Kier of Hermiston

 

( The Tasting Notes )

 

The first time I ever tasted malt whisky was behind the counter at Oddbins. The shop was quiet and Duncan thought I could do with a tutorial. He poured me an Ardbeg, said things I don't remember and then added a minute amount of water. I can still recall the cloudy impact it had on the whisky, and the way the oils in the dram separated and lifted to the surface. Of course, the smoke was a new and unique flavour, but it was the raspberry sweetness on the tip of the tongue which added wonder to the drink. There and then I was fascinated. Islay whiskies are the business, full of peat and smoke. Ardbeg is something else. The distillery uses short stumpy stills which allows heavy particles to survive distillation and contribute to the rich flavour; it's a very dirty whisky. As a descriptor for its taste I often say 'engine oil'. For a very long time I had little patience for softer whiskies. Islay was the place, Ardbeg was the best.

( Smoky peaty dreams within )

I dreamt a few things last night. I had a very broken sleep. In the end, in my dream, I was in a hotel. My friend Ewan (whom I have never met in one of my dreams before) and I were due to check out at the same time, but thereafter to go our separate ways. I had a plane to catch. But then Ewan fell ill (he got a flu), and so I had to check out alone, which I had to queue to do. It was a bland task and I began to feel agitated because I wanted to buy Ewan some food and medicine before I left. I also had a plane to catch in a short while. I got Ewan his stuff from a kiosk at some station or underground. It was a grey, dirty place, with the air of dust and engine oil, lit harshly (and occasionally insufficiently) by fluorescent light. Back at the hotel I jumped a queue to get into the elevator. I was becoming very concerned that I may miss my flight. I had times written down in my pocket and reassured myself that in planning my journey I would have given myself a contingency; specifically, the time on my piece of paper would be the time I had to get the train to the airport, not my flight’s time. Ewan’s room was number 702 so I got off the elevator on the seventh floor. Long corridors with lush carpets were nothing compared to the doors. The doors were made of one single solid piece of wood and spoke of the tree’s trunk. Incredibly, the door numbers appeared to be written in the grain of the wood itself. I couldn’t find Ewan’s room. By the time I had covered the whole of the seventh floor I had passed through a restaurant and an Irish bar (where the stools were sections of tree trunk – bark and all – and the usual menus and fruit machines were lying around). I even went behind the scenes of the hotel where the white walls were dirty and covered with notices for staff and the fire escape was clogged with boxes. Back in the corridor I eventually found Ewan’s room half way up the stairs between the sixth and seventh floors. I knocked on it and it felt as though it was coated in sponge. Nevertheless the noise was made and Ewan (more quickly than I expected) called me in. He was sat on the edge of the bed; he looked like Danny DeVito as the Penguin, except he had his own face. The TV played, the room was warm. Ewan was ill and sweaty and sombre and used tissues were strewn across the bed and floor. The stuff I had got him was quickly added to the mess. I told him to order room-service and he indicated a cooked chicken in a box by the door.

I’ve had a bike ever since my fifth birthday. I remember going to a two storey bike shop on a busy back road in Stockport with my parents. My brothers and sister were there too, though Edom would have been a toddler at our mother’s side. Russell and I ran about making judgements on the various vehicles. In the end there was no competition for the white bike with the red tyres. That break with convention was too attractive to resist. I was allowed it.

 

 

Fit's that I heard the poet say?
Some 'Chieftain o' the puddin' race'.
Within it a' they tak their place:
Guffin', stinkin' meat.
But stomachs and bollocks, mutton and brains
I canna eat.

But that's nae need to turn aroon',
Though ye'll nae see me force it doon,
Instead I'll play a diff'rent tune
I'll mak it we Quorn.
And should ye think that's nae fer you
Ye've ne'er be born!

Wi' ready slight the onion might
Fair better than that stomach shite
And veg'tables they'll tak tae fight
Cholesterol
And toast it wi' whisky if ye like
Slainte Mhor!

Abundh them a' this pudding fair,
But dinna graet if ye dinna care,
Auld Scotland taks nae stinkin' ware
She'll skelp yer luggies!
But ach aye fine, fer they that dare,
Veggie Haggis!

On Christmas Eve Galloway was cloaked in thick fog from Moffat to Springholm. Edom and I drove in late at night at a slow speed and with lights bright. There was a blue hue. It was a mellow end to a frantic week and in Castle Douglas we were reunited with loved ones, puppies and cats. For me, Christmas offered the opportunity for reflection and introspection. These were necessary things. And thus, here are a few things you can hold me to:

i. Get out of debt.
ii. Drink less booze and don't get drunk.
iii. Work more and work harder. Write.
iv. Visit Sulwath and visit Bladnoch (while still respecting no. ii).

I hope 2008 will be a great year, for me and you.
Slainte.

I felt at home when I went around Scotland. Of course, why shouldn’t I? For Scotland is my home. But I’m a Lowlander; raised and brought up on the Solway plain. That’s south of Glasgow, ken? I’m a Sassenach! And there I was in the Highlands and Islands. Out there I got this feeling; a feeling which is clear in my chest but the word that comes to mind is absolutely wrong: Proprietary. This is my country, ken? I have been to places before and felt like a tourist or a visitor. In some other places I have had the pleasure of being a guest. But on Skye, on Mull, through Glenshiel and even (by some misadventure) Sauchiehall Street, it was simply a natural and reasonable thing to be there. And the whole time I took in very new things. I absorbed and regarded other ways of life and every detail appeared like an extension of what I already understood to be. Nat, Scotland didn’t surprise me. She blew me away, right enough. She charmed me; sheltered and seduced me; she smiled upon me. In some moments I had to be seated and watch the mist move and slowly dissipate and it was awesome and calming. In other moments I was giddy and ran and jumped and danced and sang. Scotland can impress; just like she can frustrate and compel and comfort and inspire. But after ten days amongst lochs, heather, hills and harbours with Edom and funkyplaid, do you know how I feel? I feel like I have just had an amazing conversation with a friend. You know the type: where you stay up all night talking and by the end of it you see depth, complexity, and beauty and you have understanding you didn’t have before. From my Lowland eyes the Highlands and Islands were as expected, and beautifully so.

( It was a holiday in fast-forward )

Today I received an unexpected and very kind gift from two of my supervisors, Jane and Peter. It is a glass beautifully etched with Jacobite sentiment. It is a wonderful thing, beneath a picture of the Prince it says "I will go daringly". These words not only encourage me in my studies, they indulge my Jacobite geekiness. The glass injects fun into my subject and Jacobite flavour into my whisky. Academia cannot be straight-laced all of the time. History is part fantasy, this article lets me imagine and laugh.

It has been years since I had a Kit Kat. I turned in my Tesco Clubcard when they refused to answer my questions about their ethics. I have never shopped at GAP. The last dozen-or-so times I have been through the Golden Arches has been to pee, not purchase. My T-shirt is organic; my chocolate fairly traded; my vegetables grown locally and in season. But the other day, in need of a wee and wireless access I breached a threshold and stepped into Starbucks.
“Hello. Do you guys have Fairtrade coffee?”
“Uhm, well, all our coffees are fairly traded.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard. Do you have the one with the logo on it?”
“Uhm, not just now, but…”
“Yes we do. One Caffé Éstima” says a second barista. I look around distrustingly for the familiar logo on the coffee a third barista dutifully begins to prepare.
“I’ll take this bar of chocolate too.” I say.

( The coffee didn’t taste too good, it was a bit too bitter... )

I didn't have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Hi Niall! Happy Crimbo in Oslo.

Thanks to the very generous funkyplaid Mo and I have some lovely Londer Pinot Noir to enjoy.

We have invited a delightful couple, Mr & Mrs Glidewell, to dine with us on Saturday evening, when we shall open the Londer as well as the wonderful, as yet unknown, American bottle our esteemed guests have agreed to bring.  We sent out an invitation to them by post, and within we said the evening would be one of fine American wine and cuisine. The wine is covered. What I want to know is what food to go with it? And so, dear American friends, what should we serve?  Vegetarian suggestions are invited and encouraged!

From James Mercer to Captain Patrick Campbell, 1764:

...he is still the same gentle benevolent Sir James, sent into this world purposely to show what a damned undiscerning Bitch that dame Fortune is [!] 

Some months ago two friends, Cameron and Darren made a strategic assault on my sensibilities. By disarming my better judgement, that night they would coerce me into their cult of the Caledonian Challenge. The evening had begun ordinarily. We drank lovely ale, made typically pointed philosophical arguments, played chess and discussed means of self improvement. Darren then says he had seen something. Here Cam became enthusiastic and I felt on the verge of something grand, something formative, and they laid before me, with no obligation, the Caledonian Challenge. It combined indulging my humanitarian side and rising to Scotland's challenge. As a daft and sentimental patriot dear Caledonia's challenge I cannot refuse. I haven't the resources to let the gauntlet lie. I cast a naively flippant response - a shake off the head, a far in the future dismissal. 

( Deep Heat, Vaseline and Midge Repellant within... )

On one sunny Friday afternoon, in the mid summer when the days were long, Jack left the garage where he worked. His friend and colleague, Bill, left with him and drove him back to the house owned by his father. Before Jack got out of the car Bill said ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Have your stuff ready. I’ll beep the horn.’ Bill was a short man who wore a tufty beard that would fill out, eventually, with maturity. Jack walked to the house and Bill drove away. Jack took little time with his father, just a few comments and he said ‘I’ll be back on Sunday night.’ He went upstairs and put an LP by Queen to play on his record player. Humming along he packed a leather satchel with a clean shirt, two pairs of socks and two pairs of underpants. He went and shaved (leaving his top lip), took a shower and sprayed himself with an aerosol that made him smell pleasant and mature beyond his seventeen years. Back in his bedroom he put the aerosol and his toothbrush and razor in the satchel as well. He put his brown envelope containing his wages deep into the bag too, though he held on to three five-pound notes that he put into his wallet. He wore tight brown flannel trousers that were flared below the knee and a pink shirt and a striped tie that matched his trousers. From his dressing table he took a piece of paper that had an address written on it and he folded that and put it into his wallet too.  

Thanks to  Name ten of life's simple pleasures that you like most, then pick ten people to do the same. Try to be original and creative and not to use things that someone else has already used.

1. When have salad for my lunch I make it as varied and colourful as possible. Knowing it contains my recommended five portions really satisfies. 
2. Coffee, when it's perfect.
(porn star version: alongside pain au chocolat, a GrandPrix, quean, puppy, cat, all on a Sunday morning).
3. dreams.
4. memories.
5. hugs, cuddles, embraces. Everyday, spend some time in the arms of a loved one. it's a therapy.
6. pressing 'snooze' on the auld alarm. those last ten minutes in bed are the warmest, most blissful, most sacred & with a warm body next to me.
7.  and the inverse - the electric blanket.
8.  Pippa and Mano, my puppy and my cat.
9. The smell and feel of a new book. The sentences they can contain. the reverberations of words...
10. I've not the voice fer it but I sing. In the shower; when I'm cooking, vacuuming. It gets it all out, could be cathartic. It's a happy thing to do and I do it all the time. 

 mrfailure and justpaintitred (Mister Fister) make your debuts, and dazzle me.  isitliveorshake think positive.  Other interlopers take this as an invitation.

Aberdeen in March. Cars are sliding down the street. it's six inches deep. I'm working from home, but will find time to go out and throw snowballs at Pippa

It was the combination of many things that changed the West. Some say it was the population problem; that China, India, and places like that, were using too many resources and creating too much waste. It affected the environment and old Mother Nature responded in kind. I watched the hurricanes, the floods, the droughts on the television. It seemed to me we were all pretty wasteful. But fear and competition forced those bigger nations to impose themselves on the old guard. The different countries in Europe and North America united under the Federal Flag of Free Countries (FFFC). Then Japan joined too, and did Australia. Turkey wanted to join and wasn’t allowed because it was Muslim. Bombs started going off. At first that sort of terror appeared to be small-scale and isolated incidents aimed at strategic targets outside of the Federation. The President, a white-man whose name and face changed every five years but whose policies remained steadfast, would condemn such events and suggest they necessitated no response; economic and foreign policies would remain the same, otherwise the enemy would only be encouraged in their violent pursuit. Nevertheless, artillery of the most lethal kind was demonstrated on televisions. Alien landscapes were depicted under clouds of smoke while right at the front of the screen brown-skinned people in obscure clothes displayed the most obvious of emotions. Often such images would be followed by evening films, where military operations were portrayed as skilled missions, invariably glorious and successful. The public found it all sufficiently entertaining and in the pubs people would take bets on the outcome of battles, where the next bomb would be, or when the president would change his name, if the appropriate odds were offered..
( The odds were short... )

Returning from Paris we were met by Aberdeen in autumn. Aberdeen in autumn; look up and see the trees ablaze like some great tricolour against the pink and grey sky. The leaves whoosh from their branches and collide with your face and coat. By the kerb the leaves mount in collage. On the sidewalk they come up to your knee and should you choose to walk through them they crisp under your foot. Children kick their way through them and the wind picks them up and they carry, everywhere you look. The wind is fierce and alive and in your face, it challenges you to climb that hill, it challenges you your hat, and it wins atleast a smile. Ever hear that story of the wind and the sun? The wind says "I bet you a fiver I can get that coat off that guy" and the sun says "You're on". The wind huffs and puffs and the guy holds on harder and harder till the wind's all puffed out. Then the sun comes out and beams and beams on the guy till he takes off his coat to enjoy the heat. So the wind owes the sun a fiver. In Aberdeen the sun doesn't stand such a chance against the wind; it's his domain and you've got to fight it and respect it. For the summer never was, seldom ever is, in Aberdeen. But the autumn with its colour and its life is no half measure. It lets you know immediately when it arrives and it serenades you. Around King's College the sandstone is reflected in yellows and pinks and purple. Look up High street to the Town House and there's a frame there - Green Ivy close on the old corner house, then leaning over browns reds and purples. It's one dream of perspective . The Dee and the Don, normally so bold but latley low, get their grandeur restored. Life comes back, you get that sense of movement, not just in the wind, but the seasons, time and his cycles...
Paris had had a revitalising effect. The beauty of distance allowed a reflection and perspective unachievable in the midst. When I had applied for a PhD a month earlier it had been on a whim and once submitted I had mixed feelings over whether it was what I wanted. I spent a lot of time trying to consider this and came to no conclusion, my indecision added frustration to confusion. Outwith one's normal setting priorites and values and advantages are much easier to perceive. Returning from Paris and I was met by a letter sitting humbly on the mat. The familiar university coat of arms on the envelope. Of course I knew what it concerned, but I didn't know what it would say. It seems however, that I am worthy of someone ele's money for the purpose of my own education. I have been invited to research Jacobitism and Scottish Nationalism in Aberdeen Town and County for the purpose of furnishing myself with a doctorate, and, as I put it in my proposal, to raise Aberdeen's profile as the intellectual and cultural cradle of ideas that would develop into the Enlightenment.
Azra likes direction. I have been a frustrating partner over the last twelve months for not knowing which way I am facing, not knowing even which way I would like to face. The next three years I will spend in this familiar corner of the globe, nestled comfortably between two rivers, among trees that turn from green to yellow or ruby or brown. They hibernate and they re-awaken. It's a happy feeling, for I can plan, for I know what I do and why. It's a decision taken and the consequences offer security and possibility rather than monotony and restriction- I'm not sure I've ever felt that before.

If you haven't seen angledge 's entry do! So we took Mo's name and here's the goods: "google the phrase "--------- is", where the ------ is your first name."

Azra is eminent master of this nearly imperceptible magic

Azra is remembered as the Father of Judaism

Azra is a red world with three moons

Azra is an invention of your own

Azra is one that America does not want to hear.

Azra is a fairy/human mix who loves her sweet son dearly

Azra is now in paradise and there is nothing men in this world can do about it

Azra is an aquired taste

AZRA is Pure. The origin is Hebrew

Azra is the realm of the Angels

Azra is fearful, but she is also hopeful