A meeting in Stornoway

A meeting in Stornoway, and the good that followed it

Iain Smith

Let me begin with the foundation of Lews Castle College in Stornoway. Four people met in a room in Stornoway in 1950. They had a dilemma that most of us will never face.
They were part-owners, amidst thousands of others, of a castle – i.e. a castle which had been bequeathed by Lord Leverhulme in the 1920s to a local community trust; and they were unsure in 1950 what do with their castle. It was a castle with a controversial past: having been built by Sir James Matheson in the 19th century. He is currently described on a poster outside the castle itself as 'an astute trader'. That, I suppose, is indeed one way of describing the biggest and most notorious drug-dealer of the 19th century: for he was responsible for importing vast quantities of opium from India into China. This was a man who, with his business partner Jardine, induced the British government to declare war on China to keep his trade going.

These four people in 1950 eventually reached a conclusion: 'Let us make this castle a place of learning'. And that is how Lews Castle College UHI (now part of the University of the Highlands and Islands) began. Wise people these four were; and their advice was significant in persuading the Stornoway Trust and Ross and Cromarty education authority to establish a college. Out of a building financed from the fruits of infamy, they created an institution for good.

The island of Lewis already had the Nicolson Institute, a school which in 1898 had for the first time acquired the power to send students directly into university. Two students went to university that year, the first two out of many thousands to follow. One of these two, Robert M Maciver, records in his autobiography how he departed from Stornoway on the midnight steamer, knowing that he would never return to live again in Stornoway. (That was one of the side-effects of much advanced education in rural Scotland: it created a good to be exported, not a good for local communities or even for Scotland as a whole.)

Maciver indeed did not return to Stornoway, except on holiday (during one of which he and his father, in 1913, drove the first Ford Model T in Lewis on what is now Stornoway Airport): he had gone to study in Edinburgh and in Oxford; and then in 1913 was already into an illustrious academic career in Aberdeen, then Toronto and then New York.

His story was replicated across much of rural Scotland about the same time i.e. roughly 100 years ago. What the Nicolson Institute had begun to do in 1898 began at approximately the same time (1905 or so) in Portree High School, in Kirkwall Grammar School and in many Scottish rural communities of significant size. (However, it took many more decades before school students in Harris, in the southern isles of the Outer Hebrides and in other small rural communities acquired similar access.)

But, if direct access to universities from a reasonably local school became moderately common from 1900 onwards (and accelerated with the foundation of the Carnegie Trust in 1901 and its ever-expanding provision of university bursaries in the decades of the early 20th century), the story of further education (or for that matter, higher education) provision is much more uneven across Scotland. For the most part it is a story of the years after 1945; and the growth of further education colleges in Scotland's major cities was rapid, even dramatic – but only in cities. The development of further education in rural Scotland was uneven and generally slow. Skye did not acquire a college offering further education qualifications until Sabhal Mor Ostaig started such provision in 1983; Argyllshire had very meagre provision indeed until the establishment of Argyll College in 1997; and the story in Orkney and in Shetland was very similar.

So the decision to create a Lews Castle College in 1953 (with its nine staff and its 83 students) was for its time indeed a far-sighted and unusual one. But, whether we are talking about school education or about further education, there was and is a dilemma in at least some areas of the Highlands and Islands.

I went to school in Ness on Lewis in 1952. Fourteen of us started: I was monolingual in English. The others were monolingual in Gaelic.
The first language of our teacher was also Gaelic. So our teacher taught us in the sensible language: English.
I well remember our first lesson. 'A' is for apple. 'N' is for needle. That was, more or less, fine by us. And then: 'C' is for camel. That concept caused some difficulty, especially for my Gaelic-speaking fellow classmates: at the time, camels were in short supply on the Isle of Lewis even on the sandy machair land. That struck me as strange then; and, 60 years on, it still seems strange – and wrong. So I am glad that the training of Gaelic-medium teachers has been brought into the curriculum of UHI and of Lews Castle College.

When I left education in the Nicolson Institute, I wanted to be good at chemistry. And from university, I went back to teach chemistry in the Nicolson Institute for a bit more than two years. But I had also done something else with my university years: I had studied public speaking, debating and related things. And the Nicolson Institute allowed me one period every Friday afternoon to teach students something of what I thought I knew about public speaking. One 16-year-old student, Maggie, stayed behind one day and said to me:

Mr Smith: I come from a very small Hebridean island. I think that is why I lack confidence. I wondered what to do about it. So I thought I would enrol in your class. Not to become a public speaker but to add to my confidence. And what has gone on in this class has made me more confident. I will never ever be a public performer of any kind. But thank you for what has happened to me.

I left chemistry, the Nicolson Institute and Lewis; and then I left Scotland entirely. Sixteen years later I returned to Scotland. As I drove across the border, I switched my car radio to Radio Scotland. And heard a voice I recognised (that of Maggie, then well into her very distinguished career with BBC Scotland). That was the same person who had sworn to me never to speak in public.

The Hebrides have many more Maggies today than they had when I was a little child in Ness. And that is a change for the good. Both the schools of the Western Isles and its further education provision have contributed to that. There is a confidence in the Western Isles now that was not present in my generation or in the generations before mine. That is good. And the growth of education in the Western Isles both in quantity and in quality has done much for that.
So, what has changed in education in Lewis over the last 50 or even 100 years? Perhaps at least three major things.
Firstly, we observe that 100 years ago, as the story of Robert M Maciver (and of many others) shows, secondary education was to a large extent an export industry rather than in any way being about local civic and community development. Fifty years ago, this was also true of much of the further education at the then new Lews Castle College. This is now much less true. Much of the curriculum of Lews Castle College and of the University of the Highlands and Islands is not a pre-career prelude to migration but early and mid-career capacity-building for those already in local employment.

Secondly, 100 years ago, and even 50 years ago, teachers in Lewis and further afield largely believed that bilingualism and Gaelic-medium education were handicaps to educational progress. That certainly is what was believed by my own parents, both teachers, and by most of their colleagues. That belief is now largely, although not wholly, gone and practice – especially in much of the primary school sector – reflects that. It is now thought that the bilingual student is advantaged, not disadvantaged. Indeed that is the belief throughout much of Europe. Gaelic-medium education improves literacy in Gaelic – and in English.

Thirdly and finally, primary, secondary and further education in Lewis has a greater emphasis today not just on academic knowledge and skills but on higher-order capacities: working in teams, making public presentations, engaging in problem-solving, being active rather than passive students. And so we have a local Hebridean (and indeed Highland) generation which is more confident, more outspoken and more engaged in civic society than were either my generation or the generation of my parents.

There is a refrain that is often thought to have been used constantly across the world for at least 2,000 years: 'The children and students of today are not what they used to be'. Indeed: and for me at least that is a matter for celebration.

Iain Smith was formerly dean of education in the University
of Strathclyde

The Two Cousins

Episode 1: Maternal wisdom

Iain Smith

 

 

My mother encouraged her three sons to explore the world with enthusiasm.  And was only occasionally discouraged by what they claimed to have found.

Her sense of humour once extended to saying to me:

“Your two younger brothers have their faults. But, because they were born in an era of the National Health Service, at least they came free.

You, born in 1947, cost £5. Sometimes I wonder if we spent that money wisely.”

I hope she would have enjoyed what I have written.

Quite a long time ago (almost 20 years now), I sat one evening with someone who, like me, has spent most of his life in academia. As the night wore on we got into a silly game and asked ourselves the question “Who were the best academics ever to come out of the Outer Hebrides?” This is an illogical question; but that did not stop us from exploring it.

We agreed on our first two names: First, Robert M MacIver; second, Hector MacIver.

Two weeks later I related an abridged version of this conversation to my octogenarian mother. “Isn’t it remarkable they had the same surnames?”  My mother said “Not at all. They were first cousins from a talented family: the family who established MacIver’s Garage in Bayhead in Stornoway.”

Knowing that Robert and Hector were born 30 years apart (although both died about the same time), I thought that my mother must be wrong. However, as a good Lewis son, I stayed silent.

About 10 years later, after my mother had died, I checked with the genealogist Bill Lawson by e-mail, and got the almost instant reply: “Like all Lewis mothers, your mother was right.”

Robert Morison MacIver was born in Stornoway in 1882 and lived as a child first on North Beach Street and then on Bayhead (I suspect where, many years later, MacIver’s Garage was established by his father); his mother came from a Stornoway family; his father, although by then living in Stornoway and flourishing as a merchant in the Harris Tweed industry, had come from North Shawbost.  R. M. MacIver died 88 years later in the United States, in 1970; having established a reputation as one of the world’s greatest sociologists. There is no Hebridean who can match his academic accomplishments. His autobiography “As a Tale That is Told”, published late in his life, is long out of print.

His first cousin Hector (almost certainly they never met) was born in North Shawbost in 1910 and died in Edinburgh aged 55 in 1966. He had a reputation that is chronicled in a festschrift (i.e. tribute) “Memoirs of a Modern Scotland” (Editor: Karl Miller - and recently reprinted by Faber) and in an “autobiography” published by his wife (married to Hector from 1958 to his death). The latter is out of print. Hector’s claim to fame, while undoubted, is a more shifting and ambiguous one than that of his first cousin. He was a friend and confidant (and drinking companion) of - among others - Hugh MacDiarmid, Dylan Thomas, Louis MacNeice, and Sydney Goodsir Smith. One price for their acquaintance, given that much of it was spent in the Café Royal in Edinburgh, was just possibly the liver cancer that killed him at a comparatively early age. Drinking with Dylan Thomas was never a particularly healthy activity.

So one spent 88 years in this world; one 55 years. But, in very different ways, these first cousins from a North Shawbost family moved and shaped the lives and views of many people. And were held in awe by many: on a national stage in the case of Hector, on an international stage in the case of Robert.

In their native island even during their lifetimes they were either unknown (by the majority) or regarded with scepticism (at best) by that minority who did know them. Today in the Hebrides they are almost totally forgotten.

Let me try to chronicle in monthly episodes why these two remarkable cousins should be better remembered.

Is it an accident that they were both so gifted? Possibly; although, if so, it is a remarkable roll of the dice of fate.

Were they inheritors of gifted and shared genes? Possibly, and likely to me, although that is an unpopular theory nowadays.

Were they children who were both nurtured in a rich and educationally stimulating environment? There is some evidence of that. Robert’s father was a comparatively rich 19^th century tweed merchant who later established a successful garage business; and both the mother and father of Hector in the 1900s were certainly among the more affluent and middle class people in North Shawbost. Not a particularly difficult claim to fame in the North Shawbost of 1910, but possibly influential nevertheless.

Were they both visited by a gift of God? Perhaps. Although, if so, they both quickly showed a distinct lack of appreciation of the great Donor of their talents. A lack of appreciation that probably contributed  to the way in which they became unappreciated by the community from which they came. They were both agnostic prophets, in their distinct ways. But “prophets who had no honour in their own country”.

I began to write this story as a narrative. I simply wanted to chronicle two people who are less remembered than I thought they should be.

But the more I wrote, the more I found myself asking what intellectual, spiritual, political, moral and social beliefs I myself had acquired from my Lewis upbringing. The more I researched and the more I wrote the less certain I became about the answers.

These are stories I have written simply to entertain and to inform.

 (to be continued)

 

Iain Smith was formerly Dean of Education in the University of Strathclyde. He welcomes feedback at i.r.m.smith@strath.ac.uk.

Photos from Barra

 Kisimul Castle, Castlebay (above and below)

 Vatersay Beach

 Vatersay Beach

 Cockle Ebb Airport

Traigh Eais, West Coast of Barra Barra



Barra

Three Men in a Boat to Barra:

an illuminated scroll.

Three aged guys go to Barra on a “bucket list” voyage. This diary was written for our family and friends. But (on the - totally spurious - grounds that it has some content of social and historical and humorous interest) we decided to share it more widely.

7^th November 2013

I check my list, as I have done in the past for dangerous places (Pakistan, Russia, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan etc.) They generally do not help me that much; but tend to reassure the dear loved ones left behind.

      Checklist for Barra: November 2013 STATUS AT 7^th Nov

1.      Reluctantly leave one credit card with my wife Joan. (Done.)

2.      Check status on Barra boat and buy tickets. (To do.)

3.      Intro letter to impress the locals.  (Received from Anne McGuire MP.)

4.      Check medical status and requirements for Barra with GP. (Did this in 1958 with my BCG.)

5.      Take some spare passport photos. (On computer.)

6.       Leave some signed cheques for Joan. (Done with bad grace.)

7.      Squito burner (Skipped that one.)

8.      Trinkets for the natives (Skipped that one also.)

8^th November

Guys assemble in Balshagray Avenue from 8.30 onwards.

 We (Sam, Robert and I) set out on our great expedition. A “bucket list” trip to Barra (i.e. one thing to do before one dies).

We drive to Oban, entirely without incident.

Out on the “Clansman” for 5 hours to Castlebay. There are three very naughty children on the voyage. I dissuade Sam from drowning them.

The journey past Mull is hopelessly calm. A more satisfying swell as we head out of the shelter of Coll into more open seas.

We have a bowl of soup on Calmac. Where are the linen tablecloths of yesteryear?  One of my staunchly Conservative aunts said that she began to hate the Labour Party seriously in 1926 when she (having had six hours of sea-sickness en route from Stornoway to Mallaig on an overnight steamer) went at 5 a.m. to a David Macbrayne dining room for a cup of tea; and had to endure the (famously emaciated and sickly) Jimmy Maxton tucking into porridge and bacon, sausages and eggs: all served by stewards to a table immaculate in its Irish linen.

There is a watery crescent moon peering out of black clouds as we head into Castlebay at 7 p.m.

1 Kisimul Castle

We check into the Castlebay Hotel; and have a very good dinner (oysters and cockles and fish pie for me). We three wee boys chat over wee drams about boyish things for a wee time, as wee boys often do. I tell stories.

8^th November 2013

We are up for a (full and excellent) 8.30 a.m. breakfast; the only other residents at breakfast are a wind turbine construction team. They remind me of the elderly Hebridean lady who said “Wind farm? Why do we need a wind farm? We have plenty of wind up here already.”

2 A Wee Castle

We wander around Castlebay (not a challenging task). A plaque to Alexander Mackendrick (of “Whisky Galore” directing fame) is interesting: what a talented man.  Kisimul Castle I had always thought to be a large castle way out in the bay: but my brain has been remiss in interpreting the photographs – in reality it is a wee castle close to the pier. We identify the rather quaint Kisimul Café, where we are booked to eat in the evening.

Then the 10.30 bus, free for me (thanks to young taxpayers), out of Barra across the causeway and into Vatersay. The weather is calm but threatens rain: out at sea one can indeed see sharp showers. We get off the bus at Vatersay Village, not a major centre of population - but blessed with shell sand beaches and machair land.

We make our way back north along the east-facing beach, with some animated oyster catcher birds as companions.

3 Vatersay Beach - East

Re-joining the road, we head towards the causeway, stopping to inspect the metallic corpse of a wartime Catalina which had crashed by the shore. A plaque remembers the 10 dead crew.

At the causeway, there are breakers crashing on rocks on the Atlantic side of the Sound of Vatersay, and a wee seal bobs up and down watching us; but, on the quieter other side, there are signs of considerable fishing activity.

4 Boys on the Beach

The road takes us up the steep south edge of Barra, with spectacular views out east towards Coll. Just after the highest point, there is an elegant memorial (of 1993 vintage) remembering the dead of two wars: the vast majority of the names are merchant navy personnel.

We get to Castlebay at 2 p.m., having covered some six miles in dry sunshine – a big walk for me; and reward ourselves with sandwiches, beer and an hotel view over the bay- we look out rather smugly at the first shower of the day. The sun at 3 pm is already beginning to die in the western sky: Sam says “Just like me”.

At 6.00 pm the three musketeers regroup. A few swift drinks and off to the Café Kisimul.

We have probably the best Indo-Pak meal I have ever eaten (scallop pakora and then curried organic Barra lamb).

We head home (pausing only briefly to take in some of the X-Factor, or some such nonsense, in the Castlebay Bar). Over the bay, there is the crescent of a waning (says Sam) moon. Actually the moon was waxing.

The three of us talk about education for two hours.

I tell stories. I always tell stories.

10^th November 2013

Last night we discussed weather prospects with our genial host John. Winds of 35 mph (perhaps with higher gusts) are forecast. “When does the ferry stop sailing i.e. at what wind speed?” asks Sam. “It depends on the skipper” says our host “If it is Captain MacCrindle, it sails in all conditions.”  I find this slightly alarming.

This morning dawns bright and still. We are up for 9.00 a.m. breakfast; at 10.30 we want a taxi to go the north side of Barra. There is no taxi available. So John volunteers to take us and to ensure a taxi collects us later in the day. We therefore enjoy a conducted tour up the west coast route with a running commentary all the way. Compton Mackenzie’s house is pointed out to us, still owned and (sometimes) used by a descendant: so here was where Mackenzie wrote and philandered. Our host talks about his own sons, one a master on the Lochmaddy-Uig-Tarbert Calmac boat, the other an engineer in Singapore with a subsidiary of Cathay Pacific : in all a typical Hebridean family story.

At the extreme north tip we start to walk south, mainly by road but with one or two diversions, the first of them down to an Atlantic coastline of spectacular energy. Back on the road we go into the cemetery and locate (we think, because the headstone is badly eroded) Compton Mackenzie’s grave. Here also is buried Compton Mackenzie’s friend and piper Calum: who played at the Mackenzie funeral, promptly died and was buried here two days after his pal. There is also a headstone (in Italian) to an Italian who died in Barra in 1941: intriguing, might he have been a POW sent to work in Barra as an agricultural labourer?

[Three days later I find the answer, from John in the Castlebay Hotel:-

‘Hi Iain,

We are so pleased you all enjoyed your trip to Barra.

The gravestone you looked at in Cille Bharraidh was Enrico Muzio an opera
singer from Napoli who lived in London. He was an internee aboard The
Arandora Star heading for Canada on July 1940 when she was torpedoed off the west
coast of the Hebrides. There was also another Italian washed ashore on
Barra and he is interred at Borve graveyard - Oreste Fisanoti; and more
were washed up on the other islands.

Slante Mhor
John’

Inspired by John, I check the story: a somewhat gung-ho German U-boat captain in essence killed hundreds of his alleged “allies”, mostly Italians but including some German POWs; the death toll was added to by UK guards on the Arandora Star  riddling the ship’s lifeboats with rifle fire to prevent their human cargo from “escaping”. Most of the bodies recovered in the Hebrides from that sad affair ended up on Colonsay, I discover.

The issue of "Italian" internment in WW11 was controversial at the time and subsequently. Scotland had about 5500 "Italians", many of them actually native-born Scots (who escaped internment). But the male Italian-born “Italians”, many of them who had come from Barga or Lazio twenty or more years earlier, were interned.

Scotland's eminent historian Tom Devine has written: "The most tragic incident in the entire history of the Italians in Scotland came about because of this policy. On 2 July 1940 the Arandora Star carrying 712 Italian 'enemy aliens' to Canada was torpedoed in the Atlantic by a U-boat. Altogether 450 internees drowned. The dead from Scotland were mainly harmless cafe owners, small shopkeepers and young shop workers."]

Out to the north is the legendary Eriskay. Hugh Roberton of the Glasgow Orpheus Choir famously said (on a vinyl record that still exists): “It is a little island but, long after we are all dead and forgotten, it will be remembered.” And of course the great Paul Robeson picked up a song sheet on Bond St in London and added to the immortality of Eriskay.

Here also is where SS Politician of “Whisky Galore” fame came to grief: confusing the Sound of Barra with the Sound of Eriskay was not good news.

Then the coastline of South Uist.  Much further away and to the east are the shapes of Eigg and Rum, and the very distant (but distinctively snow-capped) peaks of the Cuillins. There is bright sunshine, the merest zephyr of a wind and an extraordinarily good quality of light. We reach the famous Cockle Ebb with the world’s most exotic airport, and walk on the beach/airport.

5     Flying

 The sand is indeed rich with cockleshells, possibly the reason why the surface is amazingly hard and compact and therefore so suited to its aeronautical duties. With some time to spare, we walk to the famous Traigh Eais : a notice says “No kite flying while the airport is open i.e. windsock visible”. It is a very long and beautiful beach, but with menacing Atlantic breakers and surf; and indeed there are notices warning about its undercurrents.

6 Traigh Eais

Our taxi dutifully turns up at 1 p.m. And proceeds down the east side i.e. the Minch route to Castlebay, the driver very helpfully informative. And insightful: “You guys on a “bucket list” trip?”

Lunch at the bar; our host and I have a largely Gaelic conversation on the merits of eating “sgadan” and “guga” i.e. herring and gannet, and indeed cormorants. And we talk about the extinction of the herring industry (dead by the 1950s, with trawlers much to blame). I have spoken more Gaelic in Barra in two days than on my last few trips to Stornoway: and remember enough of my pitiful Gaelic consistently to use the polite vocative plural to address our host. (My father in the 1950s –otherwise discouraging of my attempts to learn Gaelic – gave me a half-crown, a fortune then, for mastering that aspect of Gaelic etiquette.)

And then we have an hour’s walk to the end of Ledaig and back. Ledaig I can only describe as a suburban part of Castlebay: but, given that Castlebay is not urban by any definition, “suburban” may not be the best word.

Now, at 3.30, the wind has picked up to the level of a rather stiff breeze and a black-clouded front is moving in from the Atlantic.

By mid-evening the wind is indeed rather high. Calmac warns that the Sunday sailing from Oban may well be disrupted by winds of 45 mph. But, as we watch from the hotel, at 8.50 (10 minutes early) the Lord of the Isles sails serenely into Castlebay (admittedly with the side-thrusters clearly in overdrive). ‘Captain MacCrindle’ (not that it is he personally) triumphs again.

Good dinner: I have sea trout (if only because there are no farmed sea trout). It is OK. A tad cold, but good.

We tell stories i.e. I tell stories. Again.

At almost midnight the wind is still whistling around parts of the hotel. But that is what I loved about living at the Butt of Lewis when I was 8 years old: the wind whistled but one had the security of a warm bed and some secure parental figures. Six decades later, I have a warm bed; and Robert and Sam as my secure surrogate parents.

11^th November 2013

 At 5.50 a.m. there is still something of a gale; but when I get up an hour later it has abated.

Sam, Robert and I head down to the Barra Pier at 7.30 or so; as the “Lord of the Isles” slides regally into Castlebay from Lochboisdale. All the chat from the locals on the pier is in Gaelic: so unlike Stornoway.

Off at 7.50 and we tuck into a hearty Calmac breakfast; there is nothing better to deter the effects of a heavy swell of the Southern Minch or Sea of the Hebrides (or of an incipient hangover) than a good fry-up. We are tossed around a little for a couple of hours. As Barra recedes, we see Rum and Eigg to the North East; and Coll looms up ahead.

Calm appears, and indeed stunning sunshine, as we sail past the top of Mull; the high slopes and houses of Tobermory; then Fishnish; and Craignure; the lighthouse at the tip of Lismore; and , at 1 p.m., into Oban.

Three hours later we are back in Glasgow; for two of us, back to the reality of the bills run up by expensive wives.

It has been good to be away for a little time.

It was a great adventure to a great place. I enjoyed it all so much.

Iain Smith

14 Nov 2013

The Credits

Original story: from an idea by Iain Smith

Narrative: Iain Smith

Editing: Joan Forrest

Photography: Robert Locke

Logistics management: Sam Tullis

Travel Manager (Land): Iain Smith and his Audi

Travel Managers (Sea): “Captain MacCrindle” and crew, and their “Clansman” and “Lord of the Isles”

Hotel Management: John “Mary Kate” and all Castlebay Hotel staff – who were wonderful

Bruichladdich supplier to Iain Smith: Robert Locke

Consultancy Advice: Anne McGuire MP

A Story of a long time ago

Into this story I have put some interactive decision points. At each of them, decide what you might have done.

There were three little boys, called Iain, Al and Mom. They lived in a very windswept island, where it constantly rained and where the relentless Atlantic winds roared in most nights. But they were happy, knowing that they had two parents to protect them.

One night the parents had a couple of visitors. The little Al and Mom were sent off to bed; but the 10-yr-old Iain was allowed to stay up. Outside the wind howled; but inside the peat and the coal burned in the hearth. The visitors eventually said they had to go. Father offered to drive them home. He was a slightly uncertain driver, as are many of us in practising skills only acquired in our mid-50s (I cannot believe I have said this, but I have).

Mother said “I will go with you, John. The little Iain can lock the house behind us and he will know that only when he hears three short knocks on the door should he open it.”

Was she right in this decision?

Hard to know: to supervise a pretty incompetent 50-yr-old driving husband or to supervise a 10-yr-old carer in charge of an 8-yr-old and a 6-yr-old? Tough choice. She certainly broke the UK law, even then, about child supervision.

So back to my story. It was almost midnight. The somewhat pompous 10-yr-old Iain was sitting by the fire, nursing a Pinot Grigio (or a glass of milk); and musing on how life had now begun to give him the managerial roles that his skills so richly deserved. The winds were dying down, but the fire was still glowing. In the room there was a piano. And as he contemplated this world of which had just taken charge, the piano began to play. Mostly in arpeggios.

What would you have done?

Today I would have been terrified. But the super-confident 10-yr-old went up to the piano.

The piano went on playing; and the piano keys, with no player, were visibly going up and down.  Iain was puzzled. Eventually they stopped. There was little scurry of feet at the back of the piano. And a small mouse hared across the room.

10 minutes later, there are three knocks at the door; and Iain let his parents into the house. “How did you get on, Iain?”. “Fine- apart from the piano playing.”

How would you as a parent have responded?

I would have been agitated at having 10-yr-old capable of being so over-imaginative.

But instead my mother poured me another glass of Pinot Grigio or possibly milk; and my father set a mousetrap in the room. They made a cup of tea. And within 5 minutes the poor mouse was captured in the trap.

Moral of this story: that is for you, not me. But the 10/20/30/40/50/60-yr-old Iain has since never believed in ghost stories.

Brazil

A few days away from home

8 Nov

An ordinary day. 9.00 a.m. train from Lewes to Gatwick, drop my case with Air Portugal and breakfast off oysters and Sancerre at Gatwick.. Then get the three-hour flight from Gatwick to Lisbon; spend an hour there and get on the big Airbus 330 for Recife. 8 hours over the Atlantic and across the equator takes me into North-East Brazil

At Recife it is still late evening (having gained 3 hours by flying west) and a pleasant 25 degrees.

There are Ana, Gaby and Rafa to greet me (Joan, Ken and Oh have flown in earlier from Sao Paulo and are already at our hotel)

                                                                                                                              

Ana I met almost 20 years ago when she came as a graduate student at the then Jordanhill College.       

Three years later she returned in 1995 to do an M.Sc. degree at Strathclyde – with her then 11-yr-old daughter, Gaby. In 2002 Gaby came across to Glasgow for a gap term between school and university; and stayed with Joan and me for some three months. Now she is 27, about to marry Rafa. And so she has invited her “Scottish mother and father” to her wedding. A very romantic story. Of friendships that lasted over the divide of years and over the divide of oceans

9 Nov

The hotel looks good. Especially outside

There are local fruits for breakfast: pineapple and passion fruit; scrambled eggs and coffee – in a delightful outdoor restaurant. Then we have a largely leisurely day by the pool under a hot tropical sun.

In the evening we take a taxi from Olinda into the twin (and adjoining) city of Recife; where Ana is hosting a party for us. Up to the 14^th floor of a modern apartment in Pedro (or Pedrinho´s) place. Pedrinho was in Glasgow (and indeed Mull) for some time in 2002. We meet him (and his wife Renata); and Rafa (the bridegroom-to-be) and Antoine and Juliet (two French friends of Rafa´s, whom he met while doing an exchange year at a Spanish university): it is their first visit to Brazil. Then there is Castanha (Ana´s ex-husband) who was in the frozen Glasgow of Dec 2005/Jan 2006 and loved the -20 degree temperature. There is plenty beer, red wine, local music and some very good fish courses. A very pleasant evening with many reminiscences of times past in Glasgow in 1992, 1995 and 2002; and of Joan and I being here in Brazil in 1993, 1994 and 1995.

Next day we get an email; and photos ´ Just a few photos from our lovely dinner last night... we had a great time!
Thank you all for coming, we were very pleased and happy of having you at our home!!!´´

10 and 11 Nov

We go out for lunch in a very scenic restaurant in Olinda, perched on the top of a hilltop. Stewed goat is exceptionally good. Then for a boat ride in the centre of Recife, a city built on and around five islands. A highlight is a river exhibition from one of Brazil´s leading sculptors (Brennen?).

In the evening Gaby and Rafa take us to a very high class charcuterie: very typical of Brazil. Grilled beef, sliced off the joint at the table, is the highpoint for me.

Friday is initially a quiet day by the pool. Then we migrate on our own to a very old-fashioned and excellent restaurant in the centre of the city. Many of the customers wear ties: but all the waiters do. A couple of hours to relax; then dinner is in a local French restaurant, after we have spent an hour touring a local literary festival. The samba drums are beating through the night as we head to bed.

12 Nov 2011

We head towards the wedding at 7.15 in the evening, Ken and I in full Highland dress, our partners´ dress only marginally less restrained. We assemble outside a very attractive and old-fashioned Catholic church. There we meet and re-meet various people, not least Pedro (Ana´s brother), whom I last met in 1994. It is pleasantly warm after the intense heat of the day (one of the reasons for evening weddings).

The ceremony is billed for 8.00 p.m. but it is approaching 9.00 before we are ushered into the church (where there are reserved seats for us); and then there is a ceremony of entry for the bride and bridegroom´s close family (18 pairs of supporters process in all) before, first of all, Rafa is escorted in by his father and then Gabi by Castanha. The church is decked out with flowers and there is small orchestra in the organ loft.

At the end of the ceremont the bride and groom pose in front of the altar for the official wedding photographs: with the four parents; with grannies; with siblings; with aunts, cousins etc; and then with “the Scottish family”.

We get to the reception (in a magnificent function hall, converted from a factory) about 11 p.m. There is a table reserved for the ´Scottish family´ and Ana joins us (as varyingly do others in the course of the evening) Waiters circulate unendingly with trays of 1. champagne; 2. Johnny Walker Red Label and glasses with ice; 3. Bohemia beer; 4. soft drinks; and 5. water. (This service goes on, free and uninterrupted, all night). There are also waiters with trays of various canapés; and a buffet table with more substantial starters:  carpaccio of ham carved off the bone; various cheeses; and salads.

A band strikes up, the first of three different bands; Rafa , the bridegroom , leads off with a samba song he has composed for Gaby; people are up instantly dancing, and dancing continues all night.

The night is a riot (but a perfectly amiable riot) of music (1970s rock and samba), food and drink. And outside (where the lawns and the elegant walls are illuminated with attractive lighting) there are plenty of conversations and of photographs.

A local asks me ´Where are you from?´

´Scotland´say I.

´Where in Scotland?`says he.

´Glasgow ´say I.

´Rangers and Celtic?´

Ýes.

´Which do you support?´, says he.

´Rangers´

Oh, a blue nose.´ says he.

We head home at 4..00 a.m. The party went on until after 6 a.m.

 

15^th Nov

Yesterday , Joan (and Oh and Ken) headed out of Recife about 1p.m. (en route to Sao Paulo, Barcelona, London and Glasgow – for two of them). I stay in Recife for a further 12 hours. I have a delightful time with Castanha, Anita and Ana (and  with Castanha and Anita’s two criancos). Castanho and Anita deposit Ana and I in Boa Viagem in the early evening and Ana and I discuss the politics and the environment of Brazil over a few chilled beers. Gaby and Rafa (more or less en route to their honeymoon start in Bogota) drop by in the pavement café to say goodbye to me.

Off to the delights of Recife airport (beautiful place) and Ana and I have a few more beers.

A midnight take-off on an uncrowded Airbus 330 (having cunningly checked myself in online at Castanha’s house into the rear of the aircraft, I have lots of room). Seven hours overnight to Lisboa. A morning in Lisbon airport; and then three hours to Heathrow.

Meet my brother Alasdair and he has charmingly booked dinner for the two of us with a very young Lewis friend of ours (whom I first met when she was four, and when I was already middle-aged). She (fluent in Gaelic – but not always so competent in English) tells me that she loves my “jottings”. We have together a delightful evening.

16^th Nov

Walk in the morning in the Barbican site; and then head out to Gatwick. Meanwhile Joan, having dined at night in Barcelona, has flown on and is already in Heathrow. It took them some 18 hours to get from Recife to Barcelona compared with my 7 hours from Recife to Lisbon.

By some miracle, Joan and I rendezvous in Glasgow airport, landing there within 10 minutes of each other.

Back at home, a squawking cat is delighted to see us: “Brush me” Tonya says, “Where have you guys been?”

Tomorrow, Tonya, we will tell you about our adventures. How two decades of friendship with a Brazilian family led us two people on this delightful odyssey – from the northern hemisphere of Europe to the southern hemisphere of South America. And how much we enjoyed ourselves.

I think you will like the story, Tonya: you appreciate love and friendship.

 

It was all pretty wonderful.

Iain

 

Brazil

A few days away from home

8 Nov

An ordinary day. 9.00 a.m. train from Lewes to Gatwick, drop my case with Air Portugal and breakfast off oysters and Sancerre at Gatwick.. Then get the three-hour flight from Gatwick to Lisbon; spend an hour there and get on the big Airbus 330 for Recife. 8 hours over the Atlantic and across the equator takes me into North-East Brazil

At Recife it is still late evening (having gained 3 hours by flying west) and a pleasant 25 degrees.

There are Ana, Gaby and Rafa to greet me (Joan, Ken and Oh have flown in earlier from Sao Paulo and are already at our hotel)

                                                                                                                              

Ana I met almost 20 years ago when she came as a graduate student at the then Jordanhill College.       

Three years later she returned in 1995 to do an M.Sc. degree at Strathclyde – with her then 11-yr-old daughter, Gaby. In 2002 Gaby came across to Glasgow for a gap term between school and university; and stayed with Joan and me for some three months. Now she is 27, about to marry Rafa. And so she has invited her “Scottish mother and father” to her wedding. A very romantic story. Of friendships that lasted over the divide of years and over the divide of oceans

9 Nov

The hotel looks good. Especially outside

There are local fruits for breakfast: pineapple and passion fruit; scrambled eggs and coffee – in a delightful outdoor restaurant. Then we have a largely leisurely day by the pool under a hot tropical sun.

In the evening we take a taxi from Olinda into the twin (and adjoining) city of Recife; where Ana is hosting a party for us. Up to the 14^th floor of a modern apartment in Pedro (or Pedrinho´s) place. Pedrinho was in Glasgow (and indeed Mull) for some time in 2002. We meet him (and his wife Renata); and Rafa (the bridegroom-to-be) and Antoine and Juliet (two French friends of Rafa´s, whom he met while doing an exchange year at a Spanish university): it is their first visit to Brazil. Then there is Castanha (Ana´s ex-husband) who was in the frozen Glasgow of Dec 2005/Jan 2006 and loved the -20 degree temperature. There is plenty beer, red wine, local music and some very good fish courses. A very pleasant evening with many reminiscences of times past in Glasgow in 1992, 1995 and 2002; and of Joan and I being here in Brazil in 1993, 1994 and 1995.

Next day we get an email; and photos ´ Just a few photos from our lovely dinner last night... we had a great time!
Thank you all for coming, we were very pleased and happy of having you at our home!!!´´

                             

Pedrinho at home.

Six cosmopolitan Scots

Joan and Ana

10 and 11 Nov

We go out for lunch in a very scenic restaurant in Olinda, perched on the top of a hilltop. Stewed goat is exceptionally good. Then for a boat ride in the centre of Recife, a city built on and around five islands. A highlight is a river exhibition from one of Brazil´s leading sculptors (Brennen?).

In the evening Gaby and Rafa take us to a very high class charcuterie: very typical of Brazil. Grilled beef, sliced off the joint at the table, is the highpoint for me.

Friday is initially a quiet day by the pool. Then we migrate on our own to a very old-fashioned and excellent restaurant in the centre of the city. Many of the customers wear ties: but all the waiters do. A couple of hours to relax; then dinner is in a local French restaurant, after we have spent an hour touring a local literary festival. The samba drums are beating through the night as we head to bed.

12 Nov 2011

We head towards the wedding at 7.15 in the evening, Ken and I in full Highland dress, our partners´ dress only marginally less restrained. We assemble outside a very attractive and old-fashioned Catholic church. There we meet and re-meet various people, not least Pedro (Ana´s brother), whom I last met in 1994. It is pleasantly warm after the intense heat of the day (one of the reasons for evening weddings).

The ceremony is billed for 8.00 p.m. but it is approaching 9.00 before we are ushered into the church (where there are reserved seats for us); and then there is a ceremony of entry for the bride and bridegroom´s close family (18 pairs of supporters process in all) before, first of all, Rafa is escorted in by his father and then Gabi by Castanha. The church is decked out with flowers and there is small orchestra in the organ loft.

At the end of the ceremont the bride and groom pose in front of the altar for the official wedding photographs: with the four parents; with grannies; with siblings; with aunts, cousins etc; and then with “the Scottish family”.

Gabi ( and father and mother on left to back)

We get to the reception (in a magnificent function hall, converted from a factory) about 11 p.m. There is a table reserved for the ´Scottish family´ and Ana joins us (as varyingly do others in the course of the evening) Waiters circulate unendingly with trays of 1. champagne; 2. Johnny Walker Red Label and glasses with ice; 3. Bohemia beer; 4. soft drinks; and 5. water. (This service goes on, free and uninterrupted, all night). There are also waiters with trays of various canapés; and a buffet table with more substantial starters:  carpaccio of ham carved off the bone; various cheeses; and salads.

A band strikes up, the first of three different bands; Rafa , the bridegroom , leads off with a samba song he has composed for Gaby; people are up instantly dancing, and dancing continues all night.

The night is a riot (but a perfectly amiable riot) of music (1970s rock and samba), food and drink. And outside (where the lawns and the elegant walls are illuminated with attractive lighting) there are plenty of conversations and of photographs.

A local asks me ´Where are you from?´

´Scotland´say I.

´Where in Scotland?`says he.

´Glasgow ´say I.

´Rangers and Celtic?´

Ýes.

´Which do you support?´, says he.

´Rangers´

Oh, a blue nose.´ says he.

We head home at 4..00 a.m. The party went on until after 6 a.m.

Wedding reception: Moi, Joan, Gabriela, wife of the next guy, Pedro´s dentist uncle, Ana Lucia, Pedro, Isolde.

Moi, Joan, Ana Lucia, Ken, UK

15^th Nov

Yesterday , Joan (and Oh and Ken) headed out of Recife about 1p.m. (en route to Sao Paulo, Barcelona, London and Glasgow – for two of them). I stay in Recife for a further 12 hours. I have a delightful time with Castanha, Anita and Ana (and  with Castanha and Anita’s two criancos). Castanho and Anita deposit Ana and I in Boa Viagem in the early evening and Ana and I discuss the politics and the environment of Brazil over a few chilled beers. Gaby and Rafa (more or less en route to their honeymoon start in Bogota) drop by in the pavement café to say goodbye to me.

Off to the delights of Recife airport (beautiful place) and Ana and I have a few more beers.

A midnight take-off on an uncrowded Airbus 330 (having cunningly checked myself in online at Castanha’s house into the rear of the aircraft, I have lots of room). Seven hours overnight to Lisboa. A morning in Lisbon airport; and then three hours to Heathrow.

Meet my brother Alasdair and he has charmingly booked dinner for the two of us with a very young Lewis friend of ours (whom I first met when she was four, and when I was already middle-aged). She (fluent in Gaelic – but not always so competent in English) tells me that she loves my “jottings”. We have together a delightful evening.

16^th Nov

Walk in the morning in the Barbican site; and then head out to Gatwick. Meanwhile Joan, having dined at night in Barcelona, has flown on and is already in Heathrow. It took them some 18 hours to get from Recife to Barcelona compared with my 7 hours from Recife to Lisbon.

By some miracle, Joan and I rendezvous in Glasgow airport, landing there within 10 minutes of each other.

Back at home, a squawking cat is delighted to see us: “Brush me” Tonya says, “Where have you guys been?”

Tomorrow, Tonya, we will tell you about our adventures. How two decades of friendship with a Brazilian family led us two people on this delightful odyssey – from the northern hemisphere of Europe to the southern hemisphere of South America. And how much we enjoyed ourselves.

I think you will like the story, Tonya: you appreciate love and friendship.

(More photos from Ana Lucia below.)

It was all pretty wonderful.

Iain