December 29th. – The Mice

We have a little shed in our vegetable garden.  Two of its walls are rough grey stone, big blocks all piled up higglety piggelty.  The other two are made of left over bits of wood from various sources, nailed onto huge beams retrieved from some demolition site somewhere long ago.  Its floor cannot be described as anywhere near level and is made up of ancient cracked concrete.  Somewhat incongruously, it has two windows which have double glazing and net curtains.  In the summer it’s full of seedlings, muddy welly boots, tools of every type, stools, a barbecue, empty lemonade bottles which of course make excellent cloches.  In the golden days of autumn Bill brought bag after lumpy, bulging bag full of our own home grown potatoes into this little shed.  We were so proud of them – our first big success as vegetable gardeners, knobbly and firm, creamy white inside and pink skinned.  Better by far than some of our other produce – the leggy Brussel sprouts that fed the wood pigeons rather than us, the cabbages that supported dense populations of bright green caterpillars and not much else, the sweet corn we planted too late and all its promise came to nothing.  But the potatoes looked good, tasted good and there were lots of them, enough to last right through to the spring.  So Bill wrapped them carefully in old newspapers, put them in bags that we originally got full of coal for our fires, coal which is now burning daily and keeping us warm through the winter chill.  Then came the ‘big freeze’ as the TV have taken to calling it. 

But today it’s a thaw and Bill decides to go and see how the potatoes have fared.  We grit our teeth for the possibility that they have been frozen and are now nothing but a mushy mess.  Off he goes through the rain, and comes back a bit later.  ‘The news is good’, he says ‘The potatoes are fine.  Except for this’.  He holds out his hand and in it is half a potato, ridged with numerous little teeth marks. ‘They’ve opened a whole bag and they’re all over the floor’.  We look at each other.  We should be cross.  We grew them, worked so hard digging, earthing up, watering - their ours, now they’re spoiled.  But then we visualise these little thieves, shivering in the icy weather, perhaps trying desperately to look after minute grey silky babies.  We imagine their tiny pink noses sniffing the bags, their whiskers twitching in excitement, then their sharp little teeth tackling the tough sack and dodging the chunky potatoes as they bounce out across the floor.  Try as we will, we can’t regret that we have had to share our produce with such dainty visitors, any more, to be honest, than we really mind the green caterpillars which result in fluttering cabbage white butterflies, or the wood pigeons that coo so soothingly as we work the garden in the spring.  I suppose, in reality, it is a community garden.

December 28th. - time to chill out

Back in Millport its time to chill out a bit, even though it is now thawing fast.  Good though Christmas is, it also involves a lot of cooking and washing up, and the complex interplay of family relationships, which, while occasional tensions do naturally arise, are at core warm and loyal.  But time on our own for the two of us is rich too.  We walk up to the Gled Stane at the top of the island.  The snow has totally gone there and the grass is surprisingly green, the gorse still sporting yellow blossom.  The curling rink – a natural pond surrounded by reeds and bushes – has plainly been in use, and the competition area shows clearly on the remaining ice, now under a thin layer of water.  A little robin flits amongst broom bushes.

I go to visit Joan in her little laundry, and we drink coffee to the background sound of the machines swishing and whirring and the steamy atmosphere scents the air.

December 27th.

Yet more family get togethers.  We start the day by collecting Ryall from Hannah’s dad’s house where they have been spending the night, and take him, Katie and Ben to the park.  Bill crosses the city and manages to get the car window fixed.  Then back to the house, Catriona, Calum and Molly arrive and Christmas dinner is served up.  The children play with their toys and squabble a bit and watch TV, the adults tidy up and chat, and so Christmas 2010 draws to its close.

Boxing Day and the traditional walk

For a good number of years now, we have developed the tradition of a Boxing Day country walk followed by a buffet and all of the wider family are invited.  This year it’s centred on Catriona and Calum’s house.  All morning, we cook for the buffet, and the house fills with the scents of Indian spices as Usha cooks curry, rice cakes and other delicious items.  I make an apple crumble and rescue the pickled pears I have brought and which have partially spilled in my bag, oozing sticky juice all over the car.  Catriona makes mulled fruit juice, turkey fricassee and chili, Fiona brings lasagne and so the food builds up on the table.  Off we go on the walk, well muffled up in hats and scarves, along the old railway track beside the river.  At the weir we find ice flows, and a small frozen waterfall.  These sights are further evidence of the atypical extremity of this winter.  We make it to Clachan of Campsie and wander around the old graveyard, reading the gravestones, grey and black against the snow.  Then back home. 

More and more people arrive and the house is soon crowded with people eating and making conversation.  The discussion ranges wide - an imminent wedding; a planned house move for my nephew whose neighbour has been tormenting his family; a long, weary and so far unsuccessful job hunt for another who has become a victim of recession and government policy decisions; another two compare notes about recent retirement. 

Then we move off to Newton Mearns for the night.  It’s beginning to thaw and the ice is black and treacherous on the road and pavement.  It’s quiet and peaceful here compared with the busy party at Catriona’s house.  But a last little drama - Bill goes out to the car to get something and as he opens the boot, the rear car window explodes into a thousand pieces.  A result of too much expansion and contraction in the freezing weather.  A lot of rushing about with brush and shovels ensues and a tarpaulin is found to cover the car overnight, then we are welded to the web to locate Autoglass to get it fixed tomorrow.

Christmas Day

Amazingly, we make it to 8.30 am without Ryall waking. But when he does we are soon festooned with Christmas paper in a chaotic present opening ceremony. 

Then it’s off through the snow to Lennoxtown.  Catriona and Calum have been busy cooking with the help of Usha and Bincy.  Usha is wearing a lovely sari in green and red edged with gold embroidery. 

Soon Donald, Hannah , Ryall and Rosie join us.  The day passes in the usual chaos of presents, phonecalls, turkey and stuffing, Christmas pudding and mince pies.  Molly is wearing a lovely Indian dress which Usha has bought her – claret and gold in a swirling pattern.  A text – little Ben’s asthma has meant another hospital admission.  Ongoing anxiety until we hear he’s home again.  Poor little fellow, and poor Douglas and Dawn who are exhausted.

Dec. 24th. – Christmas Eve

This Christmas Eve becomes the classic type, represented in Christmas songs and cards.  We’re driving north to the village of Muthill in Perthshire to visit Donald and Hannah.  The snow lying in the fields is deep and soft. Crystals of ice have formed all over its surface and glitter likes diamonds in the sun.  The hills stretch white on either side of the road, and where we go through woodland, each detail of every tree is etched against the blue of the sky in a crystalline whiteness.  Donald and Hannah’s cottage is cosy, the flames of its woodburning stove licking the glass, the Christmas tree covered in the usual jumbled colour of lights, tinsel and baubles, and through the cottage's deep set windows the snow is showing against the darkening sky.  Ryall’s eight year old excitement is a delight as he prepares the milk and mince pies for Santa and places them beside the fire.  Baby Rosie sleeps in my arms, at six weeks old oblivious to all the anticipation surrounding her.  We wrap presents and sing Christmas carols, in tune at least half of the time. As midnight approaches, Hannah and I leave Bill to look after the children and crunch through the moonlit snow towards the little church.  Inside, there’s mulled wine and mince pies, and folk greet us, asking after baby, while Donald and the other musicians play carols.  The church is dim and candlelit, decorated with trumpets and banners hanging from the balcony and lanterns at the end of the pews, and Christmas wreaths here and there.  After the service, its back home to the fire, to wrap yet more presents.  So in an age of cynicism sometimes Christmas Eve happens as it should, family and Nativity at its heart.  And for this little family, whose members have suffered so much pain over the last three years, it’s a warmth they really need.

Dec. 23rd. – Thursday. Home again.

Stranraer ferry terminal from hotel

Bill has booked a room in the North West Castle Hotel, just across from the ferry terminal.  True to its name, it’s a turreted, complex building, originating as a railway hotel.  The room is spacious, on the coffee table the red petals of a Poinsettia plant and a plate of mince pies dusted in icing sugar are Bill’s way of welcoming me back from my traumas in Christmas mode.  The hot bath is also sheer luxury.

Morning dawns and breakfast in a large but mostly empty dining room, stiff white table cloths, silver cutlery and waitress in traditional black dress/white apron.  A young family come in – mum, dad and a little girl of about three, dark hair in a neat bob.  As the years have passed since I married that handsome young man with the black hair and beard, Bill’s hair has become more silvery, the beard whiter, but he’s still handsome. Today he’s dressed in a red shirt.  ‘Look’, whispers the little girl to her dad, awe in her voice - ‘There’s Santa!’  Bill plays along, wishing her a happy Christmas and promising to read her letter carefully.

And so onto the road again.  The snow is less thick here, brilliant in a strong sunlight, frost riming every twig, the cyan sea ruffled. 

We cross on the ferry and are home on our island to find that the pipes are frozen and we have no running water.  The downside of all that beauty.  Christmas preparations then take over, and the living room floor is an explosion of wrapping paper.

Tuesday 21st. and Wednesday 22nd. December 2010 – Dublin

Recovered from jet lag after the USA trip, and visited all the family and friends over the last week.  Still very cold, snow on the ground, grey and sticky, occasional snow showers. 

Tuesday 21^st – the shortest day on the calendar but a very long day for me as it turned out.  A business meeting in Dublin, Ireland, flight at 8am.  I arrive at the airport early and the plane is late – apparently it took an hour to chip the ice off it in Dublin before it could get to Glasgow.  As we land, the sky is a brooding dark grey, heavy with snow, which soon starts to fall.  Donal (my colleague) and I drive through thick white flakes to his office - sleek glass walls, a central foyer of cream terrazzo resplendent with Christmas trees.  Through the smoked glass windows I see the flakes still falling, faster and faster, like a huge pillow fight somewhere above.  We decide to return early to the airport.  The central concourse is completely packed with people, hardly able to move.  My flight is delayed by two hours, the huge yellow and black screen announces.  I roam about, squeezing past people with immense piles of luggage towering on trolleys.  The metallic voice announces that the airport is now closed – no flights out or in.  It tells people whose flights have been cancelled to ‘leave the airport and rebook online’.  I’m sitting with a young woman from Germany, with a two year old child asleep in a pushchair.  She’s blond, with pretty black earrings and lines of worry on her face.  She’s trying to get to Madrid via Frankfurt.  The last I hear is that the earliest she can fly there is five days from now.  She doesn’t know where she will stay the night.  Still they keep telling people to leave the airport and rebook online.  How is this to happen if you have nowhere to go, no internet access and in some cases don’t know Dublin at all and don’t even speak English? And it’s still snowing...

Finally they send me to the departure gate, but I can see the snow is a blinding white curtain constantly falling.  I see yellow lights flashing as vehicles try to clear the taxiways and runways, but they are covered again almost at once.  After the crowded chaos of the foyer, the departure gate is cold, empty and even a bit eery.  Silver aluminium chairs, a screen and a glass wall showing the ever falling snow made orange by the airport lights.  We wait, the few who have been sent here.  Then suddenly our flight information disappears from the screen.  No details.  At the Aer Lingus desk, an uninterested young man shrugs ‘Didn’t you know the airport is closed for the night now?’ ‘So where do I stay now?’ He shrugs.  ‘Make your own arrangements and rebook online’. ‘How?  I have no internet access’  ‘There’s free access in the concourse.’  He turns away.  At this point for the first time I feel very alone.  The internet access turns out to be about eight screens, with huge queues at each.  The main Aer Lingus desk has a queue so long that they have taped it off and stopped more people joining it.  Somehow I am floored by this turn of events.  All day I have obeyed orders – put up your seat backs and trays, listen to the safety announcement, stand in this queue, take liquids out of your hand luggage, take your shoes off, wait at the gate....  Now when I’m unable to think for myself they’ve washed their hands of me.  It is scarily apparent that the entire airport is a bit out of control.

A text arrives.  The another and another.  Thank goodness for the mobile phone and friends and family with internet, albeit snowed in in various parts of Ireland and far away in Scottish Lennoxtown.   ‘Wait in the taxi queue – I’ll get a B&B for you and rebook your flight’.  I wait.  The queue is long and jumbled – trolleys piled high with immense bags, toddler car seats, push chairs, musical instruments.  The family in front are French.  Only one of them speaks English.  They’re travelling from Chicago to Paris.  They’ve been on the road four days.  They ask if I know any hotels in Dublin.  I don’t.  The young couple behind are going home to Copenhagen.  They have no accommodation for the night either and no idea how to get any.  Another family had been going to Boston for Christmas.  They decide to sleep in the airport and so leave the queue.  It’s only about 6pm but it feels like the middle of the night.  Suddenly the queue begins to move.  It seems they put out an appeal on the radio for taxi drivers and they have come, one after the other, lights stabbing the snowy darkness.  We move outside.  Snow is falling in great lumps from the sloping glass roof above.  A baby is crying bitterly.  Eventually I get to the front of the queue.  My driver, an Afro Carribean Dubiner, has dropped everything when he heard the radio appeal.  He finds another man going the same way as me and we all set off, slowly but steadily into Dublin.  Here and there we pass snippets of city life. An elderly man in a red baseball cap shovelling snow angrily from the front of his shop.  A door opens and a man wearing reindeer antlers goes in.  A glimpse of the hall reveals a glittering Christmas tree as laughing people welcome him.   The B&B lady is waiting.  A large Victorian brick house, comfortable room.  At last a refuge.

And in the morning, 8am, it’s back to the airport.  As if no time has passed, we queue again chaotically, struggling past each other’s luggage.  It occurs to me that people are remaining really polite in the face of all this.  In the check in queue, I encounter an orchestra on its way to Glasgow Concert Hall for a Carols by Candlelight concert tonight.   Odd shapes luggage, some recognisable as violins.  They assure me we’ll get through. ‘Stick with us. We’ll get there. We always do!’   And so it goes on, but now the sun is shining and planes are roaring into the sky, so maybe, just maybe, I’ll get home for Christmas!

But it’s not that easy.  By 1.30, there is still no plane and no definite time for one.  I decide I’ve been too long as a dependent zombie, so I pick up my bags, stride out of the airport, and take a taxi to Connolly station.  If you can’t fly, you can still go by train and boat.  I'm in control again, a human being, no longer a parcel in transit.  The station is cold and busy, but the train is on time, and packed with people.  I sit beside a pleasant young lady who it turns out is a TV presenter or Irish television.  She apologises profusely on behalf of all Ireland for my bad experience at the airport.  We glide out of the station, past snow covered houses and gardens.  A round plastic garden table and chairs echoes summer meals al fresco, a red checked table cloth peeping out from beneath the snow. 

It’s dark in Belfast, and the queue shiver as we wait for infrequent taxis to careen through the ice towards us.  My driver is a friendly and loquacious Moroccan, who first came to Belfast twenty years ago as a trapeze artist.  He fell in love and now is a Belfast family man.  The ferry terminal is all but empty – I’ve got so used to crushes of bodies that it comes as quite a shock to find the huge ferry all but empty too.  We glide across moonlit seas and then there is Corsewall Lighthouse, scene of happy weekends for Bill and me at the unique and lovely lighthouse hotel.  Those lights speak of home.  And then Stranraer and Bill waiting outside in the freezing dark.  

Ferry arriving at Stranraer



So I do get home for Christmas after all.

Monday December 13th. – National Air and Space Museum, Washington, USA

The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum is very near Dulles Airport, so it’s the perfect venue to spend the day until check-in time if you’re neurotic travellers, as we are.  And what a place it is.  An immense white curved hangar – the guide said the size of the hangars that were built for the airships – with myriads of planes of all shapes and eras hanging at wild angles from the roof.  You feel as if you are in some frenetic airshow with planes looping the loop, diving and spinning all around you.  The museum seemed mainly to be staffed by ‘seniors’, mostly war veterans, who oozed excitement and knowledge about every exhibit. 



US Enterprise



The star turns were a sinister, immense black spy plane too huge to take in all at one glance; the space shuttle Enterprise – apparently it ‘flies like a brick’; the space capsules from the moon landings and from first space flight – two guys spent fourteen days lying on their backs in a space no larger than baby’s cot – no really – and as they emerged, one joked ‘Well, I guess we’re engaged now’.  Close friendship in the literal sense. 

Then there was Concorde, slim and elegant; ephemeral looking First World War planes made mainly of wood, paper and string; and a peculiar contraption in which a man pedalled across the English Channel.  Folk do strange things, to be sure. 

The Enola Gay

One exhibit was hard to get your head around – a very large shining silver plane, gleaming from wing tip to tail plane, towered over all the others near it.  There was a gangway above from which you could peer right into the cockpit.  This was the Enola Gay, the plane which dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima.  How did I feel looking at this?  I still cannot say.  Numb I think.

We left the museum in the teeth of a bitingly cold wind, said fond good bye’s to Mary Carolyn, checked in under the elegance of Dulles Airport’s soaring roof at and flew off into the night.  Night flying ‘across the pond’ makes you lose all track of time, and you arrive feeling as if your brains have been sucked out through your ears.  Ah well, that’s travel for you, and as we land in a frozen Glasgow, trees etched white with frost, we know that that is the end of another chapter of granny’s trekking adventures.  But February will be off to New Zealand and Australia, and in between there’s Christmas!

Sunday December 12th. The White House

Children’s nativity play at church.  First time I’ve seen this done with a live baby Jesus, sucking a dummy and attempting to wander offstage now and then.  After church, and yet another post service feed, including pieces of cake to celebrate the ordination of the assistant, we set off for Washington through pouring rain, accompanied by the vast, chunky American articulated lorries (trucks!)  These are much more boxy in appearance than ours, and have gleaming chrome bumpers and about 18 wheels.   One of them had a small sticker on it’s colossal rear bumper – ‘Have you thanked God today?’  Mary Carolyn says that many of the truckers are devout Christians and there is even a church in a truck that drives about and provides church services for them in truck parking lots.

We took Mary Carolyn to a French Restaurant just round the corner from the hotel in Washington – French onion soup, crepes, tolouse sausage, veal and conversation about the American Civel War.  A battle between economic considerations and human rights.  Had Lincoln not been assassinated, perhaps the same result could have been achieved gradually, without so much suffering.

Then we caught the silver subway train into town.  We followed the signs until suddenly there it was, shining white against the darkness.  The White House is a genuinely beautiful building.  It almost seemed to be floating in the dark night sky.  Windows were lit and people moving within – some kind of event seemed to be underway. 

Passing the Treasury building, we made our way round to the front and there was the immense national Christmas Tree, red, white and blue lights cascading down the sides.  Apparently for many years they used a cut tree every Christmas, but then this tree was brought from Colorado and planted here.  Circling the big tree were fifty smaller trees, purple, green and red lights and large transparent balls, each with a nameplate, one for each state.  And around the base of the tree ran lots of model railways with stations and townships to go with them.  Freight trains that whistled that lonely mournful whistle you hear in cowboy movies, a passenger train with lights in all the carriages, and even Thomas the Tank Engine and friends.  Children and adults crowded round to watch them.  In a setting so formal and official, it was lovely to find something so informal and fun.  In the background, the White House glowed behind its fountain.  Glittering in the centre window of the top floor family apartments was the Obamas’ own Christmas Tree.

Back to the hotel via the subway and a walk which was a good deal longer than it need have been and involved dicing with death by ploughing through grass along the central reservation, all because of the American apparent dislike of pavements (sidewalks).  What is the problem with them?  Seems to me this is a false economy. 

And so to bed.  Last time we’ll be in bed for about 48 hours.

December 11th. The Ordination

Goochland, about an hour and a bit drive from Charlottesville.  A wealthy area, full of immense houses set in large areas of ground.  Why do people need such large houses?  Seems to me like an awful lot of dusting, tidying and mending. 

We arrived at a huge Episcopal church complex - the venue for the ordination of six new priests, one of whom Mary Carolyn knows.  The large church was packed with representatives of congregations from surrounding districts.  The existing and new priests – impressive in numbers and red and white surplices – processed into the church.  The service was full of colour and music, and the six ordinands must have felt the support and enthusiasm emanating from the congregation.  Afterwards a massive buffet – Americans do seem to know how to party.  On the way back, I asked about the Church in the USA – church in the widest sense as in all Christian believers.  At home we tend only to hear about the extreme ‘religious right’ in the US, but I have met none of those and plenty of sensible, reasonable committed Christians this last week.  Mary Carolyn said that on the whole the church is in good heart, growing in size and commitment.  Yes, she said, there is the right wing who hold to some ridiculous views, but this is not where most Christians stand.  That is good to hear.

More quirkie things – I love the little red fire hydrants (or sometimes silver) which are on the pavement edge.  Apparently in one town, a group of enterprising ladies painted these up as little firemen, with hats, jackets, and faces, as a fund raiser.  Looking at the shape of them, you can see how this would work.  Pity none are done like that here.

Our time here is coming to an end.  Tomorrow we go to Washington overnight, to see the sights there, before flying home on Monday.  So tonight is packing, packing, packing.

December 10th. Shenandoah Caves

Sometimes being here is like a C&W concert.  Today we went up and over the “Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia (on the trail on the lonsome pine....)”, across the “Oh Shenandoah (“ I love your daughter, oh away, you rolling River river....”) and passed very close to (“Country roads take me home to the place I belong...”) West Virginia.  There are several parallel ranges of mountains, with flattish valleys in between.  The settlers must have been so relieved as they staggered over the mountains to see such an abundance of good farming land stretching out before them.  I love the place names here - ‘Rockfish Valley’, ‘Stoney Creek’, and - my favourite - ‘Moose Bottom’. 

Our first objective was Shenandoah Caverns.  Bill and I like to think we are connoisseurs of caves as the minute we hear of one in the vicinity, we’re in it before you can say stalactite.  Each one has its charms.  This one, though by no means the largest we have been in, had beautiful glittering white formations, like a brides dress, and also long, thin ones, rippled like flags in the wind, and striped in brownish red and white.  These were called ‘Bacon formations’ and indeed they looked exactly like streaky bacon on a big scale.

We left and drove on up through the mountains, higher and higher, till we reached Shrinemont, in Orkney Springs.  This is what we would call a Christian Conference Centre.  It was silent and quiet, stored safely for the winter.  There was extensive accommodation in white and green painted panelled wood houses with verandahs, and a little outdoor church among the trees.  It certainly had peace and atmosphere.  On the outskirts of Orkney Springs, we stopped at a store.  Three very jolly senior citizens, one a corpulent gentleman in a cowboy style hat, were selling fudge to raise funds for their community centre for teens.  Their notice described them as ‘Recycled Teenagers’, although one assured us that he was not recycled as he’d never grown up.

Shrinemont was well off the tourist trail – en route we passed numerous wooden houses, but now many looked less affluent, and some were dilapidated and empty, their obvious charm and beauty marred by tottering verandahs and windows at drunken angles.  It seems that often these houses have been homes to the same family since the first settlers arrived, but now, about eight or nine generations later, the kids have gone off to the cities, and when the parents die, the houses may be left to decay.   The suction effect of cities is apparent in most societies and America, it seems, is not immune.

Some quirkie things – I love the letter boxes on poles that sit at the end of every driveway.  Some people even decorate them.  One had a large red cockerel (rooster) on top, one was made into a little house, and one had been painted as a large fish.  ‘He’s just telling us he’d rather be fishing’ said Mary Carolyn.

Thursday December 10th.

A deluxe gold Dodge car; boot (or I should say trunk) in which you could easily spend the night with room to spare, and so much horse power you’d need an articulated lorry to deliver the hay for them.  Automatic of course – no gear lever (or should I say gear stick – language is still a problem here).  Bill drove it, most of the time very effectively except that his left, i.e. clutch, foot would keep going to the floor and hitting the brake pedal, the effect of which was to cause the power assisted braking system to kick in violently and nearly garotte Mary Carolyn and me on our safety belts.  And so we cruised elegantly out of the car park, halting so abruptly at the stop line that I’m sure the back wheels left the road. 

Soon we were out on the open road.  In the distance, the Blue Ridge Mountains ringed the horizon, spindly trees and pines thick on their slopes and softening the horizon.  Houses tucked in among the trees, ubiquitous verandahs with rocking chairs, and most with large areas of fenced ground zig-zagging in Appalachian mountain style around them, often with horses cropping the grass within.  Horse breeding is big business here.  A craft shop, hot chocolate and muffins in a cosy cafe.  Lake Sharando, frozen hard, leaves and sticks immobile under the transparency of the ice.  Bear paw prints in the snow.  Leaves on the tree so dry and cold they rattled as the breeze rifled through them.  A roadside shop, selling Amish cheeses and jams – he insists we sample them and as a result we leave well loaded.  The roads are long and straight, traffic light.  The Appalachian Mountains rim the skyline.

We found the Frontier Cultural Museum and spent the afternoon there.  A series of houses showed the kinds of lives that the immigrants had left to come to Virginia in the 1600’s and 1700’s, each one with an appropriately clad person to welcome and explain.  There were four main sources of people – England, Germany, Ulster (Scots/Irish), and the Biafran area of Africa.  The reasons for their emigration were economic, religious persecution and the slave trade.  Then there were houses showing how these settlers had gradually progressed and melded their cultures together while still having their own distinct identities.  The first was minute  – no more than a shed.  The later ones were really quite spacious and comfortable houses, wooden walls, painted, kitchens well equipped with cast iron ware.

Then off on the long straight highway, stopping as the sun set to view the whole central valley of Virginia from a viewpoint high on the mountain side.  Home to Charlottesville and a stop to collect the necessaries for a dinner of barbecue beef with North Carolina barbecue sauce that could quite conceivably have dissolved our tonsils.

Wednesday 8th. December

St. Paul's Church

Bill with the Stars and Stripes

Today one of Mary Carloyn's friends came for lunch.  Conversations of this sort are always interesting when you're in another country - politics, culture, world view - all get discussed and give you an insight into how other people in other nations think, and usually contradict your general prejudices.  This seems to be a country of contradiction, difference and unity.  For example, although it's such a big country, people seem to move about it a lot and most of the ones we've met seem to have lived in more than one state, and often several at different times in their lives.  This probably helps to establish their national identity given the diversity between the states.  Another contradiction, historical this time - Thomas Jefferson roundly condemned slavery - but had 200 slaves of his own, whereas Robert E. Lee had freed all his slaves before the civil war started but fought for and led the Confederates against the Yankees all the same.  That's history for you.  There are flags everywhere - outside university buildings, in shopping malls - it's another statement of identity I expect.  I don't expect that the Union Jack would survive long if it was flying above Asda at home.  It would probably be torn down and replaced with a traffic cone..... but then that is probably a statement of identity too.

In the evening, we arrived (late) for the St. Nicholas event.  They had finished the service and got to the food - always a good place to be.  A lady was telling the story of St Nicholas and then he appeared!  Clad in a thick red velvet robe, gold and jewelled mitre on his head and a luxuriant white beard which conveniently concealed his face (and thus any alternative identity he might have had).  He spoke to the kids and then told them to take off one shoe, place it on the table, and cover their eyes.  When they opened them, he had disappeared and sweets had miraculously appeared in their shoes!  Thereafter I joined a small group discussing theology, and again witnessed the struggle with what is American identity and what should it be?  An ongoing theme, it seems.

Tuesday December 7th.

A cold, crisp sunny day spent in elegant red brick/white collonaded campus of the University of Virgina (UVa).  We travelled in by bus, having returned the hire car yesterday.  Opposite the Rotunda with its huge white domed roof, we espied a quaint looking trolley bus, which temptingly advertised that it would take us all around the town for free.  Too good to miss so we jumped aboard.  Although a modern bus, it was designed to look oldy worldly, with brass grab rails and slatted wooden seats.  The ride took us past shops with striped awnings, selling Univeristy t-shirts, antiques and pizzas, through streets with wood panelled, painted houses on either side, most with

large porches supported by spindly columns.  They look and, Mary Carolyn tells us, they are southern  houses, as this is one of the southern states, something I had not realised.  But then, given my shaky grip on geography, this is not a surprise to me.  My grip on history is a little better and improving, in respect of American history, every day.  For example, the University was founded by Thomas Jefferson in 1819, and the campus has been listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site. 

The University is also associated with a number of secret societies, which have operated within it more or less since the outset.  What do they do?  How would I know - they're secret!!  I do not approve of secret societies anywhere - I consider them to be breeding grounds for privilege, discrimination and misuse of power - but hey, there they are.  The picture shows the logo for one of them painted on steps outside one of the main buildings

 In the afternoon, we walked the Lawn - a large area of  grass surrounded by what we might call cloisters, with buildings off which are used as very prestigious student flats.  At each door there was a substantial pile of logs - the accommodation depends on log burning stoves in each flat for heating.  Beside the logs there was often a high backed rocking chair.Easy to imagine folk gently rocking in them in the heat of a summer's evening - a very Deep South image.  And everywhere the students, walking, running, staring anxiously at scribbled pages of notes (it's exam time), cycling, and clipping their bikes to the front of the University buses to cover longer distances.  Students here and everywhere create much the same atmosphere of energy, bustle and colour. There are around 40,000 students here, and the university dominates the town both architecturally and economically.  Gradually we are getting to understand a little of how this town ticks.

In the evening, we came back to the University to attend a 'Messiah Sing In'.  To get to the hall, we again walked through the 'cloisters' beside the Lawn, but now all the Greek Pillars and collonades were lit by ropes of tiny white lights.  The sing-in proved quite a laugh.  As we entered the hall, which was decorated liberally with classical-style murals in every direction, we were handed musical scores .  Assured that nobody, not even the orchestra, had rehearsed, we took seats in the tenor and soprano sections. After a few breathing exercises we were off, and in fact we managed not too badly, apart from the twiddly bits.  As you may be aware, Handel was deeply committed to inserting as many twiddly bits into his music as possible, and as I spotted them marching relentlessly towards me along the page I turned to emitting only sporadic squeaks as quietly as possible.  None the less, as we left early to catch the last bus, the quality of the sound that followed us out into the night was impressive, and was no doubt improved by the loss of our squeaking accompaniement.





December 6th

This has been a peaceful day, with a visit to the shops and the barber for Bill who was looking more and more like a hairy mammoth, lunch with a friend of Mary Carolyn, and a walk to explore the area.  After having spent two and a half days in Virginia now, we feel well qualified to pontificate about the state.  Until now, my previous experience of the US was a brief trip to New York State, and within that to Cornell University.  I flew in to Philadelphia in one of those air journeys from hell, where I had been delayed, delayed again and lost all my luggage.  Everyone I met seemed to be unhelpful, aggressive and unpleasant.  I left wondering how the US got a reputation for good service.  But I have now found out.  The people here are soft spoken, gentle, helpful and pleasant, be this in shops, in traffic or even people you bang into in the street.  They greet you warmly ‘Hallo – how are you?’ as you brush past them .  ‘Can I help you?’ when I sneezed loudly in a car park.  ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting’ said the shop assistant to the customer behind me as I was being served in a big, glittery department store, and the customer replied ‘Don’t you worry –you  just take your time’.  Not what you generally experience while Christmas shopping in Sauchiehall Street.  They speak quite slowly and quietly, and smile at you with such sincerity that you feel you’ve known them for ages.  And when they say ‘You all have a nice evening then’ you feel they really mean it.  Mary Carolyn tells me that this is because this is Virginia, and it is one of the Southern States, and that’s ‘just how folks are here’.  New York State, she tells me is ‘different’.  The barber who cut Bill’s hair and beard told him he had been born here, and didn’t have any desire to leave.  ‘Charlottesville kinda gets hold of you’ he said, and you could believe how this might be true.

MC's flat is top one

The scheme in which Mary Carolyn’s flat is to be found is comprised of cream clapboard buildings, with large trees in every possible space.  Her flat, which is very comfortable, is what we might call a ‘cottage flat’ at home, although it has no garden.  The outside door leads straight onto stairs, and these emerge right into a large living room, off which all the other rooms open, as well as a balcony accessed through a patio door.  No hall as we would expect at home.  I wonder why our architects are so fixed on the idea of halls – they are in some ways a waste of space.

This afternoon, Bill and I bravely went out a walk on our own, and succeeded in not getting lost.  We walked along the side of the highway, while large boxy yellow school buses and immense square-nosed lorries roared past.  Fascinated by the row of little coloured boxes from which locals can buy newspapers and other such things.   Ended up in a shopping mall which succeeded in sucking money out of our pockets most effectively, but pleasantly, and had a couple of lovely smoothies before returning to the house for a lazy evening.  





Darth demonstrates an icicle light sabre


However, news from across the pond was concerning. Heavy snow has caused poor old Glasgow to grind to a chaotic halt.  Douglas was forced to walk one and a half hours through the snow to get home, then had to borrow a 4*4 to get Ben home from nursery, meanwhile Dawn was catering for a selection of kids whose parents were stranded elsewhere; Calum had to struggle back to Rutherglen; Ryall was unable to get to school at all and was compelled to decorate the Christmas tree instead – what a sacrifice!   

But everyone seems to be pulling together again, and all are safe and warm and no doubt asleep in bed now.

December 5th.

It’s a cold, clear day, snow lying on the roofs but not the ground.  St. Paul’s Church is within the grounds of the University.  Like all the other university buildings, it’s red brick with white colonnaded entrance.  The university looks very smart in this livery.  Inside, the church is large and quite simple.  The congregation is sizeable, friendly and welcoming.  We’re introduced to numerous people, all of whose names we promptly forget.  One gentleman is so confused by my accent, (as well as perhaps being a little deaf) that when I tell him I live ‘on an island’ , he remains convinced (whatever I say), that I live ‘in Ireland’.  The service followed a printed liturgy - a mixture of formal and informal.  The sermon concerned the need for repentance as we await the birth of Jesus. 

After church, we went to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States(1801–1809) and the principal author of the Declaration of Independence (1776).  Up a steep and winding road, autumn leaves lying thick on the forest floor to either side, past a pretty tourist shop that certainly knew how to charge, we arrived at the visitor centre and took the bus up to the house.  With magnificent panoramic views all round, it’s smaller than you might expect – quite a compact and comfortable home rather than a statement about power and wealth.  Jefferson designed it himself, and constantly changed it to suit his changing needs and tastes.  It’s elegant and makes a lot of use of delicate wooden sash window frames, sometimes triples sashes, in windows placed at the best angles to catch light from all directions, making the house bright and airy despite its relatively small size.  After one trip to Europe, he came back with the idea of what we would call a ‘hole-in-the-wall bed’.  These were used throughout the house, with an interesting variant in his bedroom.  This bed was built into the wall dividing his bedchamber from his office but had only walls at the head and foot, and no side walls.  He could therefore step out of bed on either side depending on which room he wanted to enter.  We find the great man standing outside the visitor centre, but he is not very conversational.

 

Evening – service of 9 lessons and Carols in a candlelit church, well filled.  More introductions, more welcomes.  At the end of the service, we process out behind the choir singing ‘Oh Come, all ye faithful’, walking right round the church and back into the church hall where a the last two verses fill the room along with the aromas of a finger buffet onto which I fall with relish.

Saturday 4th.

Woke up at 7 - jetlag not too bad. Relaxed chat over breakfast and planning for the week ahead. We said we’d be happy to do anything at all so long as it is typically American. Then to the shops. In some ways, surprising how similar things are, but also how different. Obvious differences such as the types of plugs and sockets Mary Carolyn wants, but also less obvious differences – the black assistant serving on the fish counter who treated us to an impromptu rap sequence about how it was cold among all the fish and he just wanted to go home and eat chicken. Last seen dancing behind the counter with his co-worker. Or the Salvation Army ‘Bell ringers’ in red aprons, constantly ringing a little bell and collecting for charity – not quite in the same league as a brass band, but seemed to be getting the cash in alright. Home for a rest and lunch – savoury rice with black beans, onions and oil/vinegar, and beef taquitos.

Later, as it got dark and the snow started (did we bring it with us?) we went downtown. Houses of cream clapperboard, shutters and neat gardens. Public buildings with large Grecian pillared porticos. Lots and lots of churches, red brick, many with spindly rectangular spires floodlit. We stopped near a memorial to Robert E. Lee, astride his horse, and rapidly acquiring a white hat and cloak from the snow. We walked along the main street, glittering with lights on trees and houses, went in and out of the stores. Lots of local art – clocks made from computer interiors; a man playing a mandolin outside a theatre; coloured glass glowing and catching the lights of the Christmas trees; some amazing ornaments of people laughing – one a woman throwing back her head, her face creased with her uninhibited mirth. You couldn’t look at her without smiling – until you saw the price. A shop full of crazy things – heavy metal moulds for cutlery, a child’s soldier outfit of considerable vintage, wire tables stuck to the walls. They told us it was a ‘pop up shop’, that normally it was an office, but that in October it opened briefly as a furniture shop, now it is a gift shop till the end of December and sometime in the new year it will mutate into a barbers or a noodle shop – they haven’t quite decided yet. Shopping for groceries on the way home – unfamiliar items amongst the well known ones – tinned sweet potato in syrup, almond milk, green acorn squashes.

Then home through the tiny falling snowflakes