Like a velvet cloak


There are times when one regular outing can change into something different, a gem that quickens your pulse and provides the idea for another blog post.

This is what happened recently when I set off for a meeting in a venue that was new, one I hadn’t heard of despite its proximity, but which had me reaching for my iPhone as I had no camera with me. So the photos, taken in an interior that was dim for photography, may be rather grainy because I haven’t yet experimented with using my camera phone, but the opportunity was too good to let pass for some unusual (and sometimes abstract-looking) images.


I assume this is the smaller of the two organs – the one from the original Palace Theatre, but it looks massive to me.

The venue was the New Palace Theatre Organ Heritage Centre in Greenlaw, a village in the Scottish Borders.


An odd place, perhaps, for such a tribute to the days of silent film and the golden days of cinema, but one worth a visit to see the display of old cinematic equipment including commercial as well as domestic projectors, old cameras, a pianola, a wind-up horn gramophone with photographs and prints of the golden age of film adorning the walls.




We inherited a Bell and Howell projector, similar to this, from an uncle. It and this date from the 1930s.




A miniature piano. Its size can be judged by the electric socket in bottom right corner. Presume from buttons on top it plays. Forgot to ask.

The building in Greenlaw was originally acquired in 1991 to house a small theatre pipe organ, based on the remains of the Hilsdon organ from the Palace Picture House in Princes Street, Edinburgh. The picture house opened in December, 1913 and was later acquired by the family who had built the Playhouse in Leith Walk. The Hilsdon organ was installed in the Palace in 1929 when sound equipment was fitted, with the Palace then run in tandem with the much larger Playhouse.


The organ remained there until 1955 when it was removed to Hilsdon’s organ works in Glasgow where it languished for twenty years. Having been pilfered over the years for spares, the remaining organ was given to Gordon Lucas along with pipes from some other organs. The organ works of Henry Hilsdon Ltd in Govan, Glasgow built a handful of both orchestral and unit organs for Scottish cinemas. Hilsdon was regarded by many as the ‘Rolls Royce’ of Scottish pipe organ builders.


Gordon Lucas along with Larry McGuire purchased the Greenlaw property as a place to reassemble the organ. Part of the property had originally been a single storey cottage of two rooms with a thatched roof, extended around 1760 to form two cottages with its first non-domestic use by a wooden spoon-maker, then by a saddler and harness maker. An extension became a ‘side school’ for the Free Church of Scotland and around 1835 another extension was erected as the home for a retired Free Church minister. Later the property was used as one of the village’s three bakeries. Several transformations and changes of use later the building became an agricultural machine repair workshop, then a builder’s workshop before being bought as a granny flat. So a patchwork history for a building destined to become a ‘Palace’.



Spectacular painted ceiling.


Before the organ could be moved into its new home the property required extensive renovations to accommodate the organ pipes and to make the building suitable for purpose. By the end of 1993 the studio accommodating the organ was compete, and a concert was given for members of STOPS – the Scottish Theatre Organ Preservation Society. STOPS members were so impressed by the renovations they asked if they could use the premises as the Society’s new home, and so the idea of the ‘New Palace Centre’ was born with a formal public opening concert in October 1994.


Pedals and brass knobs for which I’m sure there will be a technical name.

All was moving along nicely when the following year their organ world was turned upside down. The huge organ in the Playhouse, Edinburgh, the largest theatre organ in Scotland, was donated to them, on the stipulation it should be amalgamated with its little sister in Greenlaw. At that time neither organ was complete, a task Gordon and Larry had to address.

Adjustments were not only made to the premises but also to the organ, with a new console and wiring, a new five manual console with Stops, Couplers, Controls and Accessories with almost 1200 registers. The console, it is claimed, is surprisingly compact and easy to play. I leave that to others to judge.


The organ from the Playhouse – the largest theatre organ in Scotland – the Unique Hilsdon Unit Orchestral Pipe Organ.

Like many works of art, temperature and humidity of the place of installation are important, so the building is continuously monitored electronically, and alerts generated if temperature or humidity vary from predefined thresholds. When the organ is required to be played, the three pipe chambers and auditorium must be at the same temperatures they were at when the organ was tuned to ensure the different divisions are in tune with each other. Quite an undertaking I would think, especially in our Scottish climate when we can experience the weather of four seasons in one afternoon.


Additional sounds (piano? dulcimer?) all played from the organ.


And no orchestra is complete without its drums…


or its cymbals.

Since then work has continued at the centre to improve facilities. Gordon Lucas died in 2002 but Larry continued to plough time and money into its development so that today the centre runs a programme of silent films in the former studio which has now become a comfortable auditorium redolent of music hall days, though equipped to a professional standard with audio, video and stage lighting systems suited to a variety of uses. And centre stage when the curtains open is the Unique Hilsdon Unit Orchestral Pipe Organ.

After our meeting Larry flexed his fingers and played a piece, the rich sound enveloping us like a velvet cloak.


The information for this post is taken from the Centre’s two websites – and Any mistakes are mine, so please read the information on the websites and visit the centre if you can.





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Summer gnashes its teeth


For the last couple of days summer has gnashed its teeth in Scotland, girning and moaning in windy torrents and lashings of rain. The atmosphere has been decidedly frosty too with a cold wind making low temperatures feel even lower.

Somehow this summer weather spat is in tune with much of the political mood in a country which, on top of a referendum on leaving the European Union in which it voted 62% to remain, a bitter general election has left us in limbo.


Waiting in expectation for the madness of the fancy dress parade to start.

The uncertainty of the turning of an expected huge majority at Westminster for the Tories into a nail-biting majority propped up by ten MPs from the Northern Irish DUP party, has riveted even those who usually shun politics to news bulletins and social media.


The action gets underway.

The Tories and DUP want what politicians and journalists call a hard Brexit, that is a withdrawal from everything to do with the EU, although the DUP want a ‘soft’ border (one without customs or immigration controls) between Northern Ireland and Ireland which will remain an EU member. However, some of their Tory friends want to retain the benefits of the Single Market and Customs Union without actually being members of either. The single market seeks to guarantee the free movement of goods, capital, services, and labour – referred to as the “four freedoms” – within the EU. The market comprises the 28 member states, with a few exceptions and anomalies, plus Iceland, Liechtenstein and Norway (through the European Economic Area Agreement) and Switzerland (through bilateral treaties).

The Customs Union basically consists of all the EU member states plus Monaco and some territories of the United Kingdom which are not part of the EU and a few other inclusions and exclusions. No customs duties are levied on goods travelling within the customs union and — unlike a free trade area — a common external tariff is imposed on all goods entering the union. The European Commission negotiates international trade deals rather than each member state negotiating individually.


Like this go-cart driver, one body drives all EU trade deals.

With campaigning in the UK taking on an American hue, the referendum was fought on the basis of minimum information and maximum mount of spin and misinformation, much of which has now been acknowledged as, or in the light of subsequent admissions seen as, lies. So a largely uninformed UK electorate voted out of patriotic pride to ‘take back control’ of their country without having a clue what that actually meant (apart from curbing EU immigration), and whether this would see us also leave the single market and the customs union, and what the consequences of that would be.


Trump’s proposed wall between the US and Mexico had obviously caught the imagination of Madeirans and featured widely in floats.

With the consequences now becoming clearer some voters are having second thoughts, and this was to some extent reflected in the Tory loss of support in the general election. Manifesto pledges to hit pensioners, a natural Tory-voting group, no doubt also contributed.


Mobile wall.

Those who voted to remain in the EU have increasingly felt as if Trump’s Mexican wall had, in built form, floated across the Atlantic to position itself mid Channel, cutting the UK off from mainland Europe ­– a paywall as the heading photograph indicates. EU nationals who have over many years made their homes here, or who have moved for employment or to study, have become increasingly uncomfortable. Many feel they are being used by the UK government as bargaining chips in a battle which is not of their making; others no longer feel welcome in a country where they are settled with husbands, partners and families.

UK withdrawal negotiations have now begun amidst sweeping rumors of a lack of those with skills to conduct such complex negotiations. Remember the EU has conducted these for us for forty-four years since the UK joined the EU in 1973.


The refugees in makeshift camps in Calais, attempting to cross to the UK, were not forgotten by the Madeirans. Refugees must also feel a Trump-type wall is being erected to ensure they are kept out.

The prime minister, Theresa May, who endlessly paraded herself as strong and stable was seen as weak and wobbly, hiding from voters during the general election campaign and only speaking to small groups of selected individuals in out-of-the-way secret venues. Even the press was only notified of these locations at the last minute to avoid placard-waving, slogan-shouting protestors. Her manifesto had barely seen the light of day before she handbraked u-turns on many of its policies and oversaw numerous PR disasters. Online, in quips and caricatures capturing her shambolic performance, the endlessly repeated phrase ‘strong and stable’ made May a laughing stock worldwide.


Balancing acts are necessary in politics as in everyday life.

But against the odds, and against an opposition leader who roused himself and the electorate, including many young people, to slash the Tory majority and come close to winning, May held on. The confidence and supply arrangement with the DUP gives her a majority of thirteen, so enables her to pass budgets and major pieces of legislation including legislation on Brexit – providing she can keep both her own party’s Remainers and right-wing Brexit bravados on board.


Strong and stable on which side of the wall?

May and a few of her cabinet are regarded as having Trump tendencies and slogans (make America great again, make Britain great again), so even though negotiations with the EU have begun, the pubic remains in the dark over what the UK government hopes to achieve, and in denial about what it is likely to have to accept. Daily, we hear one minister asserting one position, while another tempers that or even disputes it. We are like ping-pong balls, batted between opposing sides, swiped off the table, dropped on the floor, perhaps even stood on in the rush to control more of the game.


Polls suggest if the EU vote took place now then Remain would win. Time to stop the madness surely.

So not surprising that the recent summer weather matches the mood of frustration, annoyance, despair, apathy, uncertainty and determination that pervades much of Scotland. The tempest of moods certainly swirls around and through the people I know in this part of the country, making it feel more like the chilly autumn of our dreams than the high summer of our hopes.


Maybe a drink of Madeiran Ponch is what we need to help keep us sane whilst we hope that somehow Brexit can be made to go away.

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Primed and programmed

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This has been a very strange general election, coming as it does just five weeks after our local council elections. A snap election called by our Prime Minister who managed to overturn the 2011 Fixed-term Parliament Act to call it. The provisions of the Act determined that, instead of Prime Ministers calling elections at times best suited to them and their parties, general elections would be held every five years, beginning in 2015. For an election to be called outwith the five yearly period, a vote of no confidence in the Government, or a two-thirds majority vote would be required.

Caving in to the Prime Minister and her party, the major opposition party voted for an election to be held a mere two years after the previous election.

This election campaign period has been marred by two atrocities – one in Manchester and one in London after which campaigning was suspended in respect of those killed and injured, and their grieving and shocked families and friends.

As the political upheaval of changing party fortunes rampages its way through the polls, all spin differing tales. Platitudes, empty rhetoric, threats, promises and name-calling show what an empty shell politics has become. Instead of debating policies and issues, informing and engaging people, we have huge swathes of the population turned off by highly staged events, planted questions, a refusal to give answers and manipulation by the ‘dark arts’.

Money has always been instrumental in determining the outcome of elections, and dark money, from unknown sources, is now used by certain political parties to influence us. Added to that we now have big data and psychometric profiling. Information is collected on us all – on Facebook, Twitter and other social media sites. It’s collated and sold. Profiles are compiled ­– our likes and dislikes, what turns us on and off. These are used to target us with specific ads on the same social media sites, to push us towards the result paymasters desire. To me, it is a form of brainwashing. Constant repetition of simple, catchy phrases means they worm their way into minds to pop to the surface in response to questions. The public have become like robots, primed and programmed to react in the manner required. Frightening for democracy.

A major part of this circus is an endless stream of television programmes where selected members of the public put questions to those seeking election. Last week I was asked to take part in one of these programmes.

As I’ve never been part of a television audience with an opportunity to question or comment I decided to accept, although it did mean a two-hour journey, but husband agreed to drive. All went well until we reached the proximity of the venue. Here the directions and maps we had downloaded let us down. We knew we were beside the park where the venue was situated but could find neither gate nor signage, nor car park where we had been advised to leave the car. An hour and a half later, after driving round and round, up and down ramps, stopping to ask passers-by directions, and eyes glued to a pulsing blue dot on my iPhone, I phoned my programme contact. She couldn’t help but advised me to hurry.

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Eventually we found a gate. Locked. Only pedestrian access. I got out and started to walk as fast as I could through the park towards the building while husband found a parking space for the car. I thought I was getting nearer, only to discover an artificial lake spread out between me and venue. I arrived hot, thirsty and not in the best of moods.

One of the presenters of the programme, a clutch of notes in hand, was chatting with groups of audience members. About half an hour before the start of the programme we were taken into the broadcast area and shown to our seats. To me it looked as if the presenter seen in the reception area was identifying where certain members of the audience were sitting. This rang alarm bells with me as this was an event where the audience comprised politically active or supportive people. We had been asked how we would vote, along with numerous other questions before being accepted, and I wondered if there would be bias in the selection of those to ask questions. Politicians, one from all major parties, were seated in the front seats and provided with microphones.

Before the start we were briefed about clapping, and the two presenters did a number of trailers for the radio and television shows. Throughout this time we complained that we couldn’t hear what was being said, and, when we could hear, the sound was weirdly distorted. I put it down to the octagonal shape of the room and the large dome covering the whole area. An interesting feature, but it apparently mangled sound.

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During the filming, response was almost impossible because of the sound problem though the boom microphones obviously caught enough to broadcast. Should I clap or not? I raised my hand to ask questions, waggled it. The presenter looked straight at me and took someone else, someone who had already spoken. Was it one of the people the presenter had identified before the programme began?

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It soon became clear that my comments were never going to be aired nor questions asked. The same people were brought in time and again, and one politician seemed to get significantly more time than others – and seemed to have a much louder microphone.

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Broadcast bias or my imagination? Well, there are plenty examples of the former, but also numerous explanations and excuses given by the broadcasting company.

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Having left home just after four, we got back just before one in the morning, and all I’d had was a few sips of water. We hadn’t even had dinner. Was it worth it? Well, it was an interesting experience, but not I think one to be repeated any time soon.

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Madeira Wine – Rooted in history


One of the many advantages on an apartment in the centre of Funchal are the number of places that can be visited without walking far. The old part of Funchal with its narrow streets and houses with wrought iron balconies sits alongside grand old properties given new leases of life beside wide boulevards and streets.

One of the oldest street in Funchal runs past the famous Blandy’s Wine Lodge, a must see attraction for most visitors. Last time we went we were too late for a tour, so we made sure we were in plenty time on this occasion.


One of the oldest streets. It runs past Blandy’s Wine Lodge.


Even manages to squeeze in tables and chairs for eating out.


Then widens into a street of imposing houses and interesting restaurants.

But back to the wine lodge where we toured the visible attractions before our official tour started.


The courtyard where you can sit and wait for your tour, visit the shop or the vintage room , or wander round a collection of old Madeira wine-making equipment.


A grape press that must have taken some strength to operate.


A hefty piece of kit for some part of the process.


A bag (presumably animal stomach – didn’t ask) in which the grape growers transported the grape juice to Blandy’s. Nowadays the grapes are collected and pressed in a modern wine-making factory.

We gathered in the vintage room to await our guide and drool over the shelves of vintage Madeira. All bottles were for sale – at a cost. So only for the most special of occasions.



Cabinets displaying bottles of vintage Madeira under the various names used by the company over the years.


Wine name, date and company name are stencilled on in white paint, making the bottles very distinctive.


I suspect even the dust may be vintage.


These are under the name ‘Leacock’.


Coming up for its century.

At the start of the tour we expected cool cellars, but instead found warm attics. Madeira, unlike other wines, requires warmth to age, so enormous wooden vats squat on well-strengthened floors on the first and second storeys of the wine lodge.


Slowly maturing in the semi-dark warmth.


Rows upon rows upon rows of wooden barrels filled with maturing wine.

Here too is a delicious aroma, not quite of Madeira but more of warm honey and herbs, a smell of summer fields and promises that belies the dark rooms with their rows of barrels.


Strong floors are required for this lot. The size can by judged by the height of the man on the right.


The company has its own cooperage to make and repair barrels. The wood was beautiful with a rich colour but rough texture. The smell was wonderful.

In the museum room videos show how grapes used to be picked by families and transported to collection centres. The grapes are still family grown on small plots as Madeira’s geography doesn’t allow for a more mass production approach. So the grapes that make Madeira continue to come from hundreds of small producers.

The museum has some fascinating old pieces of machinery, and displays of seals and labels as well as certificates. Unfortunately we didn’t get time to look in detail.


A book showing some of the labels that were used at one time, all carrying logos of the many awards the wines have won. 

The end of the tour saw us in the bar area where we were each poured two glasses of Madeira of different kinds, sweetness and age. Most were happy to quaff and go, but I could have lingered to enjoy the experience.


When in Madeira you definitely have to enjoy the local drink. Cheers.

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Flowers, succulents and croaks


As spring arrives in the garden in our part of Scotland in this pre-Easter week, and flowers and shrubs blaze out in sunny yellows, joyous pinks and creamy whites, I think back to our visit a few weeks ago to the Botanic Garden in Funchal, Madeira.


A lovely afternoon for a stroll amongst flowers and trees.

It was officially still winter in Madeira (though difficult to remember that given the mild weather) so we couldn’t expect vast arrays of flowers blooming their hearts out. But we weren’t disappointed by what we did see. There were plenty beds of flowers in bloom. This is, after all, a climate where bananas grow outside all year round and where the temperature rarely dips below 14°F even at night.


Frilly trunks and an array of leaf shapes.

The Botanic Garden, like most things on Madeira, clings to a steep hillside. It borders the ravine down which fire raged during the bad forest fires in summer 2016. So it was fascinating, and heartening, to see blackened tree trunks with fresh new growth sprouting from the tops.


Even after many month the ravages of the fires are still visible, and in may places will be for decades. You can just make out the cable car that runs from the waterfront to Monte.


Blackened trunks, though happily these trees have survived to tell the tale. Others obviously weren’t so fortunate.

Much underplanting looked relatively new, so what was there was most probably also a victim of the fires, as was the nearby orchid garden which was sadly destroyed. Orchids are now readily and cheaply available in supermarkets here, but there’s something glorious about seeing them grow outside during months which, to us, mean short days and freezing temperatures.


From one edge of the garden you get a grand view of one of the viaducts and tunnels which carry the main roads around the island.

I photographed the geometric area of planting in ruby reds and lime greens that all garden visitors snap, the photo which invariably appears in brochures, on websites and TripAdvisor.


Winter but not as we in Scotland know it.

We passed on a path above and didn’t go down to try and identify the plants. Whatever they are, they make quite a stunning, and colourful, design against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean.


The colour comes not from flowers but from leaves.

A favourite part for me was the area with succulents.


Even here there were plants flowering in unusual colours.

I loved their size, the varied leaf shapes and often twisted forms of plants that I’ve only previously known as house plants, or rather succulents, prone to death by over-watering and chilly draughts, or growing leggy and sparse in search of Mediterranean sun.


You can see how dry the ground looks due to lack of rain.


You can judge from the man in the red shirt how tall these cactus are.


These always remind me of Westerns watched when young on TV.

Wandering around the garden is a lovely relaxing way to spend an afternoon, though the bus journey is fairly hair-raising with narrow roads and hairpin bends, but the drivers are used to it.


Lots of industrious spiders here obviously.


Trapped in spiders’ webs, I assumed these were seed pods from trees, but I read recently about baby spiders congregating in webs. Don’t see any legs, though, so maybe they are seed pods or dead leaves. Anyone know?

Before leaving don’t forget to do as husband and I did and enjoy a half bottle of white wine and a couple of generous slices of delicious cake at the café while listening to the croaking of frogs in nearby ponds and taking in a view across Funchal to the ocean.


Blissful way to round off the afternoon.

And then a pitstop before making our way to the bus stop.


Male and female toilets were separate, but wash hand basins were all in this glass-fronted area looking out over the garden.


Some privacy is provided by these rampant grasses.

And in case you thought I’d forgotten about the croaks, then this was one fine frog specimen in one of the ponds. Maybe if I’d kissed him he would have turned into a prince!


Unbelievable how much noise they make.

Lovely afternoon amongst plants.


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And then there were clowns


In the week before the carnival in Funchal the broad boulevard beside our apartment turned into a riotous mass of swirling shapes and colour. Madeira was in party mood.


Such fun to be there for this.

Bright awnings pierced with shapes were slung between trees. Beneath these, numerous stalls sold poncha, a favourite local brew made with aguardente de cana, alcohol distilled from sugar cane juice. Sugar cane used to grow in abundance on the island, but these days bananas and grapes seem the main crop. Other ingredients of poncha are honey, sugar, lemon rind and fruit juice which varies according to the version of poncha. Traditionally lemon juice is used.


The sound of the samba, never too obtrusive, never annoying, always joyful.


Fascinating decorations – fancy trying my hand at making these.

And attracting crowds were bands, most dressed up for the occasion, all playing sambas with gusto.


Madeirans really get into the carnival mood. Any excuse for a party we were told.


Entering into the carnival spirit.

When no bands were around, samba music played from loud speakers hidden in the trees.


A promise of things to come.


Loved the colourful awnings pierced with designs. They added so much to the atmosphere.

Whenever music played you could watch groups of people dancing or just swaying to the rhythm, a dreamy smile on their faces. Such a wonderful atmosphere, too – relaxed yet joyous, people enjoying themselves.


Young and not-so-young get involved in the fun.


Big specs, big drum.


Magician with his pack of cards.

In the small Municipal Park entered from the boulevard more entertainment could be found at the open air amphitheatre where community groups gathered in their gladrags.


The reddish brown ‘hat’ with the eye is part of a wonderful octopus costume. I was sorry I didn’t get a better photo but didn’t like to be too intrusive.


No celebration is complete without balloons and these animal shaped ones must have been irresistible to children.

So many clowns, presumably all from one organisation. No idea what a group of so many might be called, but a chuckle of clowns seems appropriate.


They’ve gone to so much trouble with their costumes. Look at the shoes, the makeup, the ‘Easter bonnet’ hats. Wonderful!

As we didn’t realize all this entertainment would be on when we booked our break, it was truly an added bonus to the scenery, the sunshine and the friendliness of the Madeirans.


Nature, too, added splashes of colour with these stunning flowers on one of many African tulip trees.

And in the evenings when the street-partying was over for the day, we were left with the lights strung through the trees reflecting in windows and on the designs of the limestone-cobbled pavements.


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Carnival in Madeira


For a week before the parade there were smaller local events in many towns with street entertainment in the centre of Funchal and people wandering around in costumes of various kinds, as well as numerous community events in public squares and parks.

The sound and beat of the samba was everywhere, either live from colourful groups of musicians, or recorded and played through speakers lodged in trees, while people danced or jigged along to it, grins on their faces. But more of that in another post.

Carnival is a big event in Madeira, something not celebrated in Scotland. In fact, we didn’t even realise there would be celebrations during our stay there. From the balcony of our apartment in the city centre we could watch people making their way to the boulevard used for the parade, one side of which was closed to traffic several hours before the start of the event, with metal barriers put in place by an expert team of workers.

Coloured lights had been strung through the numerous trees lining the street and bordering the promenade. Crowds increased, a few police wandered around and chatted with people. The crime rate in Madeira is very low so there would have been no expectation of trouble of any kind.

We went out to try and find a spot from where we could view the proceedings, but knew that photographs would be difficult what with the darkness, the coloured lights, the swirling and dancing, flouncing and bouncing of the participants on floats and on the street, and the way the lights sparkled off their costumes, the heads of folk taller than me standing in my way, and the constant movement of people to get a better view for themselves and their children, hoisted into arms or onto shoulders.

But maybe from a small selection of photos you’ll get an idea of the colour, glitter and liveliness of this amazing parade.













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The sands o’ life


My love is like a red red rose

That’s newly sprung in June:


These red roses outside our door were photographed at the beginning of November. Red roses can bloom over a long period.

My love is like the melodie

That’s sweetly played in tune.


A melody perhaps played on an instrument like this, photographed in a museum in Bordeaux.


Or perhaps on an instrument like this peculiarly shaped one…


…with its painted design of ribbons and forget-me-nots.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry.


Crammond, near Edinburgh, with the tide out.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:


Rocks formed by heat…


…intense pressure…


…bending and twisting…


…into convolutions of colour and texture.

And I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.


The sands o’ life.


Time ticks relentlessly on.

And fare thee weel, my only love,

And fare the weel awhile!


Sculpture carved from a tree trunk of Meg wi’ the buckle mou (Meg with the big mouth).

And I will come again, my love,

Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.


An old milestone. These were commonly seen by the sides of roads in Scotland but are rapidly disappearing.


Motorways have the usual enormous signs, but on many roads in the Borders a multitude of smaller signs still cluster around poles pointing travellers in various directions to numerous destinations.

My love is like a red, red rose by Robert Burns (25. 1. 1759 – 21. 7. 1796). Scotland’s national bard.

Happy Valentines Day wherever you are and however you spend it.


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European dreams

My beautiful picture

I should have been born in a warmer climate, but then I wouldn’t have been Scottish, and I rather like being Scottish – especially at present when politics here are amazingly interesting, though often also hair-tearingly frustrating.

The thrill of the new, the appeal of the different, whether chatting with people from other countries exchanging stories of families and customs, how to cook a particular dish, or experiencing different surroundings. All reasons why I have enjoyed the many trips that over the years we have managed to make to other European countries.

Scotland has always had close links with Europe — in trade across the continent and with the Baltic states; the Auld Alliance with France (Scots at one time enjoyed dual citizenship); through travel to Dutch universities and to the Scots colleges in Rome, Paris Valladolid and Madrid.


A reminder in Tallinn of the Hanseatic League.

I suppose my fascination with Europe began with my first French teacher, a Francophile who sang us French songs, recounted stories about stays in France, took us on trips to a cinema which showed French language films, and invited a few of us to his home to spend afternoons with his artist wife and two daughters. His passion for all things French sent me to a newsagent in the main station where I knew French magazines could be bought.

I started writing to a French pen pal, introduced by the daughter of a friend of my mother who was teaching in France. We wrote of our families and our lives, about school and what we did at the weekends. We swapped recipes and sent one another presents at Christmas.

My interest was further fuelled when in my final year of school I went on a school trip to Germany, travelling by bus down through England and across the Channel by ferry. I can still remember how excited I was to hear, as we landed, people on the quay speak French. With bleary eyes and stiff limbs we took in the sights of Brussels as we drove through, exclaiming at shop fronts, street signs, wrought iron balconies. And then the long haul to Aschaffenburg in Bavaria, near Frankfurt on Main. I don’t remember much of the town, though I have memories of a dance platform in a forest with German couples hopping about to oompah music, lanterns strung through the trees and a pungent smell of beer and pine needles. I also remember being taken to the home of a German girl to be introduced to her parents and grandfather who mumbled about his time in the war.

We went on a boat trip down the Rhine, exclaiming at the fairytale castles perched high above its banks, heard about the destruction caused by bombing during the war.

My mother-in-law was a French and German teacher and the house was often full of people from European and other countries.

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Dubrovnik many years ago.

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This may be the first time I came across peppers as shoppers tipped dozens of them into bags.

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I bought a bag from one of these stalls and used it for years.

Then came holidays in the former Yugolsavia, first in the north in Bled and on one of the islands, then in Budva from where we travelled to Dubrovnik and on a memorable day trip into Albania. It was the first time for years the border had been opened and it was like stepping back several centuries.

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People wearing mainly black stared in awe at our cotton summer dresses and cheap cameras as if luxuries far beyond their hopes.

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We pass an ox cart. Most of our photographs were taken surreptitiously from the bus.

Dire food, swarms of bluebottles, stinking toilets, and shops with mud floors are some of my memories, along with newish houses riddled with bullets.

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These new houses beneath the citadel on the hill were pocked with bullet holes.

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Stony ground where it’s a wonder anything grows or animals survive.

Last year in Greece we chatted with an Albanian waiter at a restaurant and he assured us things had changed dramatically since then and Albania was now a modern country like others in Europe.

Travelling around Scandinavia gave us the opportunity to talk with Danes, Norwegians, and Swedes, and even Swedes further north when we drove up through the country to Jokkmokk in Swedish Lapland. It was a few days after midsummer so didn’t get dark, the sun merely dipped briefly below the horizon before rising again. The family was all out frolicking around on the grass at two o’clock in the morning. And we saw reindeer. In fact it was difficult not to see them as they lay in the middle of the road reluctant to move for traffic, and when they did they ambled along, their large-hoofs swinging on the end of their legs like bells on ropes.

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Houses very different from our traditional grey or fawn, grey slated stone buildings in Scotland, though red pantiles from Europe adorn the roofs of many houses in parts of eastern Scotland. 

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Wonderful stave churches.

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A longboat, part of the preserved Viking heritage. The Vikings traded with and raided Scotland leaving behind for future generations some of their genes.

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A traditional Swedish west coast fishing community.

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Now there are probably more yachts than fishing boats.

In Cyprus people (mainly Greeks as we were in the Greek south and most Turks had fled to the Turkish north) were eager to talk to us about the partition of the island, how it had rent their communities as many of their friends and neighbours had uprooted themselves. In Nicosia we came up against the Green Line, the United Nations buffer zone patrolled by UN troops with whom the son of a friend served for a time. At that time it was difficult to enter the north so we were enthralled to hear of his trip across the line into Famagusta. After so many years discussions on reunification are now underway.

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A traditional shoemaker with a workshop by the Green Line. We ordered a pair of cowboy boots for our second son who at that time found it difficult to buy shoes his size.

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I’m fairly sure this is Cyprus, though it may have been Malta!

From Cyprus we also did a weekend trip to the Holy Land. Quite an experience what with Mossad, Israeli security, minders, visiting places revered by millions around the world, an Elvis Presley themed café where any major currency was accepted (with change in any currency you wished), young Arab kids who begged for money in all the major languages, and Arabs with camels whose persuasion changed from wheedling to threatening harassment in the blink of an eye. That was scary.

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The Wailing Wall in the old city of Jerusalem where the devout come to pray contrasted sharply with the vast numbers of soldiers wandering around with automatic weapons.

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That was the start, and more recent visits to European cities and holiday spots have merely strengthened my bonds.

But now we are faced with being taken out of the European Union – Brexit. True, we’ll still be European, but somehow being members of the EU gives us a closer bond, ties that link us together culturally and economically, in trade as well as in friendship. Being part of the EU has brought us better lives through social legislation, quality standards for goods and toys, as well as greater choice of foods in our supermarkets and environmental protection with the ability to tackle global issues as part of a large group of countries.

The vote in the UK as a whole was to leave the EU, but in Scotland the vote was overwhelmingly to remain. Being out of the EU will decimate our economy, with fishing and agriculture hit so hard their survival will hang by a thread. So, like those bloggers in America who face the future under a new president with trepidation, Scotland waits to see what will happen, whether some deal can be done to keep Scotland in the EU, whether we will have another independence referendum which could take us out of the union with England, Wales and Northern Ireland, and let Scotland remain in Europe as a replacement 28th country.

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