A Story in Stone

While fitting together the angular stones to make our new patio, a task that resembled the assembly of a large jigsaw puzzle, I began to dream about the stones' fabulous story. “If those stones could talk!” --- Who said that? Who said that they can’t?

We found them piled up on the side of a drainage ditch. The County, which occasionally spends a penny of our Council Tax to benefit us directly, sent in a backhoe to dredge the ditches that line our main road. They were clogged with mud and stone. Frequently overflowing after it rained. The backhoe excavated mounds of slate : dark blue rocks that cleave naturally along mineralized layers; also some pink, streaky quartzite. Between 3-5 inches thick, the rocks are perfect for laying out a pathway or a patio. For centuries the farmers used them to build walls separating various pastures. Charles A. came by with a trailer. We hauled several piles off to Cottarton.














The rock hadn’t grown in the ditch or anywhere nearby. There isn't a slate outcrop for miles. The closest outcrop is of Archean quartzite, a couple of miles up the road. It may have been the source for some of the rocks. Archean rocks formed around a billion years ago; long before the first shell fish and creepy crawlies evolved in our oceans. Life had already begun in the form of bacteria and the first cellular plants and animals, those that don’t leave any fossils.

Our slate may have crystallized around that time. But imagine in what forge the stone was melted and cooled. The dark minerals, amphibole and hypersthene that give the stone its colour form only under intense pressures and high temperature, not found anywhere close to the surface of the Earth. You have to dig 15 miles down before you find such conditions. Close to the Earth’s upper mantle. An unnamed rock, could be sandstone,shale or granite, was partially melted there. Under intense pressure little mica type minerals crystallized to give the rock its streaky fabric. Its cleavage. Then the rock was brought up to the surface. Not by a volcano the way basalt or granite are exuded but by active faults, fractures in the Earth's crust, moving over millions of years.
















How did the slate fragments reach Cottarton? Either on the back of a glacier or pushed by a one as it advanced from the north, scraping up any rocks in its way; like a snow plough with a blade several miles long. That was recent history, within the past hundred thousand years. Due to small changes in the Earth’s orbit, the planet cooled a few degrees --- not so much as you might notice over a few winters, but enough to trigger an ice age. Starting in the Arctic, glaciers formed and migrated southward, carving the valleys that we admire so much these days. The Scottish Highlands, Kings Canyon and Yosemite. The slate and quartzite outcrops were crushed, their pieces churned up and pushed along to fill the valley floors. Smaller pieces altered chemically to form clay minerals: the heavy soil where today I grow vegetables and flowers. Fodder for our buttercups. I swear that the resilient buggers lasted the entire ice age under the ice and were the first to pop up once the ice disappeared about 12,000 years ago. If the ice couldn't kill them, what hope have I?

And so the forests returned to an altered landscape, the rounded hills and valleys of today. Great Britain, which had been connected to the rest of Europe became and island. Stones whose story began over a billion years ago lay fragmented in our glen until the backhoe dug them up. Now they grace our patio. Treat them with the respect that the grand old rocks deserve.

Is this my house?

Notes from Scone --- 6 AM, one grey February morning.

She’s sitting up in bed; more anxious than usual. You can see it in her hollow eyes. Though she’s barely able to articulate the words, she asks, “Is this my house?” She asked the same question several times the previous evening. “Where are my keys?” was a common question when she was at hospital, whenever we’d take her out for a drive or for a hair cut. Questions that I'm unable to answer rationally, in a way that would satisfy her.

Well, might she ask. Decades ago she lost her house; at least twice. The first house wasn’t sold in order for her to move. It was taken from her by force. Wójcza was the centre of a large farming estate in the Kielce region of Poland, where she and her siblings were born. During WWII the Germans burned it to the ground. The second house was Ruszcza, a mansion outside Krakow where she and my father settled three months before the war broke out. They barely had enough time to complete one harvest. She spent the war years there while her husband was locked up in a POW camp. A 19 year old girl, just married, she had to run the estate, deal with farm production, personnel issues plus provide a home for refugees, for dislocated family and even the occasional Jew. This was the war occupation, as in “Schindler’s List”.

When the war was over, she emptied the house,sending flatbeds of furniture to family homes in Krakow. She turned the key in the lock for the last time and walked away. Her husband, recently freed from the stalag, was waiting for her to join him in Germany.

A new home waited for them in Scotland, a one bedroom cottage provided by the local laird. No plumbing or electricity; no rental agreement. Just a handshake; an understanding that they would be allowed to live there. The agreement could be rescinded if the laird decided he needed the space for someone else. They were exiles, separated from family and home, and that’s how they felt. My father also lost his home at least twice. The first being a forest estate on the banks of the Prypiat, now in Bielorus. The Red Army ransacked the house then set fire to it. His second home was leveled along with all of Warsaw in 1945.

They bought the present home in Scone in the mid 1970s. But even owning the house outright doesn’t bring security. Not when you are burdened by such a past. The questions go on: “Is this my house?” Amber reassures her that it is but the answer doesn’t end the questions. Mama has lived there for years; she has lived in many other houses but I wonder whether her question, following her recent brushes with death, doesn’t contain another meaning. That at the end we are gypsies in temporary lodgings, and we’ll all be moving on.

Ah, the manure!

Gardening sustainably in north-eastern Scotland, presents its challenges. Not the least being how to maintain the fertility of the ground. Without artificial fertilizer. We have heavy, acidic clay soil that sticks to every part of you. Infested with creeping buttercups and couch grass, dandelions, daisies and dock weed…Arghh!

You might think that a dollop of dung will sort it all out. Easy there. Raw dung will often bring you even more couch grass. Scorch your tatties too. Plus it tends to make your soil even more acidic than it already is. Welcome creeping buttercups! I knew you’d like it here too.

You need compost. Mountains of it! What in old Scotland was called a midden. We’ve had a mild winter. It’s the perfect time to load your matured compost into the wheelbarrow and spread it out on freshly turned beds. Then sprinkle them with lime. The buttercups don’t like lime, but then I don’t like buttercups. At least not in veg or flower beds.

This year I’ve finally succeeded in accumulating enough compost to cover most beds. Two ingredients every compost pile needs in order to mature are heat and air. Heat in Aberdeenshire? You’re joking. For half the year the temperature remains in single digits. During the winter months the sun skims low over the southern horizon for a few hours before dipping below. That’s why you need biofuel. Grass clippings and dung are two best friends. Pile your grass clippings onto the mountains of couch grass and buttercups extracted from the beds over the summer. The heat generated by decaying grass is intense enough to kill the weed seeds. And scorch the weeds. By the following spring, the compost under the grass clippings is clean enough to use.







The scenic view







Our main compost pile is formed from kitchen waste: vegetable and flower cuttings. The trick is to make sure that there's enough air for the bacteria, worms and insects that decompose the waste. They need to breathe. I build the pile in layers, first straw or plant stems from peas and beans, kitchen waste and nettles, grass clippings and dung.It all goes into a wire frame so that air can get in around the sides. I also add Comfrey plants. We grow Comfrey in large quantities and extract the juice to fertilize tomatoes and courgette.

When the pile is a a few feet high, turn it. That’s when you’ll appreciate the reek of the compost. “Ah the manure!” you’ll say with pleasure. Putrification --- the word comes from ancient alchemy, is a perfectly respectable alchemical process necessary for refining the philosopher's stone. There's gold in that thar pile! After another couple of months you’ll turn the pile again. And so you have several piles next to each other in various stages of maturity.

The key to your garden’s success is to replace whatever you remove from the soil. If you cart away five loads of weeds, you replace them with equivalent compost. Nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium all need to be replaced. Sprinkle your wood ashes on beds where tatties will be planted. They're a good supply of potassium. Unfortunately planting beans and peas doesn't fertilize your garden. Not unless you plough them under, along with their fruit. Don’t apply lime and dung in the same year. They cancel each other out. It's why I also apply compost and dung in alternate years.

This sort of gardening isn’t the most glamorous. You don’t take your photo standing beside your compost for “Gardening and Good Housekeeping”. But it’s what keeps your garden alive.

Glass has got talent

Cottarton Cottage is located in Glass. To those who ask: “Where the hell is Glass?” I usually reply: “It’s a small Aberdeenshire town, the home of the Glass Symphony Orchestra. The name has Celtic roots, meaning “grey”. Yesterday the symphony orchestra didn’t show up in Glass Hall and so we were treated to the local reality show, “Has Glass got talent”?--- An evening of music, song, recitation, dance and comedy.

Remarkable the talent that appears when people aren’t trying to compete with the hotshots on the X-Factor. Miranda played us a scale on her new viola. Not bad. Mike Taitt, our local wizard of Oz played a jig on a harmonica; danced a jig too until the game was up. We realized the music was coming from a 78 recording behind a screen. Nick showed us how to pull a thread from nose to ear, Anne recited her beautiful poetry. Of the talented Yuill family grandmother Christine was the hall’s favourite. Her recitation of “The honey bee from the old town of Effen” had the room in stitches. Note the double entendre of “Effen”. I’ve no doubt that by now the Effen residents are tired of the jokes at their expense.













Vivienne McIntosh treated us to a medley of highland dancing. Her feet moved with breathtaking precision that instantly drew in your eye. She appeared totally weightless. Moira Watson and Liz Brown, “The Local Miracles”, sang in perfect harmony. Great standup comedy from Bob Yuill. He had us in stitches while he embarrassed his family. I swear that Rob, Katie and Christine had red faces. Glass definitely has talent.

Who stole the show were the five sexy ladies, Lilian Cameron, Frances Harrold, Ruth Wright, Sue Brown and Margaret Slorach, known as “Over the Hill.” Dressed in burlesque and swinging their furs, they performed the red-light district song, with parent advisory lyrics “Let’s Do it!” Ooh la la! With a direct reference to a romantic couple in the room. After walking away with the top prize, they were called back for a reprise.

None of the performers appeared to feel ill at ease. They were all having fun on the stage. I often wish that performing art was no more than fun; not the cutthroat competitiveness of “Strictly Come Dancing” or the “X Factor”. Which doesn’t mean that the artist isn’t striving for excellence if that’s what they choose. It’s the drive for recognition that ultimately puts a chokehold on the art.

Our compere, Gary Coull, with a perfect Glass accent kept us laughing between acts. I will use some of his jokes, so watch out. Thank goodness the symphony orchestra didn’t show up.

The Queen will pay for it

“Is this new greenhouse expensive?” I asked my dad forty years back. Old Scone Nursery, his business for over 25 years, contained hundreds of cold frames with seedlings, fields of chrysanthemums, dahlias, lettuce, cabbage. You name it. And here was a new, 100 foot long greenhouse taking shape in the field. “The Queen will pay for it,” he replied. He meant that he’d received a government subsidy for the project.

Back to the present. When I arrived in the living room I found mama sitting in her chair, perky, irascible and funny. Her eyes were bright as if nothing had happened. Frailer than before; she can no longer walk alone; needs assistance going to the toilet. She’s conversational but often not understandable. The stroke left its mark on her speech.

She came home from hospital to a new bathroom --- built at taxpayer expense: slick, white walls, a shower, toilet, small lavatory and a wide doorway to fit a wheelchair. Wow! Not only has she a new bathroom but a twelve foot long ramp so that the house is handicap accessible.






Before...















After...








How did all that happen? A year ago when I first heard that the Scottish government is in the remodelling business, my first reaction was --- “You’re joking.” For thirty years I lived in the US and no one came barging in to remodel my house. Over here, they’ll not only pay for your doctor and hospital but they’ll re-do your house and your home decorations. Even if you're not on welfare.




The wheelchair ramp










The logic goes something like this. A few years back the Scottish government committed to providing free care for all elderly people; at least for those with savings below a certain threshold. The others have to fork out a co-payment. It’s a lot cheaper for the government to keep the elderly in their houses and to send over carers to assist with dressing, washing and food --- in mama’s case four times a day, than to pay for the elderly to be cared for in nursing homes. Plus, there’s a quality of life issue. Everyone wants to be cared for in their own home. So the government will spend the dough to make your house handicap accessible, and upgrade your bathroom so that you can be easily cared for. Of course, you won’t be given a choice of bathroom style or colour, but I haven’t heard too many complaints about the government's taste in decoration.

Conservative as always, mama took one look at the new shower and declared that she hates all showers. She won’t use it. Too bad, said no-nonsense Agata, our live-in carer. You’ll be using it. Mama bowed to the inevitable.

A Cottarton Burns Night

Burns Night celebrates our poet’s birth. By January 25, we already notice more daylight when we wake up. This year's mild January even has a touch of spring. Traditionally the dinner menu is haggis, neeps and tatties, eloquent toasts and speeches that speak fondly of the bard, despite the fact that he was a scoundrel who seduced every lassie he came across. If you have the space in your house, a ceilidh. At Cottarton we do it a little differently, with a focus on poetry, song, good food, and conversations on deep philosophical issues and controversial ecology, all chased down with high quality whisky.

Amber procured the haggis at the Forbes-Raeburn butcher in Huntly. A necessity. There’s nothing worse than supermarket haggis, stuff with the consistency of glue that sticks to your mouth and refuses to be swallowed. Unfortunately US residents are deprived of the real haggis. People have ended up in jail trying to smuggle in Scottish haggis. It’s made of sheep’s heart, liver, lungs minced with onion and oatmeal, simmered for an hour in the sheep’s stomach. How to describe the sensation of eating it? You’ll taste a symphony of spicy meat, sweetness, all perfectly complemented with Amber’s classic, mashed potatoes and neeps (known in the US as rutabagas).
















Alex, from Drummuir castle, read an abbreviated address to the haggis, standing with a knife to make the first ritual cut:

“His knife see rustic labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi steady slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then O what a glorious sight,
Warm reekin, rich.”

Makes your mouth water, then heat up like with good Mexican food, thirsting for a splash of whisky. Amber and Annie stayed with white wine. Rachel drank last year’s dandelion wine brewed at Cottarton, while Charles and I mixed the dandelion wine with cheap beer. Quite a cocktail. We decided that 2010 was a good year for dandelion wine. We had a Texas contribution to Burns Night --- chicken marbella, made of marinated chicken in a sweet prune sauce. An amazing complement to the haggis, that should from now on be added to the traditional menu. For dessert Annie made crannoch pudding, made of oatmeal, berries, cream and whisky.
















Once we’d all not only eaten our fill, but lubricated our brains and tongues with more whisky, we struck up the poetry and song. We sang a capella, when we knew the choruses. Annie led “Ae fond kiss”, Rachel “Ca’ the Ewes”. The lassies have a great repertoire of which we were treated to only a few selections.Charles sang “Cald kale in Aberdeen” --- a poem that references our nearby river, the Bogie. I made an attempt at my favourite, To a Mouse, set to music by Battlefield Band.















Why the poet’s enduring appeal that crosses all classes and education background? He was the first poet of note to write in the people’s dialect, on every topic from misadventures with sheep and cattle, his romantic exploits, the mythology of the land and of politics. Very sympathetic with the plight of the common man, expressing his conviction that class and money have nothing to do with a person’s worth:

“A man’s a man for a’ that!”

He was a pacifist who saw war in all its forms as evil. He watched many young men march proudly away, never to return. Most biting are his words o politicians in “Logan’s Braes”

“O wae upon ye men o’ state
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn,
Say may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan Braes”.

His compassion extends also to the mouse, whose house he one day destroyed with his plough. The experience made him ponder the fragility of all our lives, in the final stanzas, lines unfortunately a bit overused.

But, Mousie thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men,
Gang aft a-gley,
An’ leave us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But och! I backward cast my e’e
On prospects drear!
And forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess and fear.

Yes – some days I feel myself a lord, and other days when things “gang a-gley” I’m no higher than that mouse. Quite a normal feeling I suspect.

The Anti-Poet

January 25 is almost here, and that means Burns night --- a celebration of our most celebrated bard. At Cottarton we’re expecting 11 people over for our party. Amber is cooking up a storm. After dinner, the musicians will strike up some music, and we’ll have poetic recitations and singing.

Scotland also boasts of a great anti-poet --- whose poetry is recited at parties, even in the US, and garners more laughs than Burns because it’s so unashamedly bad. I refer to the great Dundee poet, actor, tragedian and quintessentially tragic William McGonnagall (1825-1902).

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array,
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beutification to the Tay.

Six more stanzas follow about the bridge's architecture. Let’s try another one, written later after the bridge fell down one stormy night. Apparently as a result of poor engineering…

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remembered for a very long time.

Get me out of here!Two pages of verse carry on the story, each verse ending with,
Which will be remembered for a very long time.

There are more --- about 200 poems. Have someone read them and see if you don’t end up splitting your sides. He recited in bars, in music halls; even in a circus where people would pelt him with flour, eggs and the like. His performances --- and yes he was a great performance poet, what today you’d call a slammer, often resulted in riots. He certainly wasn’t ignored. People turned up always, expecting a great show. While reciting “The Battle of Bannockburn” in a Montrose hall,he waved a sword and thrust it this way and that, sending the orchestra members running for their lives.

Then King Edward ordered his horsemen to charge
Thirty thousand in number which was very large;
They thought to o’erwhelm them ere they could rise from their knees,
But they met a different destiny, which did them displease.

McGonnagall became a poet following a mystical experience. He writes,

"I was sitting in my back room in Paton's Lane, Dundee, lamenting to myself because I couldn't get to the Highlands on holiday to see the beautiful scenery, when all of a sudden my body got inflamed, and instantly I was seized with a strong desire to write poetry, so strong, in fact, that in imagination I thought I heard a voice crying in my ears- "Write! Write" I wondered what could be the matter with me, and I began to walk backwards and forwards in a great fit of excitement, saying to myself-- "I know nothing about poetry." But still the voice kept ringing in my ears - "Write, write," until at last, being overcome with a desire to write poetry, I found paper, pen, and ink, and in a state of frenzy, sat me down to think what would be my first subject for a, poem."

He certainly remained true to his vision. Despite the universal derision, he remained convinced that he was a great poet. A genius. That people were merely stupid. Tone deaf to poetic metre and metaphor, he couldn't figure out what people were laughing at. Perhaps therein lies his genius. I certainly couldn’t write such poetry. You have to hand it to the man that he never gave up, and that all the egg pelting never shook his self-esteem or his faith in himself.

Yet, I hesitate to call him a tragic figure, though numerous anecdotes point that way. Once when playing the part of Macbeth, he refused to die as required by Shakespeare. He drew out the sword fight until his exhausted adversary threw down his sword and bodily tackled him. I suspect that McGonnagall was craftier than people give him credit. The crowds did after all turn up, if only to be entertained by his performance, his inane lines, and to pelt him with cabbages. He knew he was successful. He must have loved the attention. Yet, as with most poets, he must have felt lonely.

And today, a hundred years later, his poems are best sellers. Guess who’s laughing in his grave?