An Islay Weekend: What You Do To Me

I have been back in my old stomping ground - otherwise known as the Island of Islay. 

Ah, beloved land of my teenage years! I was your original Teenage Fanclub ;-)

Photo courtesy of https://islay.scot/

I travelled with my sister Claire, and we stayed in a 'Youth' Hostel - although Hostelling Scotland have dropped the word 'Youth' and anyone can check-in, from babies in slings to limber grannies on sleek bikes. 

We met French, Germans, Chinese, Scottish folk, cute kids, and whisky nuts (in-depth conversations about barley and ABV percentages? Oh-kaaay...)

 There were even baby rabbits lolloping by the front door. Pleased to meet you, Thumper. 

We hitch-hiked to Portnahaven, which feels like a magical village at the end of the world (of course there are no trains). There is a lady who bakes cakes and leaves slices beside an honesty box in her garden. Ginger and orange, oh my oh my. 

There were seals in the bay, sticking their speckled heads above the glassy surface. I tried to get them to come closer by throwing day-old pizza from a plastic tub (an activity my daughter would describe as 'Maximum Goof').  

The seagulls swooped in for the dry Margherita triangles, and the seals looked suitably embarrassed for me.

Like old times, Claire and I walked miles between villages - from Portnahaven to Port Charlotte, past herds of sheep, white-washed farms and distant memories of barn dances.

 'Walking miles' was such a great thing of youth: just floating around with a head full of schemes and dreams and 80's pop ballads. There was always time - time to clock the roadside butterflies, or look up to see geese fly high beneath airplane trails in the vast blue sky. 

As the self-proclaimed, Woman-Who-is-Always-Hungry, I was indeed reliably hungry for dinner at the lovely Port Charlotte Hotel. 

The founding Members of The C&C Club (established 1976)

After a lovely weekend of island memories, we packed up and left the hostel. As we stood at the village bus stop, a German man (blue hair) cycled up and asked - 

Were you staying in room 7?

Yes?

He held out a small plastic bag, tied-up to hide a mystery item of clothing. A swim suit, maybe?

I opened the bag to a find a crumpled sports bra. I swung it in the air and we exchanged a giggle with a Dad and his  boy at the bus stop, whom we already knew from the hostel. 

Here we all stood, and the hostel owner had sent this Blue-Hair cyclist, like a winged messenger on wheels. 

Go find the women who have just left! Give them their bra!  Wish them well and bid them to return one day.

How very Islay. 

'Westering Home' may have to become an annual pilgrimage. Somebody warn the seals. 

Blessed

 

It's been so long, I've forgotten how to blog. I was hiding from the internet.  Now it's Christmas time, I thought I could risk a wee post. 

I went to see my old pals, Belle and Sebastian play at Paisley Town Hall. Christmas lights floated gaily above the River Cart. It was unexpectedly pretty. I'm not much of a photographer, but you get the gist. 

It was funny to hover at the merch table and see people buying T-shirts with my face on.

One family came in, and the Dad and two teenage daughters were ALL wearing the 'Sinister' T-shirt with my face on. It would have been amiss not to say hello. 

The show itself was firing on all cylinders. Even The Simpsons approved. 

Marisa Privitera, Stuart's lovely wife, is never one to miss a selfie. 

Me and my goofy glasses. Doh! Marisa's is a very talented photographer and has a lovely website here.  

Teenage Fanclub finished their long and happy European Tour.  The dog only had to wait six weeks for her postcard.

Anyway, I've no big philosphical insights to claw after in this seasonal post. I can leave all my climate change campaigning for next year. 

When I post a petition on Facebook to Phase Out Fossil Fuels, I'M lucky if I get two likes. If I posted our dog in a Santa jumper, it might get two hundred. 

Did Trump get a hold of that algorithm? 

So yeah, this is just a few words to wish you a peaceful Christmas time. 

Every day that I'm well and content, with a healthy family is a luxurious miracle and something I never take for granted. 

There's no need to dress that up in fancy phrasing. It speaks for itself and, in this crazy world,  there's no bigger gift. 

The Migraine Misery of Toots Mania - A Call for Help

 

For years, my daughter Tess has been calling me 'Toots'.

'What ya up to, Toots?'

'Is Toots feeling okay?'

Recently, on witnessing yet another of my middle-age mum foibles, she simply exclaims, 

'Toots Mania?!' 

...as if 'mania' is cover-all proclamation for any form of 'goofy' mother behaviour such as:

losing my keys for the third time in an hour; or accidently teaming a Kagoule with a chunky necklace, or my swift regret after eating too much almond and raspberry tray-bake.

"Toots Mania's gonna regret that.' 

 My 13 year old girl is all-seeing and mostly all-correct. 

But, if this is a story of desired corrections - the misery of my ongoing Migraines is Top of The List. You thought I was well, didn't you?

After the miracle of overcoming decades of terrible ME/CFS and a headache that lasted four years, how have I fallen back to battling the beast of migraine without any success? 

Defeated shrug emoji. 

Oh, Toots Mania. What will we do with you?

So this could be a reader-participation post. If you've struggled with migraines and gotten better, feel free to share your secrets with me. Please share your secrets with me.

I've tried -

Virtually all painkillers. Triptans take away the pain, but clobber me (like an anaesthetic) and all I can do is sleep. I love triptans. They are a furry blanket in a howling gale. The only drug that has ever helped the searing pain.

BUT, there is now growing opinion that the more you use triptans, the more 'trigger happy' your brain gets and ultimately, you can end up with more headaches. Doh. I am desperately trying NOT to take too many. 

Otherwise, I've tried - acupuncture, chiropractor, going on HRT for 2 years, coming off HRT, meditation, zero alcohol, epilepsy drugs, proprananol, etc. Lots of drugs I forget how to spell.  I try to deal with stress as best I can, while realising everybody has some stress. 

Lately, I found a website/podcast bold enough to call itself The Migraine Miracle. It claims that an 'ancestral' diet is the cure. That is, no grains or sugar. No almond bakes or chocolate croissants, for you Toots!

Nothing processed or out of a package. Nothing that our caveman ancestors couldn't find, walking around with spears - just meat and fish and 'low carb' veg. 

I was so desperate, I gave it a go. After 10 days, I felt like Ewan McGregor detoxing in Trainspotting. Carb-Queen 'Toots Mania' was in dire straits. Look away now. 

We were due to go on holiday, so I abandoned the diet, at least for the holiday. Cue normal holiday photos (minus migraine)-

I was barely home a day, and....wham...off the cliff into another two days of near-agony and incapacity, with the kids coming to the end of my bed like tentative sad dogs, checking when normal service might resume.

So, here I am, risen again, post-Easter, until the next time. I might try to go back to the diet, maybe in a less severe form, (sneaking in the odd oatcake). I'm wise enough to know that spikes and falls in blood sugar ain't good for the brain. Would a low Glycemic Index diet be enough?

I asked to see a neurologist on the NHS, but this requires me to try a 3 month trial of a strong epilepsy drug called Topiramate. A casual Google throws up medical papers telling me it can cause kidney stones in over 10% of patients. 

Fabby do! Spin the wheel...or maybe not. 

Ach well, time to get the laundry on the line. Normal service is slowly resuming. You'll see me body-swerving the pastry section, for this week at least. Onwards, fellow migraineurs. My hand in yours...our heads knocked thi'gither. 

Wednesday Newly Weds

When we told the kids we were getting a civil partnership, they didn't really understand the concept. Who can blame them? We've only been together 25 years and the kids are now 14 and 12. 

'It's like a wedding really, but it suits non-religious people, and it's easier, and it has all the same legal stuff as marriage does.' 

We thought the easiest way would be small scale. Just us, two witnesses and the weans.

The weans were unsure about it.

'It might be cringe-y. We're not sure if we want to come to your 'legal partner' thing.'

Slowly, they came round. They'd get a day off school and French toast and maple syrup at Cafe Gandolfi. 

On the day itself, Tess commented, 'Mum, we should have had a HEN NIGHT with the dog! We could have worn rose-gold sashes and yours could have said, 'Civil Partner To Be'.

Hugh chimed in - 'Yeah, we should tie cans to the car that say, 'JUST civil-partnered!''

When the marriage celebrant accidently called me 'Cara', I had to jump in and correct her politely. She was lovely, really. 

'Whoops, I nearly married the wrong woman,' commented Francis. 

(Hey, it doesn't feel natural unless someone mispronounces my name at least once a week). 

I read out a beautiful poem by Wendy Cope -

The Vow, by Wendy Cope

I cannot promise never to be angry;
I cannot promise always to be kind.
You know what you are taking on, my darling –
It’s only at the start that love is blind.
And yet I’m still the one you want to be with
And you’re the one for me – of that I’m sure.
You are my closest friend, my favourite person,
The lover and the home I’ve waited for.
I cannot promise that I will deserve you
From this day on. I hope to pass that test.
I love you and I want to make you happy.
I promise I will do my very best.

My Mum and Dad, now in their eighties, were witnesses to the signing of the papers.

Francis played a recording of his late Mum singing a beautiful gaelic song. 

My Dad read my favourite Raymond Carver Poem -

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Then we went to Cafe Gandolfi and tore into the French Toast. 

Afterwards, we headed home to walk the dog. I told some other dog-walking strangers that we just got married this morning. It's not something you can say every day. It felt strangely satisfying to utter the words. 

Thanks to Bernard and Madeline (nee McGuckin!) for the meal. 

Here's to Newly-Weds, Cara..., I mean Ciara and Frankie Boy. 

And to Hugh and Tess, who are, of course, the finest consequence of our chance meeting at a Belle and Sebastian gig, many moons ago. 

Merry Covid-mas from The New Recluse

Regular readers may have spotted something: I have become a recluse, and for Christmas, a Covid-y recluse.

I finally caught Covid after 3 years. It was flu-like, despite 4 jabs, and I'm getting through it. 

More generally though - I'm not afraid to say it - I'm now an extrovert turned introvert. Shocker, I know. 

I think it's my new strategy to try and cope with life. A voice on the radio today, described watching the news as, 'An exercise in fighting daily despair.' Yes. I'm there. 

I feel I have a duty to keep myself informed, yet watching the news is the opposite of hope. 

Ages ago, I wrote a jokey post about feeling like a criminal when I had to throw plastic in the bin. Today, I'm still in slow-shock about world pollution- microplastics course through our blood stream -and no one is stopping it. 

Even the cosy, log fires of Christmas are a danger to health, throwing out 750 times more particulate pollutant than an HGV lorry. 

Burning wood, huh? No one is keeping the earth below 1.5 degrees of warming. 'The scientists are trying (desperately) and the climate-deniers don't believe there is a problem. Mind-blowing.

The film, Don't Look Up said it all. I do recommend watching.

I try to do what I can, signing petitions, writing to politicians, buying less or buying 'greener.' Buying 'greener'? Just the one oxymoron please!

Maybe I can find ways to be more of an eco-helper in 2023.

My number one priority and vocation is still caring for the kids. There's always something they need help with: ribbons sewn on a dance costume or a deal on a second-hand iPhone. Doh!

Float Forward Willingly. 

That's a mantra from the late great Dr Claire Weekes. She made it her life's work to try and help others with stress and distress. I say it to myself when I have to.

 Rudolf and me can help you with any floating?

This Christmas, I have a few dear friends and relatives with health struggles. I'm thinking of them, willing strength and healing. A less-polluted world would go a long way.

So, that's my apologist blog post, until next time. If you're looking for me, I'm still here. I'm just a bit camouflaged, hiding in the trees, not knowing what to say. Of course, I'm looking up, even if it hurts my neck. Float forward willingly, if you can folks. 

And if you need more - here's a poem I wish I'd written. It's called Good Bones by Maggie Smith.  

The Dog Who Was Scared of Bicycles

 

When I walk Sita in the mornings, we meet other dogs with their owners. I bent to stroke a greyhound and noticed it was trembling fiercely. 

Aw, what's wrong? I asked the owner.

The dog was scanning the horizon in the wild-grass field that is Dawsholm City Park.

Ach, he's looking out for bicycles, she replied.

There were no bicycles in sight, but the poor dog was shaking with sheer vigilance. 

Apparently, a few years ago, it was slightly injured by a bike. As time passed, the dog started looking out for bikes everywhere. 

I haven't posted in ages, because on many days, I feel like that dog.

The world can be sudden and random. I've weaned myself off Twitter. There are are too many 'bicycles' behind parked cars. I think it's better for me.

I'm concentrating on looking after the kids, really being there for all their needs: a low-carbon activity that's greatly under-valued in society. Especially when their Dad is on tour. 

The horrors of Ukraine keep coming. I've donated to charity; it feels like all we can do right now. It's still so shocking. 

My writing has stalled. Occasionaly, I re-read it and think it's no good. I let it sit. But that's okay too? There's no compulsion to write. There's no higher moral ground from writing. It's okay to just 'be'. It's taken me 4 months to do a blog post!

I also miss the sea. Did I mention that? One day, I think I'd like to live by the sea again. When I'm asleep, I have mixed-up dreams about trying to buy a house by the sea. It's too expensive, it has weird, Alice-in-Wonderland rooms, it's above a book shop, but the shop is closed. In my dream,  I cried when I saw the view: it was my childhood view of Islay. 

                                                    Photo - Ronnie Campbell

Anyway, my fellow dreamers, it's time to get the dog out for a walk. 

'Love, Life, Prosecco!' as my girl, Tess, says in irony. The Prosecco of Spring sunshine is fizzing over Scotland. May it shine on you too. 

                                                      'I can't swim, mummy.' 

                                                      'I know.' 

A Space Man Came Travelling

 How are we ? Haven't we been here before? Something's puzzling me.

Ah, yes. We're heading for another Covid-Challenged Christmas, serenaded by Ed Sheeran and Elton John. How did that happen?

Tonight, I was cooking the dinner when I heard Chris de Burgh singing A Spaceman Came Travelling. Flashback alert to 1986... 

I'm walking home from school, listening to it on a Sony Walkman. The Paps of Jura are dusted with snow and Loch Indaal is calm as a mirror. It's like some kind of lost Narnia land where wild geese call from the far horizon. I breathe in the frosty air, like great mouthfuls of inhaled peppermint, and plan my outfit to the pinnacle of excitement that was the Christmas disco.

It was magical. 

Any Spaceman nowadays would shake his head in disbelief at humanity's array of avoidable feck-ups, in relation to our relentless Pandemic and the Climate Emergency. I really am running out of words. But, hush my liege...we have to make the best of it.

I've been trying to plough on with my memoir musings. It takes a lot of work, and I'm never sure it's any good. Writers and self-doubt, huh? I find I can't write anything when the kids are off school, so it goes back into hibernation at every school holiday. I look forward to procrastinating further in 2022. 

Time for a few December photos: 

The dog approves of the 'fire' I made from fairy lights. Much less air-polluting and way more carbon neutral. 

A beautiful Christmas doorway, nearby - I can pretend I live here.

Portrait of Granny and Granda, living it large in Glasgow's West End.  I like Granda's pink crop top. The 1986 Christmas disco beckons.

If you want to hear more about 'Blank Pages', catch the man himself on The Great Scottish Book Club, final guest on this episode. 

Did I mention we went ice skating at Elfingrove? It was my favourite Christmas thing so far. So exhilarating, so freeing. I stayed upright. 

Here's a Christmas Poem I wrote about seeing my son in the school nativity play, when he was much younger.

Happy Christmas. Stay as safe as you can, dear friends. I miss the way we were. I miss sharing air, without a second thought.  

I keep reminding myself -  spring and summer are waiting out there.