You Are Welcome - But Don't Come to Close

The Mull of Galloway, as I mentioned in my last post, is gently warmed by the Gulf Stream and therefore lends itself to gardens. Being enthusiastic gardeners and fans of Gardeners World we sought inspiration in the region's horticultural highlights. But, at least from my point of view, it turned into something more like social commentary.

Glenwhan is the garden of Tessa Knott who, with her husband in 1974, bought a chunk of Scotland over the phone without ever having seen it. They moved in to the dilapidated farm house with its herd of cattle and bleak moorland aspect and, whilst he set about making the place habitable and eking a living from the farm, Tess set about carving a 12 acre garden among the rock and bracken.

She is our sort of gardener - as you wonder around the fabulous collection of plants; between the lakes she created; and among the different habitats she has represented, you feel like she has continually asked permission of the landscape to share the space with her plants. Nowhere do you feel that she has unreasonably imposed her will on it.

You rather get the feeling that the landscape has inhabited her as opposed to the other way round. A feeling reinforced by the sight of her scratching around in the stony earth to remove weeds - a reassuring sight for gardeners also struggling in adverse conditions. Not only was she willing to scratch around but was also willing to stop, chat, give advice and find us a potted cutting of a particular shrub we liked.

Castle Kennedy is almost the antithesis to Tess's garden the grand formal grounds of the castle were once again hewn from Scotland's bulk but not with sensitivity to the surroundings but with the might of Field Marshall Viscount Stair who (rather cheekily in my view) used the soldiers under his command to blast his mark on the landscape. Of course in the intervening few hundred years the grounds are an undeniably attractive setting between the Black Loch and White Loch. The effect of a preference for a feudal societal system is topped off though by the feeling though that you are not invited to participate in the landscape, more that you are there under sufferance of the current Lord and Lady Stair and jolly well ought to realise it.

I know which I preferred!

Life in the Fast Lane - At Least That's How it Seems

We're back from our week in Drummore, five miles from the Mull of Galloway in Scotland: no street lamps, barely any people and the sea metres from the front wall of our tiny fisherman's cottage. Bliss. But there's always coming back; and my goodness don't we do life quickly! It's taken me a week to regain speed after experiencing the pace and easy lilt of conversation that gently soothes you through your day rather than the machine gun chatter that whacks us through our city lives.

Dumfries and Galloway, or more specifically Wigtownshire, is the forgotten part of Scotland. As one local put it as he chatted whilst I bought a bottle of Robinson's Cordial - an act that took some fifteen minutes, not because the shop was busy, just that everyone had something to talk about at the till, and time to do it - he said, "Everyone gets to Carlisle and heads North for the 'real' Scotland; no one turns left. And by not doing so they miss out on this mellow stretch of land that is gently warmed by the Gulf Stream, giving it some of the loveliest gardens in the UK - more of that another day.

What this little finger of land - the Mull - also has, is a variety and richness of birdlife I have never seen before. I must have looked like a yokel: constantly pointing and dribbling as I saw another previously unrecognised bird (that is unrecognised by me - not a brand new species). But they just kept cropping up: Gannets performing their dramatic hunting dives 100metres from our front window, Razorbills bobbing in the bay, Sandwich Terns (which I was delighted to be able to identify - birders will understand), Guillemots (Black and Standard). I could go on, but at the risk of alienating my non anorak wearing readers I will desist, anyway it's not good for a man of my age to have his pulse racing like this.




Anyway, we are back amidst the concrete and steel and right slap bang back into the fray - I won't bore you with the details; suffice to say it is enough to prevent me from having time to write much at present, the long gaps between posts at the moment.

Rubbing Virtual Shoulders

I love meeting people; I love rubbing shoulders with people from different backgrounds and with people who bring different things to life. It may sound counter-intuitive, but it is also why I love blogging. I have been in the virtual company of, and read about many different and interesting people.


After my discovery that I not only grew up alongside a fabulous artist but that I actually like his art - imagine growing up alongside Max Beckman! - my blog was visited by another artist, Katherine, who, had I not blogged, would have remained far away from my consciousness, on the far side of the world.


Mrs C and I are off to a far away place for a week: Scotland, Drummore to be precise. In the meantime, you can do worse than visit Katherine's blog in New Zealand where you can not only see her lovely interpretations of her native landscape but also learn some of the fascinating process of their creation.


See you all in a week or so.

I Wonder Whether Greatness Rubs Off

Do you remember my post a while ago about famous and talented people with whom I have a tenuous connection? I had another one of those moments yesterday when, prompted by my mother, I Googled Jonathan Callan. The Callan family lived next door to us for twenty five years or so and Jonathan went off to London to 'do something in art'.

Frustrated by my parents' lack of knowledge about his progress, other than to say he seemed to be doing nicely - this is after having spoken to his mum and dad only last week, you understand - I Googled him.

I don't claim to be an art buff but the thing about art is that it rather relies on its ability for it to resonate with you for it to be succesful, hence some people don't get Tracy Emin's bed or don't dig Damien Hurst; but when I saw Jonathan's fanatstic work with old books I was blown away.

But whether or not I liked it or not, in art terms he is cool, that is to say he is red hot, not to put too fine a point on it, he is very famous.



He won't even remember me, but I am proud to add him to my list of people who I hope have rubbed a bit of their creativity or talent off on me as we have brushed past each other along life's way.

Our Dog: Not Big and Not Clever

I've wrote about Max, our West Highland White Terrier, before; but this weekend I've been musing on the downward passage of life we must all eventually take and couldn't help but think that his age is starting to show. Not least when his instinct overcomes his ability. Take, for example his propensity for chasing aeroplanes; we live on the inbound flight path to Manchester Airport; a lot of planes fly over our house and Max takes exception to every single one of them. The sad thing is that I understand why this habit has persisted despite our every intervention. It's quite simple doggy psychology really: he sees the intruding plane; barks at it and chases it; it goes away - success that reinforces itself every time. Today though, he was awoken from his slumber by an invading plane and his head didn't come around quite as quickly as his legs so, as he chased it up the steps he tripped, banging his chin and dazing himself - not that that stopped him. It was a chink in his otherwise solid canine armour.

I know how he feels - not long ago I saw an officer of the law chasing a young rapscallion and pulled over in the car to help. Instinctively I sprinted after the thieving urchin only to be pulled up breathless and clutching my strained groin 100 yards on - the urchin glanced back, slowed and strolled on insouciantly - a chink in my already creaking armour.

I think that Max and I should stick to our strengths - as I'm writing I'm about to prod him with my toe to see if I can wake him to go to bed. I bet I struggle to wake him and I bet neither of us stop trying to do things that we really ought not.