriving on your feed *now* that are appear to be more than a few months old!

I bet you've missed me, haven't you! ;)

Plundering Lyrics For Fun And Profit

I was attempting to sell some not-relevant-to-me-any-more music scores the other month, to try and get a little monetary help towards my move back across the sea. It was mostly unsuccessful, and to be honest, it felt a tad degrading, but it did set my writing chops gnashing for a little while...

Chewing on appropriated song tunes.

Swallowing inspiration.

Digesting genius.

Spitting out... urgh, yeah, I may have taken this analogy a little far.

Ira Gershwin or Oscar Hammerstein I'm not, but it was fun playing with their lyric forms.

Back-story: I changed faches a few years ago from soprano to mezzo-soprano and partly because of this change I found that my pile of music was growing larger, fast, and once I'd made the decision I was moving, I also made the decision to pare down the amount of music I was going to lug back with me. So, I said bye-bye to a lot of higher soprano rep that I knew I wouldn't be singing again, plus a few scores for which I had duplicates. Mozart, lots of Mozart from Exsultate, jubilate, to albums of concert arias; Scarlatti arias for soprano; a pile of Bach - eighteen or so different cantatas; Mahler's Fourth Symphony for soprano and orchestra; a Gluck opera; one by Rameau; and another by Handel; Schubert songs for high voice; and much more.

But I found just listing them and adding photos on facebook (because as much as people moan about social networks, it's a handy thing for getting the word out) was not sufficient to get garner enough interest, so I started adding little rhymes. Tweaking lyrics from well-known songs and show-tunes to get a bit more attention.

I admit to spending a lot of time working on these, more than necessary for mere facebook updates, but because I thoroughly enjoyed trying to keep the rhyming form, rhythm, and style of each I tried to copy, I kept them, and have collected them here.

(from Oliver! - to the tune of Who Will Buy)  I started out with something simple. My original facbook post was going to read, simply, who will buy my scores, and in the very act of typing this out I gave myself an earworm. And, because I like to share, I decided to share the earworm with some scrambled text. You're welcome.

Who will buy This wonderful music?
Such a choice You never did see!
Who will buy Some wonderful music
And maybe a cantata or three?

And things escalated from there...

(from The Sound of Music - to the tune of My Favourite Things)

Mozart, and Handel, and Joh'n Seb's Cantatas, 
Mahler, and Schubert, will please your grey matter.
Gluck, some more Mozart, and Ludwig van B,
These are the gems that fit you to T!


(from Queen's ‛Bohemian Rhapsody' - I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me)

I have a few scores
From a small Library.
I have a few scores
Everybody come and see!
Beethoven, Mozart and some JSB!


(from The Beatles ‛Hey Jude')

Hey scores, don't make me sad, 
Take my Mozart, and some Beethoven!
Remember to have a look at the Bach, 
There are a good few, so how ‛bout a dozen...?! 
(dozen, dozen, dozen LAAH LA LA LALALA LAAH...


(From the Christmas carol ‛Jingle Bells')

Selling all the scores, have a look what's on display!
Bach cantatas all; Gorgeous Mozart! Yay!
Bells in Mahler ring; Handel's a delight!
Some new; some loved, so cheap it's almost robb'ry type: daylight!

(from High Society - to the tune of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire)

Who wants to have some cut-price airs? You do!
Have gorgeous Gluck and some to spare? You do!
Who needs the wonder of a Mozart room-mate?
Some gorgeous cantates? Joh'n Seb you can't hate!
Who needs Handel to keep you sane? You do!
Sing Schubert's songs; more Bach again? You do!
Who wants to have some jolly bargains? You do!
You do! ‛Cos all you need is mu-(sic)... 
(ach, so close...)

(from Top Hat - to the tune of Top Hat, White Tie, And Tails)

I'm sellin' some good music, 
Each of them a fine pick;
They tell some pretty tales!
I'm sayin' ‛bye to Joh'n Seb, 
Over the World Wide Web;
Come see what's for sale!

(from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes - to the tune of Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend)

A score on the shelf can be quite sentimental,
And Handel is a girl's best friend!
Some Gluck kept myself cannot pay the rental
On a transit van going home on the autobahn!

Schubert songs delight day-long, 
And we all dream of Bach in the end!

But songs or cantatas,
These gems are what matter!
Mahler! (Mahler!) Beethoven! (Beethoven!)
(Come buy my music!)
Mozart is a girl's best friend!

and lastly, from West Side Story - to the tune of I Feel Pretty)

I have Handel, check the sample!
I have Schubert, Beethoven, and Bach!
Here's your last chance
To add beauties to your music stack!
I have lieder, and cantatas
I have music you'll simply adore,
Have a look
At some pretty wonderful scores!

The label for the post says ‛poetry' for which I have to beg your indulgence. This post doesn't really fit in with much else here, and real poetry it ain't. Still, forgive me this once while I splurge my second-rate scribblings over this tiny corner of the interwebs!