Blog Reunited

The remnants of a cleared community on Mull



This is the first post on my blog for many months. There are many reasons for my neglect but the main ones are:

1. Nuisance Comments and Spam

I know many people read my blog because they tell me they do, but being shy types they never leave comments. The blog has never attracted many comments so when I do get one posted I am delighted and normally publish it. In the past few months I have been deeved with comments, some blatant spams but others seem genuine. A few months ago I was naive enough to publish what looked like a genuine comment from an anonymous poster and caught a rather nasty virus. I now refuse to post any comments from Anonymous.

Why do people do this? What benefit does it give them? It is sick and evil. I raged at the time and inadvertently took it out on my blog.


2. A Novel to finish

After my return from The Gambia I shut myself in my own personal writing cave and edited my novel The Incomers to the final draft. I passed it out to my early readers and went to Mull to sleep and try to forget it. On my return, after receiving some feedback, I edited again. It is now time to face the horrible task of sending The Incomers into the world, to agents and publishers and anyone who is prepared to look at it. I know rejections are inevitable, I will just have to keep positive until someone, somewhere, likes my story enough to take it on.

Balsalt Columns with snow moving in behind from Ben More - Ulva, Mull



3. Start new Writing Project

One aim of the Mull trip was to put me in the mood to start another writing project. Last November I took part in Write a Novel in the Month of November. I wrote roughly thirty thousand words of a young adult story called The Mongrel. The idea came from a dream I had a few years back and like Robert Louis Stevenson I reckoned it was too good to waste. I picked up the reins of the plot a couple of weeks ago but things are on a slow trickle, the pace must pick up if I want to have a first draft finished by the end of August.

4. The Garden

It's gardening time again and with variable temperatures that confuses the plants plus six new vegetable beds to tend, I spend more time in the garden than ever before.

5. Dentist visits

Note the new profile photo with creamy crown to the fore.

I broke my front tooth at the age of six and ended up with a fang that would not look out of place in a Twilight movie. My smile closed and I suffered this indignity until the dentist agreed to crown the tooth when I turned sixteen. That first crown, although NHS, was a pretty good match and I learned to open my smile again. But these things never last and I have had to bear the treatment of three subsequent crowns, some better than others. The last one, carried out six years ago, was the worst yet. It was cream coloured and solid block. But by this stage I couldn't turn my smile off and each time I was handed a photo of me beaming at the camera the only thing I saw was a great big horrible cream crown sparkling in my mouth.

Now, I am at the age where things are beginning to rust in and around my body. The elasticity in my skin has gone like weak knicker elastic, my visits to the hairdresser are more frequent and last longer and additional hair is appearing in unwanted places. The one thing that hasn’t changed is my smile. My teeth are still strong and relatively white despite being coated on a regular basis with coffee and red wine. I decided to splash out and get a new crown, a proper crown, one that I would pay lots of money for.

My dentist agreed and after my first visit she sent me to the lab (many miles away) for a tooth colour match. Imagine my horror when, at the final fit, just before she sealed the deal, my dentist sighed and showed me the mirror. The new tooth was a worse match than creamy crown.

I returned to the lab today to be greeted by a very contrite technician. She called in her colleague for a second opinion and asked me to return (the many miles) next Monday to ensure they don’t make the same mistake again. I hope to have a new profile photo soon that I can look at without seeing a creamy crown - I just pray I don’t spot something I have missed all these year.

The Great Gambia Conundrum

Kololi Beach




There were two reasons why The Gambia won the winter holiday decision. The first was to put some heat into my frozen bones. The second was to pick up some valuable grass roots research for my work in progress - novel ‘The Incomers’. Thomas Cook offers reasonable package holidays, flying from Manchester, so the logistics were pretty straight forward.

Once the holiday was booked I began to hear horror stories but also some complimentary tales about the Gambia. I chose to ignore all stories, read the advice given in the guidebooks and take what comes our way.

Colin's and my first experience of how the country works happened at the Airport. Porters asked everyone on the flight if they had a UK newspaper. These are later sold on to tourists in the resorts. Illegal money changing was taking place by the waiting buses, something the guide book tells you not to do but some greedy tourists seemed happy they were getting a good exchange rate, to hell with the country’s economy.


Serrekunda, the largest town in Gambia














Next the bus broke down within sight of the airport and we had to wait in the searing afternoon heat for two minibuses to arrive. When we did arrive at the hotel our room was not ready, the trusted (British) guest who occupied the room had promised the manager he would return from a meeting by two thirty and hadn’t. We were taken to the bar to wait. We were immediately hassled by the bar man who wanted to take us around on his day off. I had only been in the country an hour and was beginning to regret my choice of destination. After a free meal and many apologies we eventually got into the room at eight o’clock in the evening. Things could only get better, but the water pressure was low and my much anticipated shower was a trickle of cold water, but I didn’t mind because water is a scarce resource in Gambia and I was just grateful to get a wash.


Colin manages to get six feet from the sun lounger before the bumster welcomes him with open arms













The next day we decide to walk along the beach to the main resort Senegambia. Easier said than done. One of the biggest problems the Gambian Government has with its tourist industry is Bumsters. The guidebooks describe these young school drop-out boys as touts, fixers, chancers, gigolos, wheeler-dealers and informal guides. They have a highly developed sense of self worth and believe they have a right to interrupt your holiday with their agenda driven chat. As soon as we walk onto the beach we were approached by bumsters. They want to shake your hand, they want to be your friend. The advice is that they are harmless and the best way to deal with them is to be friendly but firm. This is all very well and most people try that but it is so intrusive that by the time we had walked the length of one stretch of beach we had shaken the hands of more than thirty boys and had no time to ourselves. It was like going into combat the moment you walked out the hotel and far from enjoyable, which is a shame because our beach, Kololi Beach, has stunning white sands and huge Atlantic rollers crashing into shore.

There are plenty people who do take advantage of the services offered by the bumsters. The streets are filled with young boys proudly accompanying much older women (and sometimes older men) around the resorts. At first I thought this was a form of exploitation but I couldn’t work out who was being exploited. Unlike the blatant child abuse in Thailand at least these Gambian boys seemed willing and over the age of consent, and the tourists were old enough to know better.


A baobab tree


















It wasn’t long before we longed to escape the bumsters and fat blob tourists and see some of the country so we booked onto a tour with a local company ARCH (African Real Cultural and Historical) Tours. The tour was called 4 Tours in One Day Trip. I was a bit worried it would be hard going especially as I woke that morning with a dose of the runs but it was the highlight of the holiday. We were picked up by guides, Mohamed Ali, Angelica (the first female tour guide in Gambia) and Landrover driver Solomon, before eight in the morning and were soon joined by three Edinburgh University students Marianne, Lisa and Sarah. Ali said we would be like one happy family and by the end of the day it felt that way.


Serrekunda Market, this lady was selling cassava leaves for cooking







The first stop was Serrekunda Market. Serrakunda is the largest town in Gambia and the market is where the farmers and women vegetable growers bring their surplus crops and the locals go to buy their provisions. Many of the goods sold are made from recycled material and in an area were resources are scarce I was impressed the whole time I was in the country with the way everything is used – no wasteful westerners here!. Ali had warned us only to take panorama photos because some Gambians believe the camera will take their soul. The market was hustling with activity, my senses were overwhelmed. I expected it to be colourful but my camera could not do justice to the profusion of colour and for fear of offending anyone or missing a sight I took very few photos. One lady seller said we could take her photo. I showed her the photo on the digital screen, she was delighted and her friend also wanted one taken. I promised to send them the photos which I will post to the Arch Tours to pass on.


Wee boys run miles for a sweetie




We went to many cultural tourist sights on the tour but another highlight was the ride through the many bush villages. The children here have very little. From one village they ran barefoot for two miles to our next stopping point. These little boys were hardly even out of breath when they caught us. They were given a sweet each and a slug from a bottle of Fanta. I was humbled to see how quiet and well behaved they were and considered how privileged our children are.


A water cooler






We also visited a village where we were welcomed and shown round the sparse living conditions. They have no electricity and the water comes from a well. Ali explained the life of the women began at six in the morning pounding rice for the meals before cooking, cleaning and going out to work on the vegetable fields. The men work on the land in the dry season only and spend six months sitting around talking and thinking with other men. Not much of a difference from Scotland then.


Women unload the catches from fishing vessels






We visited the fishing village of Tanji where the women waded out to deep waters to relieve the fishing boats of their catch. The fishing vessels looked precarious and dangerous but the woman’s job seemed more so.


Ali and Angelica supplied us with information the whole day and every question I asked was answered with great knowledge and humour. Solomon did a fantastic job of driving us over very rough dust tracks and in keeping the children, who begged for sweets, in check; he was firm but fair.

I think if I hadn’t gone on this tour I may have left the Gambia thinking that every citizen is a greedy chancer, out to get our money because that is the impression you are left with in the resorts. But we met genuine people not far from the resorts and even some in the resort. One young bush taxi driver gave us clear instruction on how to work the taxi system and in the Bijilo Forest Park a Ranger chatted and gave us loads of information about places we could visit the next time we came to Gambia.

A shy colobus monkey in the Bijilo Forest Park














Of course the Gambians are just looking out for themselves and who can blame them. I overheard a conversation between a British do-gooder family and a Gambian charity worker. The family set up the meeting and wanted to discuss sponsoring a Gambian child. Very noble one would think but as the conversation progressed the chat turned to the sites and sounds of their holiday. The bottom line was the family wanted an unofficial guide to take them around, probably for next to nothing. They asked the over worked, under paid charity worker if he would do it. Thankfully he said no.


The Gambia has everything a country needs to turn it into a fantastic tourist destination; sun, sea, beaches and interesting trips, but the bumsters spoil it. If the government continues their efforts to control this then they may succeed. But tourism will still change the country. The simple life of the bush villagers will change. They may become unhappy with their lot. We saw children who were great runners and happy with nothing but without careful handling they could become the bumsters of tomorrow. Lets hope that role models like Mohamed Ali, Angelica and Solomon will have a greater impact and the people who work in the tourist industry turn the country into a happy equitable nation. Others nations have managed this and they can too.



Other Highlights

Chilli Willi (aka Amadou Sarr) played one night at our hotel. Not only is he a lovely guy he is a fine musician too.

Lamin (meaning first born), the young boy who cleaned our room, came to wave us goodbye and bid us a safe flight even after he had received his tip - I can’t see that happening in the UK.

On a boat trip we stopped off on a sand bank, already occupied by four local women digging in the hot sun for mussels, to let the tourists swim in the creek. To escape the inane tourist gibbering I walked the length of a football pitch to the end of the sandbank. Here, where the soft warm breeze brushed my face, I listen to oystercatchers, whimbrels and the chatting of the local women. On the way back to the boat I noticed one of the women watching me. I gave her a wee wave and she mirrored my wave in return, it was a very serene moment.

Women dig for mussels on a sand bank

The Best Show of the Year

On Friday night after a warming meal of Cullen Skink and New Season Lamb at The Piping Centre I braved the icy streets of Glasgow and teetered across the road to the Theatre Royal to a performance of Off Kilter.

Off Kilter is advertised as a "Dance and Music spectacular with a Scottish spin", but it is more than that. It is collaboration of Scottish music and choreography but also of art, poetry, song, costume, lighting and sound.

At last The Scottish Government and The Scottish Art Council are putting money into something with international appeal. Does this mean we are starting to take our Artists seriously and rid ourselves of the Tartan Tat image? I hope so.

The show covers all aspects of Scottish culture whether we are proud of it or not and the production is not afraid to take chances. I tried to spot how many cultures were exposed and lost count.

The opening number Seann Triubhas is typically Scottish with piper and highland dancer but if the audience thought this was going to be just another White Heather Club they were in for a shock. The next number Halflight! featured three dancers including Jennifer Patterson, Artistic Director of All or Nothing Dance and Aerial Theatre. The opening finds her suspended in a hammock thirty feet above the stage and her aerobatic performance is heart stopping.

Scotland's multiculturalism is celebrated in the dance work of Ihayami, an Indian Dance school based in Scotland. They had me mesmerized with their fusion of Indian and Scottish dance, a mix I had never considered but find they complement each other in rhythm and vitality.

Paisley Patter uses the music of Ivor Cutler to show life among the tenements in the fifties and sixties. The projected images by Oscar Marzaroli add the finishing touch.

The nostalgia of Paisley Patter is brought up to date when we are confronted by gritty graffiti art by Nico Major as a backdrop to the a burst of breakdancing energy, that is the stirring and often disturbing Innit...Innat - no?. This fast moving urban piece, reflecting Scotland's drug abuse and gang culture, stomps to the unique sounds of Scotland greatest modern musician, the sadly missed Martyn Bennett.


The second half opens with Cease Your Funning. The dance, a mix of modern ballet and jazz, is performed by guests, The Mark Morris Dance Group. They dance to Scottish songs sung by Mhairi Lawson and accompanied by chamber musicians including the Korean cellist, Su-a-Lee, who seems to appear at every concert I attend . This ensemble celebrate opera, ballet, song, love, drinking and our highland heritage - and probably our self deprecations because at times the piece is far from complimentary.

No festival of Scottish culture would be complete with out football and Gemmill’s Goal fitted the bill. Of all the pieces in the show the Scottish press picked up most on this one but I liked it the least. I never thought I would live to see the day when We're on the march with Ally’s Army would be danced to by real professionals.

The highlight of the show for me was Small Street, a solo performance danced by Amy Park to the second piece by Martyn Bennett - Nae Regrets. The dance depicts the Scottish tendency to stick two fingers to the world but has the poignant message of child abuse and homelessness. The performance is powerful and moving enough to bring me to tears.

We tend to forget the changing face of Scotland’s music and dance, but the house band remind us by supplying the sounds for the penultimate showcase Scots Wi Hay.

The audience is brought right up to date with the Finale where the music of Calvin Harris, Franz Ferdinand, The Rezillos and Hugh McDairmid are mixed by the talented DJ Dolphin Boy. The projected images for this piece are by celebrated Scottish artist John Byrne.

So the music stops the bows are taken and the audience clap, but that’s not the end. The house band return to the stage, the dancers drop into the aisles and drag the audience onto their feet. What follows is a mini ceilidh with a full set of The Dashing White Sergeant and a couple of sets of the Gay Gordons. What a fantastic way to finish a show.

I later discovered that Off Kilter pulled resources from a wealth of outstanding Scottish dance companies, many of whom have involvement in youth initiatives and community programmes, among them YDance and the National Centre for Dance, Dance Base.

I was also surprised to learn that most of the music was performed live and many of the diverese tunes were composed and arranged by House Band drummer Tom Bancroft.

Off Kilter's tour dates are;

His Majesty's Theatre, Aberdeen Thu 14 - Sat 16 January

Perth Concert Hall, Perth Thu 21 & Fri 22 January

Eden Court Theatre, Inverness Tue 26th & Wed 27th January


This is a show that is going to be hard to beat.


The Multi Talented Martyn Bennett plays with Scotland's Jazzman Tommy Smith

101 breakable resolutions

Jenn Butterworth and Nuala Kennedy

Cheer Up

Why does everyone have to be so gloomy at this time of year? Many of the New year posts I have read this festive have lamented the passing of a decade with regrets and blame ladled out in the bucketful (or snow shovelful). The banks have failed us, the government don't know what they're doing, our planet is doomed, child poverty is rife in Scotland, our livers are to be saved with a minimum alcohol pricing policy, we can't go anywhere because the terrorist will kill us, Scottish football is in disarray and we have run out of grit.

I refuse to be pessimistic. The BBC Scotland Hogmanay programme was one of the best they have aired for years, not least because one of the house band was a former guitar teacher of mine, Jenn Butterworth. The quality of music pulled together by Phil Cunningham and his crew bodes well for the vibrant Scottish traditional music scene and the year ahead. And Celtic Connections is just round the corner.

Each year I give myself objectives. Last year I aimed to reduce my carbon footprint and I believe I achieved that. All waste that can be recycled is recycled, at most I put out a full carrier bag amount of rubbish to landfill each week. Most of my food was and still is bought locally, and like last year I gave home made food hampers as Christmas presents. Not only is this a cheaper way of doing things it cuts down on unwanted Stuff that no one wants or needs.

My big failing was to have three short haul flights. This year is going to be different.


Procrastination be gone!

Procrastination is a writer's biggest enemy. Email and the internet are the willing accomplices of the procrastinator. Today I spent all day unsubscribing to the hundreds of newsletters that flutter to me through the course of each session. I have been hard and cut out all those diversion I have built around me to make me feel wanted, things that give me no benefit and often prove toxic.

My big fat Wii

Over indulgence is a given at this time of year but my Wii Fit is bullying me along and I have high hopes for a slimmer figure and more energy by Easter. For some strange reason I seem to excel at the more violent pursuits like boxing, swordplay and kungfu. It's a great way to get writer's frustration out of my system.


There is nothing mightier than the pen in my arsenal

My writing went well last year but my submission rate was abysmal. This year I plan to write more short stories and to submit many more pieces to publishers, agents and magazines. I also intend to try my hand at more competitions. Last year I entered three national competitions and had one success.


Let's face the music

One Christmas present Santa brought was a Chieftain whistle, a big silver brute that gives my hand cramp. At the moment I can just about manage a scale. Big challenges there I fear.
And although my guitar practice has slipped over the holiday period, last year I learned many new chords, performed in public three times and I am looking forward to continuing to pick up new tunes like the Ashokan Farewell on the clip.



Family Values

This may sound mushy but as I grow older I realise that families are the most important people in our lives. I need to remind myself of that more often.


A word about the weather

This post would not be complete without a word out the recent weather to have hit the UK. The rest of the northern hemisphere must be laughing up their sleeves at the fuss we make. But I would like to give a big acknowledgement to Council workers, not just the men who have battled to keep our main highways open but also to the Carers.

My mother lives in Fife and has a carer visit her morning and night. While others, me included, could have a holiday and hide indoors, these low paid workers battled up and down snow stormed and icy pavements to bring care to those who need it. My mum appreciates it and I am sure many other do too.


2010 is going to be a great year (once we dig out of the snow), not just for me but for the world.

Computer says, 'fat bitch'!

Computer says, ‘fat bitch’

OK maybe it didn’t use those words but that was what it meant. My new toy, a Wii Fit, pulled no punches when it diagnosed the state of my body. I thought it would be just like any other computer game but was shocked to learn that it weighs you, gives you a BMI and awards your a body fitness age based on its results.

And its results on me were pretty damming. I have been avoiding the scales for years and tend to judge my weight on how comfortable my clothes feel, but I have always known I could do to loose a few (ah-hhem) pounds. The poor weather recently has meant that my meager attempts at running have been reduced to once a month, if I’m lucky. Pilates once a week isn’t enough and the empty calories consumed in the red wine I drink are a disgrace. But do I really need a computer to tell me that I am overweight and dying prematurely? Apparently yes.

The Wii gave me a fitness age twelve years my senior! I am a crumbling heavy wreck according to the black box plugged into my telly. But help is on hand, this little darling has promised to help me, all I have to do is visit each day for 30minutes and I will be saved.

Being a computer of course means it doesn’t sugar coat anything with excuses; the fact I am big boned does not wash with Wii. This is a nuts and bolts solution you can’t argue back with and that is the reason I like it. I have decided to give this solution a go, I know it is the wrong time of year or maybe it is the right time of year. I have to do something because if what this thing is telling me is correct, my body is going to start giving up twelve years before it is suppose to. I live in the West of Scotland, I am surrounded by premature old, young folk, it is not going to happen to me!

Once I made a Wii mini Mii (small and dumpy) I was ready to go. So what is it like having a computer as a trainer? My personal virtual female trainer is very encouraging, but individual games have their own scoring system. The boxing trainer, a crabby faced cockney, is horrible and shouted that I hadn’t even broken sweat. The text rankings aren’t much better; they hurl cheeky insults at you like ‘couch potato’ or ‘amateur’. It gave me an ‘I’ll show you’ attitude.

There is one exercise where I managed to persuade the computer to call me ‘Champion’. This is Zazen, a zen exercise that measures how still you can sit. It involves sitting on the balance board and staring at a candle on the screen. If the flame flickers your body is moving, if it moves too much the flame if extinguished and it is game over. Distractions are thrown at you, creaking footsteps and fire flies that sizzle in the flame. I can out sit the computer time of 180 seconds. It seems I excel at sitting doing nothing.

History Lesson

My weekend was spent in London and the highlight for me was a trip to see Billy Elliot the musical. I remember a few years ago watching the film with great interest particularly the parts about the miners strike, but the musical is a far better representation of these times.

When I was at school reading '1984' for my 'O' Level English I had no idea the year would have such an impact on my life. Billy Elliot is not just a musical it is a social history. There were many foreigners in the audience who I am sure did not really understand what was going on, or maybe thought that police riot scenes are exaggerated. But they aren't. The writer of Billy Elliot obviously lived close to the miners strike - as I did. From the years of 1977 until my divorce in 1991 I was married to a coal miner. I lived through that time and I had forgotten what that life was like.

It was the orange overalls that did it. Each week I would boil my husband's overalls in my hire purchase automatic. Tiny pieces of coal would get stuck in the rubber of the door. I would hang them out in all weathers just to get them out of the house. often bringing them in frozen from the line, like cardboard cut out. They never really were clean.

I never agreed with the miners strike. I hated all the leaders; MacGaughy, Scargill, Macgregor and of course Thatcher. Not one of them cared what happened to the families.

During the strike we had our rent paid and received a food voucher for the local supermarket. I would go armed with calculator and carefully buy a week's shopping trying to use the whole amount of the voucher. No change was given, no non-groceries were allowed. My blood still ices over with the humiliation suffered at the hands of the checkout girls if you miscalculated and had to decide what to leave out of the basket, while other shoppers looked on.

It was during this time that I learned to economise and have now turned this skill into my How to Survive the Credit Crunch course. The single mothers I teach are fascinated with my hard luck stories.

It wasn't until after the strike that many wives, myself included, found that Social Services were giving cash hand out to the men to help the families. In my case these handouts got no further than the Miners Welfare Club. How did I find out? As soon as the strike ended, Social Services billed us over a thousand pounds, the handouts were in fact loans and had to be paid back. Oh happy times.

There is a nostalgia attached to the demise of the coal industry that I will never understand. It was a terrible way to make a living. I remember my ex husband had pock marks all over his back from falling debris coming off the tunnel roof, the only time it cleared up was during his three week annual holiday. Many men were injured or lost their lives working in unsafe conditions. I admit that the small communities were unique but I don't believe it was only the pits that kept the community spirit alive, the strike shattered communities as is documented in Billy Elliot.

With the right attitudes and the right resources communities can thrive again, they just need another enemy to fight. It would be good, considering the damage the coal carbon omissions make to our world, if their fight is against climate change.

On a brighter note, Billy Elliot is not all doom, the dancing is superb and the young actors are to be admired. And the sight of burly men dancing in tutus over those orange overalls made washing them all those years ago worth while - my ex husband should be spinning in his grave.