Edinburgh's Wild West

Today it is a Bank Holiday in Scotland, and the sun is shining (except for a brief and frenzied hail storm this morning). I don't get bank holidays where I work (we get them added onto our holidays so we can take them when we want), but I'm off work today because of Fibro plus stress plus totally insane dreams which I can remember perfectly (and which I acted out, as indicated by the bruises on my arm). This morning, moving, having limbs, and braining was something which happened to other people (seriously, I couldn't even figure out how to work gmail! And it wasn't until 7 new tabs later that I realised the plus button is not the same as the tab scroll button on Firefox).

Anyway, I'm feeling a bit more up to braining now, so have an entry with some photos. There's a street (well, more of a very small back alley) in the depths of upper-middle-class residential Morningside which masquerades as a snippet of the lawless American Wild West. Unfortunately, it wasn't dropped into Morningside by some long-lived and magical tornado (a là Wizard of Oz), instead, it was a normal alley of garages and workshops until a furniture maker (who specialised in Spanish-style furnishings) built all the wooden frontages as an advertising gimmick. This was a very long time ago, an some bits have rotted away, although most of it is being kept in decent condition. The decay is also pleasingly photogenic.

Saloon:

Blackford Pond (and a thought-provoking experience)

Today, I had a very unusual and rather thought provoking occurrence at work. Our building is open to the public, and it doesn't have a specific reception, so very often people who are thoroughly lost turn up at our offices looking for directions. Today, an elderly couple in their late 60s, early 70s, turned up. They had travelled for three days - all the way from Australia - to find their daughter. She hadn't been in contact with them for ten years, and they'd managed to trace her to the university. They'd spoken with several members of HR, and had tracked down where she had possibly recently worked, so they were pretty sure she wasn't dead. The couple were exhausted, and very lost. I directed them as best I could. The whole episode made me uncomfortable and a little melancholy; they'd be tracing her from Australia as far as they could, so they'd booked a flight and come over to continue the work. They literally got into Edinburgh last night, had stayed at a nearby hotel, and had come straight to the uni first thing this morning. They seemed very excited at the prospect of finally finding her. And they were so elderly! It was as if they were trying to find her before they died. And the lady had fallen last night, and badly twisted her ankle, so she could barely walk - but they didn't have time to go and get it checked, or let her rest up. Now of course, I don't know the whole story; the daughter may have excellent reasons for not wanting to speak to them. Perhaps they did something terrible, so that she cut them out of her life; I know from experience that parents can do horrible things to their children (not my parents, I hasten to add), things that entirely justify their children never speaking to them again. But even so, it left me with an unsettled feeling for the rest of the day, and the desire to hug three very specific people.

On a lighter note, I also have a bunch of pictures to share. P and I went for a walk round Blackford Pond, where I was able to play with my zoom lens. It was a beautiful sunny spring day, with many baby waterfowl in evidence - and even a bunny - despite the teeming hordes of yelling small children and yummy mummies pushing buggies and conversing about where Jemima will go to school. There was one pair of mothers I did admire though: they'd somehow managed to persuade their three-or-four year olds that pushing buggies is the best thing ever. So the kids were happily pushing their own buggies round the pond (and racing each other) while the mothers sauntered behind, unencumbered by buggy. A very cunning plan, I thought. One of the mothers thought so too; she saw me looking, and shared a conspiratorial grin.

Anyway, on to the wildlife. Herein are photos of fuzzyness (ducklings) and fluffyness (cootlets), a bunny, and some rather comical ducks.

A story

The year I turned seven, my parents bought the beach house, and my world changed. Instead of the city centre garden, we had a whole beach! There were islands, and a cave, and the paddling pool. Then, as we got older, there was the swimming pool proper, with slides, and diving boards, and floats; endless games of pirates, capture the float, or diving down to see who could sit on the bottom for longest, watching the legs of tourists above us. They looked like frogs.
Later on, we learned to sail. Havoc took us to explore the islands out in the bay, and beyond. She gave us freedom from the land, and when the wind was strong, and the sails trimmed just right, we felt like we were flying.
At night, once everyone had fallen asleep, I'd creep through to the family room, and watch the moon across the water. In the distance the lighthouse flashed, the yellow beam splashing across rocks and sand and grass, then on, out of sight towards Fife. I'd have conversations with the Older Me, telling myself that no matter what happened, I would always be able to come back here. However bad things were during term time, however bad things were in the future, the beach would always be waiting, silently, the water silvered by the moon as the waves whispered against the sand.
The winters, too, were wonderful, filled with wind and thundering waves, spray flying high over the empty swimming pool, flooding it so that the water spilled over, and we had to jump onto the steps over the rocks, out of the way. Where the tourists' legs had looked like frogs, now seaweed floated serenely. Beyond, the water was churned up, a seething mass of white that would draw back then roar in again, thundering against the wall and sending the spray soaring over our heads so that it would seem as though it was raining. We would laugh into the teeth of the gale, marvelling at the wildness of it all.
Later on, we'd sit by the fire and listen at the wind howling round the house and down the chimney, sending the sparks up in clouds. At night, I'd watch the bay as the lighthouse flashed, the foam on the waves ghostly in the moonlight.

Eventually, we grew up, and the beach house was closed. We moved on, studied, worked, but always in the back of my mind was the image of the beach, first thing in the morning, the sand fresh from the outgoing tide. The air would be cool, but with the promise of heat as soon as the sun was fully up. We would be the only ones out, except for a man walking his dog over on the far side. Plenty of time to build forts and play pirates, imagining the marauders coming into the bay, their sails gleaming in the sun. I always promised myself that I could go back, and one day, it happened; the beach house was opened again, the rooms aired out and painted, the old things restored or replaced. I'd be able to walk on the beach - can adults build forts and play pirates? - or go sailing, or watch the waves.

Then there was the accident, and everything changed. The darkness had arrived, and with it, the sleepless nights, and the pain that dulled everything else. And now, as I lie here sobbing, my legs so full of pain that I can't feel my toes, I imagine that somewhere, somehow, a little girl and her brother run side by side down to the beach. Slipping off their shoes, they wriggle their toes in the warm sand. As I watch, they gather up the flag on the old iron post, and climb up the side of the dune to where the diggings of the previous day show the beginnings of a proper fort. The girl digs a hole and plants the flag securely. As she stands beside it, surveying her domain, her eyes meet mine. For a long moment we look at each other, and then she smiles, and turns to her brother. "Let's finish the fort; the pirates will be coming round into the bay any moment. Then this afternoon, we can go and play in the swimming pool. They might have the blow-up slide ready by then."
As the image fades, my heart feels full, as though it will break. This world may not be what I dreamed, but at least I know that somewhere in a perpetual summer, part of me will always be playing, down on the beach, or in the pool, or on the island. Part of me will always be happy. And maybe, if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, just maybe I can go back there, and join them, if only for a moment.

I'm sorry, what?! *lalala*

Apparently, we might have severe gales early on Thursday morning.

However, we should consider ourselves lucky. A little further west or north, and we'd be expecting heavy snow, since that's what pretty much the rest of Scotland is getting.

I'm sorry, but someone hasn't got the memo. When it comes to snow, we've been there, and done that. I think most people would rather not get the t-shirt, thank you very much.

And we woke up to a light dusting of snow on the roofs this morning.

It's worth noting that the worst snow weather that Edinburgh received was back in the 1800s, and took place during February and March. So maybe this winter is going to try and top that...

But all the crocuses are in bloom, and the daffodils are starting to come out. We've had several gloriously bright and sunny days, with blue sky and cold, clear weather. It was getting nicely springlike. I love snow, and having so much last year was exciting (and not too much of a pain, since I have rubber grips for my shoes so I don't slip, and I walk everywhere anyway) but I do have mixed feelings about going back to cold grey days and wearing a scarf up to my eyes in order to breathe...even if it does mean having fun walking to work in full wet weather gear through a foot of snow.

Of Firefestivals and red nail varnish.

Since the year is ponderously progressing towards my birthday (which is still months away, though is in the first half of the year) I've been speculating a bit on where I've come from, and where I'm going to. I'm not having a midlife crisis; for one thing, I'm too young, and for another, it couldn't be called a crisis. On the other hand, although I have decent well-paying job, it's not remotely in the area I want to work in. (Administration vs Archaeology.) I finished uni with an excellent degree, despite developing Fibromylagia in my second year. Since then, I've started my masters, but have bumbled a bit. Why? I used to say it was money - and to some extent it is - but there's definitely more to it than that. I've always told myself that if I really wanted to get on with finishing it, I could work really hard, maybe do an additional job if I wanted to, then take unpaid leave to finish writing up. Then I use the excuse that I couldn't work that hard even if I wanted to, because of my health.
Some introspection has revealed the real reason: A total lack of confidence in my own intellectual and acadmic abilities, not to mention ability to concentrate.
Currently, attempts to overcome this lack of confidence seem to be revolving around wearing red nail varnish, for some unfathomable female reason. I'm not a red nail varnish kind of girl (although I've always coveted the ability to wear it well.) Red is a difficult colour; get the wrong shade and you end up looking like a harlot, or just plain cheap. Get the right shade and suddenly you become a mysterious and enigmatic woman of elegance.
Since I don't want to look harlot-ish, I've always stuck to pale shades - very natural shades, or slightly shimmery translucent shades. Recently I've also acquired a very pale pastel blue, which has made me happy because I'm able to wear blue nail varnish to work. (Oooh, look at me rebelling!)

The whole nail thing has been made worse by the fact that I sit next to a girl who's only a couple of years older than me, who always, always has her nails manicured. They're fairly short, never fake, but always beautifully painted. Somehow, on some level, my feminine pride has been wounded. (This is probably also due to the fact that being organised enough to put on makeup in the mornings isn't something that happens to me.)

This weekend, however, I found the Perfect Red. It's a deep shade, blood red, but with a slight pearlescent tinge which gives it depth, and thus class. I wore it to work today, and ended up grinning every time I caught sight of my nails. It's funny how such a small thing can have such an effect.

Anyway, enough about nails. Let's make up for it by having some FIRE.



Last Hogmanay (2010), there was a Fire Festival held on the Royal Mile. Giant iron sculptures - spheres, octopods, otherworldly shapes - were covered in pots of wax with wooden wicks, which were then set alight. There were great chimneys which belched flames high into the air, but the crowning glory was the Chandelier, which swung high above the street, next to the (obligingly full) moon.

Photopost: Moonlight, Archaeology

I had to pop down to NB on Wednesday night in order to meet an archaeologist for a stroll along the cliffs early on Thursday morning. The archaeologist was lovely, as was her very friendly and intelligent dog. We had fun, and I was able to get lots of good information about volunteering, and what to do to improve my CV.

I was meant to be having an early night, but the moon was stunning - one day off being full. It was an incredibly clear night, full of stars. The moon was so bright that it cast proper shadows on our balcony, and the whole bay was lit up. The light was silvery, very ethereal looking. I can see why it's often described as having a magical quality; certainly seeing everything lit up that way did make things appear somewhat otherworldly. It wasn't as bright or colourful as the daytime, but it was bright enough to see people walking on the beach, to see the rocks, and water, the waves - even some colours could be made out. Normally all you can see is the occasional flash of murky white as a wave breaks. You wouldn't be able to see the sand or the water, let alone people.

I was in my pyjamas, but I couldn't let the chance go to waste, so out I went onto the balcony, in my dressing gown, with my camera. It was bitterly cold. My dressing gown kept me warm, though my ankles were a little too exposed for my liking.

This is what West Bay looked like:


I set the camera on the table, propped it up, and pointed it at the moon. All things considered, the photo came out pretty well. (Trying to get the camera to focus at that angle was fun, and I was shivering a bit much by that point).

I'm so pleased with this - it's come out amazingly well! Look at those stars - you can see Orion's Belt pretty clearly, just above the reflection on the balcony rail, which is what that black thing across the bottom right hand corner is.

Seacliff: More from East Lothian adventures, Part 2.

Given the cuts situation, and the fact I've spent the day on the couch unable to move, I have a post on disability brewing. However, while it percolates gently, I'm going to post the rest of the pictures from our exploration of Seacliff. I'd better get it done before they're a whole year out of date (the pics were taken in March of last year)!
So, when we last left our delightful (ahem) heroine (yours truly) and her parents trusty sidekicks, they'd just discovered a hidden harbour that's only accessible from the mainland at low tide. The harbour comes complete with slipway, channel, and a box for keeping live catch in until they were needed for the table. After exploring the harbour, we headed back to the beach. I said in my last post that Seacliff is like something out of an Enid Blyton book; as well as secret harbours and ruins, there are also stories of wreckers. Just beyond the rocks on which St Baldred's cross sits, there are two rocky outcrops, known as the Scoughall Rocks and the Car Rocks. Stories say that the Pagans of Scoughall used to use lights to lure ships onto the rocks, where they would be wrecked, and the cargo plundered. In bad weather, it would have been easy for people on that part of the coast to show lights pretending to be the lighthouses on Bass Rock and Fidra, which ships heading up the Forth would have been looking out for.
Robert Louis Stevenson was related to the Dale family, descendents of the family who owned Seacliff. Supposedly his book The Wreckers is based on stories he heard about the wreckers in this area.



Standing next to the stream that runs across the beach, looking down the coast and out to the North Sea.


The ruins of Auldhame are very conspicuous at this end of the beach.

There's another mysterious ruin to be explored. Warning; if you're on a slow connection, there are quite a lot of pictures: