Backpacking.

 As many of you may be aware I am a keen hillwalker/ hiker. My days of actually backpacking are now over since I am not able to carry all the requirements for camping out.  I have been hillwalking since 1958, when with my parents we started to explore the Grampian /Cairngorm region. I often write expressive pieces after a walk or adventure.

It has taken me a while to choose a couple of pieces to include this week. 

HILLWALKING 12/02/1989

Show me a track, Put a pack on my back and the open fields before me. Then away I shall trek, 'til I'm only a speck....For I shall be off and free.

Give me fresh air. The wind in my hair and the mountain tops before me. And away I shall speed - dressed all in tweed...For I shall be off and free.

Give me a good map. Some soup and a bap with the glens before me. Then away I shall stalk, gone for a walk....For I shall be off snd free.

Give me stout boots. For I'll never take roots within the valleys before me. For away I shall stride, my dog at my side...For I shall be off and free.

Give me a stout stick. And I'll be gone quick down the road before me. I'll never turn back, from the wide open tract....For I shall be off and free.

BLENCATHRA IN JANUARY.    15/7/2022

I'll sit by Scales Tarn, above the snow.     My mind recall the clamber from below.    Then I'll glance at Sharp Edge and see the mist that lingered upon Blencathra and gently kissed the summit.

I'll gaze upon the water dark and still- breath in the chill cold air and get my fill of the scene --others resting and eating their fill and consuming the beating heart of Blencathra.

To see again the raven riding the air that drifted up from the tarn - bleak and bare and dark...near my weary feet that clambered through snow turned to sleet by Scales Beck.

Reluctantly I'd turned from my goal that day. A walk to cleanse the soul and rejuvenate. To love once more the fells and dales . My heart now swells with memories.

Thank you for reading. Kath

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Waterfalls

As you might imagine when I am hillwalking I come across many waterfalls. Some are stupendous like the Grey Mare's Tail near Moffat...others might just be a gentle tumbling of water over some rocks. It is pleasant to spend time listening and taking in the sound and sight of falling water.

With the rain we have been experiencing lately now is a good time to search out waterfalls.

My contribution this week is based on a waterfall I came across whilst walking in the Rocky Mountains National Park, Colorado in 2014.

Fern Falls

Icy cold spray splashed my face and bare arms
As it tumbled from the frozen lake.
The noise was deafening - we had to shout!

We had crossed crisp snowfields
In 20' plus heat to reach the falls
The pass ahead was blocked by snow,

So we gladly lingered in the noisy environment.

Thank you for reading, Kath.

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Birdsong

Birdsong always stops me in my tracks. I will take time to listen, wonder and very often video , just the sound. For birdsong is a dwindling sound , I find these days. My home and surroundings do not entice song birds to linger. Occasionally a flock of goldfinches will gather on the telegraph poles or television aerials. I will hear them, stop to listen, marvel at their song.

Of course other birds 'sing', but perhaps we don't regard those songs as melodious. The song carries a message, a means of attracting the attention of a mate, to warn of predators, to tell of a food source...that sort of communication.

I do wish I could identify the perpetrator of the song. I might recognise a robin call, a wren, a blackbird, a starling ...but all woefully inadequate when I am bombarded by a cacophony of songs

Thank goodness for outdoor spaces, parks, wildlife parks, sanctuaries and the like ...places to spend time and listen...just listen. Observe, be vigilant. Open our ears to the small sounds, the joyful sounds of birdsong.

I have quite a few poems featuring birds and birdsong , so I've chosen this piece written in June 2017 at Caerlaverock. Laverock is the name given to a lark....

LAVEROCK

Laverock, gentle singer of songs
Flying ever higher and higher'
Carrying a melody to the heavens.
A moments silence before you fall --
Fall--fall--Spiralling towards the earth.
Lungs full of notes, cascading like a waterfall,
Scattering lyrics over the earth below.
Laverock, gentle singer of songs.

Thank you so much for reading....Kath

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Cat On The Doorstep

Well, once again I am going to feature the cat that visited me for four years. It was a surprise, for I had only recently buried my well-loved cat in the garden. Perhaps he now knew that the coast was clear, or perhaps looking for her...who knows? There he was staring, intently, through the glass. For a few days I just acknowledged him, spoke to him and stroked him. Then I wondered if perhaps he was a stray, but he looked too healthy. Of course I had cat food left, didn't I so it was natural to offer him a little. Still he remained outside. A week or so passed and each morning at 8.30 he was there ..Ah! So his owners probably go out to work!

Eventually he ventured through the door into the conservatory, he'd stay a while then go till the next morning. As the weather deteriorated he spent more and more time indoors, till just before Christmas I put his photo onto Facebook....result! His owner was found! She lived in the next street...a very busy road. 

The story though is rather uncanny.....my next door neighbour had to have her cat put to sleep..it was a Wednesday morning . She returned home and 'the cat' sat at her doorstep in the afternoon! Obviously , though, he didn't receive such a warm welcome for after a couple of days he returned to me. A few weeks passed and another widow on the corner had her cat put to sleep and lo and behold 'the cat' went to her house for a few days!! We laughed about it and said he preferred widows, without pets.

It became a daily routine to find him on the doorstep. He would make himself quite at home and depart at tea time...although if I was going out I would clap my hands and he'd go to the door to be let out. However I used to go away a lot for days at a time and neighbours would tell me that he'd sit on the windowsill for the whole day. As soon as I drove towards the house he would bound out, jump on the bonnet...I would open the door and he would get in and enjoy a run to the house.

Of course his owner was not best pleased, but despite my efforts to not feed him, not let him in, he would sit on the windowsill crying, and mewing , distressing himself and me ! He also adored Donald and I have many photos of him , trying to get inside Don's body warmer!

I had to resign myself that he loved me! Nothing was going to keep him from me! As initially I didn't know his name I called him " Sweetie Pie" and he never reacted at all to his real name of Logan!

One day I came home and he was laid on the driveway. He couldn't walk at all well and dragged himself inside. I fetched his owner and he was taken to the vet. He died that night. His owner told me they suspected he had been poisoned...but he had come to me for help...he will never be forgotten...

Sweetie Pie 

On the doorstep was a a cat.
Looking in at me.
Whence he came?
Why to my house?
Why to me ?
A few days before
I'd laid my cat
To rest in the garden.

But on my doorstep was a cat!
Looking in at me.
Why come to me?
What brought him here?
Why to me?
I was still grieving.
I was bereft.

But on my doorstep was a cat!
Looking in at me.
I opened the door.
He didn't enter.
Sitting still
Watching my every move.
Waiting for what?

I had cat food in the cupboard,
I gave him some.
Fed him on the step.
He wasn't greedy.
Took his time
And went away.

Next day, on the doorstep
Waiting patiently - the cat.
Over time he entered.
Sat on my lap.
Lay in my arms.
Liked to be close.
Every day he came.

Now my doorstep is empty.
He died , you see.
But came to me, in pain-
Seeking solace.
Unable to walk.
His owner came for him.
Why did he choose me?        

Thanks for reading, Kath 

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Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

I just adore fresh, crisp snow - not that we get much of that down here! The first sign of a snowflake and I put boots, gloves, hat and quilted coat on and I am out!

Perhaps it's because of my Scottish roots and the joy I found when playing outside in the winter. I still want to play outside - I want to be the first to walk on a patch of 'virgin' snow, I want to see my footprints, I want to scuff along and make a peculiar trail to follow, I want to look at other prints and muse what kind of creature walked that way?

I moved to the Cairngorm mountain region, to Kingussie, for my first job...my idea of heaven! Walking in the mountains and forests in all weathers, sledging down the slope near my cottage, learning to ski with the school's PE teacher, having an ice rink at nearby Aviemore.....bliss!

Normally I would be out on the Lancashire Fells in weather such as this, more so on clear crisp days when snow and ice is lying, but I am unlikely to encounter really bad conditions. I get my pack 'winter ready', with spare clothing, torch, head torch, emergency food, bivi bag, foil covers...it is heavy before I begin ! This year it remains at the ready, and I checked the dates on the emergency rations that I carry, just two days ago. It looks as if it will remain unused this season.

When I moved back to Scotland from Oxfordshire, where actually we sometimes encountered very hard winters, it was to the Moray Firth coast, which often has a kind climate. However, the winds were terrifically cold and snow did lie on the beach to the tidemark. I would insist on driving to the mountains to 'touch the snow' . We drove to Aviemore once a week to assist the resident skating coach and very often we were lucky to make it there and back in whiteout conditions!

Today's poem was written when I was 15..in 1965...

View from my Window
When I look from my window, I can see
The snow lying on every far away hill and tree;
But the grass peeps through the cold,
And the sky is blue and the sunset gold.

The wispy rain laden clouds fly past
To make room for the night coming fast.
Soon Jack Frost will spread his chilly hand
Over the grass - all over the land!

The men plod wearily homewards,
The birds fly fleetingly downwards
To their nests in the loft.
The chimneys are still smoking.

But here's the rain it's soaking
Everything. And tomorrow when I wake
The snow will all be gone.

Thanks for reading, Kath

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A Yellow Day

A Yellow Day

I followed the mountain trail waymarked in yellow
To a meadow of dandelions - so yellow and mellow.
The colour amazed me and held me entranced.
Happily I ran through them, I skipped - I danced.

At first glance I wondered at the flowers
For I'd trekked mountain tracks for many hours.
But cresting a rise I happened upon this sight-
Yellow, way into the distance - what a delight.

The path petered out in this verdant display,
So I stopped for lunch and amongst them I lay.
A footpath signpost caught my attention.
Did I tell you it was yellow? Did I mention?

I still recall that glorious day
When I wandered far and further away
Into the mountains - snow covered still,
To breathe in the air and get my fill
Of yellow - yellow flowers - yellow signs -
It was a yellow day.

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Palindromic poem

Well readers. It was quite a challenging topic this week. I had a notebook on the coffee table and kept jotting down ideas and the odd line. No doubt you get the gist of what a palindrome is by now. It is generally a single word, or indeed a combination of words that read the same forwards as they do backwards... The combination of words is the most difficult. However it seems that in poetry it is the ability for the piece to able to be read forwards and back again, making sense.

Confused? I was - that is why it took so long to write something that made sense. I realised that some simple joining words, although fine one way, just did not make any sense when I read the line backwards. Anyway through trial and error I came up with a simple, short piece.

You will note that the strategic use of punctuation and the moving of the sentences to a different position seems to work, whilst keeping the reverse order of the piece and (hopefully) still making some sense....so here goes...

                                                  Palindrome
                                       Understand! Sometimes there is nature - 

                             Gently winds blow nearby as 

                    Floating clouds overhead

          Following rivers evermore. 

Why, it is destiny!

Destiny-is it? Why? 

          Evermore rivers following 

                    Overhead clouds floating, 

                              As nearby, blow winds gently. 

                                        Nature is there, sometimes - understand?

Happy palindrome week! Thanks for reading, Kath.

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Distilling

Well I couldn't really pass up the opportunity of talking about whisky! Part of the allure of the holiday flat I let out was that we were 'close to the whisky trail'...in fact the old distillery in Buckie is used purely for storage. This fact is apparent by the black mildew that lines the old vents, doorways and nearby trees. This dark residue is a fact of maturing, and is called the 'angel's share' and will earmark any distillery or storage location.  

Visiting  friends who lived over the hill towards Keith we would pass a vast storage area for Chivas, set in amongst trees  with security fencing all round and guards at the entrance. So apart from the black lichen there was the strong smell of alcohol lying in the mist to give the position of maturing barrels of Scotch Whisky.

The working distillery and visitor centre closest to us was Glenfiddich, near Dufftown. We directed guests to visit this centre where a sample of whisky was provided after the tour. Of course we ourselves often did the tour, although we were both non-drinkers...well, I say this with some amazement for my teetotal husband did try the dram provided and I had to drive home whilst he expressed a desire to sleep. I recall he crawled upstairs, went to bed and emerged fully 24 hours later!

Parts of the county had been renowned for illicit whisky distilling in the past. The area known as The Cabrach was very remote and was a hive of industry in that field and it was very difficult for the excise men to locate the stills. The area around Glen Livet too was famous for distilling whisky. It was a chance sampling of the said 'brew' by a member of the Royal family that actually made distilling a lawful enterprise, but lead to the demise of  all others in the area. The museum in Dufftown provides graphic explanations of the conflict between illicit distillers and the excise men. 

Even when the making of whisky became a lawful enterprise, workers still strove to bring out contraband amounts in a variety of ingenious vessels secreted about their person.

My poem for this week is one that I read out at our last online Dead Good poetry evening, but it is worth repeating. I was leaving Keith station and beside the line was a secure compound filled with barrels of....

CHIVAS REGAL

Stacked barrels row upon row.
Awaiting collection and away they'll go.
From Keith station to destinations afar.
So drink a toast and have a jar-
To Scotch whisky the queen of brews.
With varying tastes and various hues.
Destined to ports across the globe.
Travel by air, travel by road,
Travel by train- far and wide.
Stacked up in hundreds side by side.
Highland water, highland spring -
Peat smoked distilled - just the thing!
Angel's share, given to the air,
Giving God his fair share.
So raise your glass, shout " Slainte Mhath"
To Chivas Regal, bound so far.

Thanks for reading, Kath

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Poetry Readings

As you probably know already I attended a Junior Secondary school, having failed 11plus. However, this school was very progressive and we were encouraged in so many ways. I came out of that school in 1966 with 5 O Grades and 1 O Level . Now this latter was of course not a Scottish exam. My English teacher, Miss Hogarth made a special arrangement for a few chosen pupils to do Oral English at this grade. So it was that we practiced public reading, debating, story telling and poetry reading. The exam did not take place in the school but in a large hall in the city centre .

I recall the poem that I read, which I did not have to learn by  heart, so to speak, but did have to have full knowledge of the piece so that I could look up and project our voices.

The title of the poem is 'The Tract', by William Carlos Williams.  Considering the subject I now think it was a rather profound piece for a 16 year old ! My best friend recited 'The Song of the Shirt'.

Strange how these things remain so long in the memory.

On leaving that school I was was presented with a leather bound book ...'Albatross Book of Longer Poems' and both those poems are in it.

 Obviously a thoughtful Dux prize from Miss Hogarth.

It was many , many years until I read poetry again at the meetings of The Lancashire Dead Good Poets Society. You see I had kept quiet about my own writings since I started in 1965. Quite how the box of scribblings and painfully typed sheets of foolscap came to still be with me are a mystery. Obviously I hadn't wanted to leave them at home with my parents , for they were like a diary, an intimate record of my teenage years. Nobody knew of them until I joined this group .

So now I open the afore mentioned book ( a long forgotten photo falls out ! That is another story ) and type a few lines from the poem I read in those far off years.

The Tract

I will teach you my townspeople
how to perform a funeral -
for you have it over a troop
of artists -
unless one should scour the world -
you have the ground sense necessary.

See! The hearse leads.
I begin with the design for a hearse.
For Christ's sake not black -
nor white either - and not polished!

Let it be weathered - like a farm wagon -
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:
a rough dray to drag over the ground.

Well that will whet your appetite ! I hope you have enjoyed my ramblings, Kath

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Button Box Envy

There is something fascinating about collections of buttons...a bit like looking at precious stones. You want to rummage through them, admire them, covet them!

I used to turn out my mother's button box (actually a metal biscuit caddy) . Not only did it have buttons in it but there was always a tangle of thread, a few collar studs, some ribbon, the slide pulls from zips and sundry other items!

I buy mixed packets of buttons in one colour, for craft use, but inevitably they are seldom used as few match each other. I try to have some semblance of order in my two plastic tubs, but it doesn't always work out that way. I start with good intentions and have one box for matched buttons, either strung together or still attached to cardboard. The other box is meant for odd buttons and those that come as spare buttons when you purchase a garment. I say "meant for", as they always get muddled up!

Imagine my utter joy when, during lockdown and no sewing shops open, I found a set of eight matching buttons suitable to attach to a cardigan I'd just knitted! These buttons did not 'match' the colour, but were made from antler so co-ordinated with the Aran design. Such a relief that was, as I didn't like the idea of an unfinished project.

My piece today is about looking through button collections....

        

Button Box Envy

Open up your button box and let me look within
Oh ! I see lots of colours, lots of shapes - thick and thin
Ones that match tied together with coloured thread,
Or still attached in rows on labelled cardboard.
I run my fingers through the box, to see the colours bright.
Stopping to admire a glass one that twinkles in the light.
Mother -of-pearl, wood, plastic, even reindeer antler.
Two -holed, four-holed --shanked and fabric covered.
My mother's button box, I played with as a child,
To match them altogether , like in a system filed -
Also there were collar studs, press studs and zip pulls,
Jumbled altogether with bobbins, lace and ribbon.
If you come to visit, you'll love to look at my collection.
Gaze with wonder at the history - held in recollection.
Four buttons from a jacket I wore in '72.
A blazer button, much older, never to be used...
I'll never use most buttons within that box of fun,
But often find an odd one to replace a missing one.
I envy other button boxes and like to explore their depths.
So look out your own collections and find memories there.

Thanks for reading, Kath

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Class

This word has a few uses. We talk about...a class act...a classy outfit...having class...first class to third class... in a class of its own...and then the reference to education...being placed in a class i.e. a group of pupils usually with similar attributes, a way of sorting people out. Like that comedy sketch of old, "I know my place".

I have no idea what to write this week for at this moment I have excruciating back pain. Even sitting at this chair is very uncomfortable. Instead I'll relate a story to you that I actually remembered and told only yesterday.

At primary school my class was in a 'hut' across the road from the main school. A stove was lit each day to keep us warm. The teacher was a tyrant (I do not recall her name). She was very handy with the tawse , or skud or strap! Spelling errors brought instant, and painful, punishment. Every night we had spelling for homework and I tried diligently to always get it correct by asking my parents or using the dictionary.

I vividly recall one particular day. It transpired that Mary England had received some sort of punishment that her mother regarded as quite unnecessary. So, her mother came to the class and confronted the teacher. An absolute barney ensued with shouting, cursing...it came to blows! Mrs England was assaulted by the teacher. I guess that someone in an adjacent 'hut' sent for assistance. Things really must have escalated. The outcome I do remember. The teacher was put into a strait jacket and taken from the building! How I recall that moment! We were traumatized! Next day the class was removed to the main body of the school into the welcoming arms of a lovely, kind teacher. It was her who encouraged me to tell stories, to write and recite. Thank you Mrs White....

And thank you for reading, Kath . 

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