The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Margaret Mead

Margaret Mead                                                      March 8, 2002

Yesterday was simply all systems go. The batteries were finally connected to the generator and the volt meter read a healthy 12 volts which we must try to sustain because they wear out quicker if they are allowed to run below 12v. The inverter was attached by a cigarette car lighter plug and socket and into the normal socket we put a four socket extension. The lap top sprang into life; Then the answer machine and on pure wind power! I was able to charge my mobile phone. Pure luxury.

Meanwhile, next door, in the office static caravan, Maddy was being checked over by the midwives. They were due back again later on today to check the position of her bender which, having not yet been built caused  Maddy to want to put them off from coming round. They need to do a risk assessment given Maddy’s age etc. A group of us, nevertheless, dragged hazel bender poles and tarps up to the designated site. Today, they are preparing to erect the bender.

I asked Roy about the veracity of the slave Jolly story and, having never heard of it himself, put it down as a colourful rumour. I wondered if the locals weren’t doing a Margaret Mead on me. Margaret Mead was an anthropologist who wrote a famous book on the sexual habits of a certain tribe. She had gleaned her knowledge by talking to various women who each had a spicy tale to tell. Miss Mead did not know, however, that asking a direct question is considered highly rude and that sex and talk of it is equally highly taboo. It was only when other anthropologists followed in her tracks that they realised that everything in her book was bunk and fanciful lies told by the natives….who must have laughed themselves silly. What is the truth re. the Jolly family.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Negro in the Woodpile

Negro in the Woodpile                                            March 6, 2002

I left the Doon of May for the bike ride to the Isle of Whithorn yesterday at 10.30am. I took the coast road past Port William, Monreith, and Glaserton. I passed Dave painting a house, I had met Dave and Irma the previous year when I drove up with a friend Nick for a May Day festival, I had liked them instantly. Dave said Irma would be home and pleased to see me. Irma, a lovely Dutch woman, actually looked like the portrait of a Dutch woman by Breughel une jollie laide, a Caucasian simian with vibrant eyes. Irma is married twenty years with two children. The ride there is about 18 miles, most of it pretty level, with one major ascent to Monreith. The Maxwell family have, for some centuries, been the Lairds up at Monreith House.

After making me tea and some food after my long bike ride, Irma said “There is a tale that certain inhabitants who carry the surname Jolly are “exceedingly good dancers. The woman responsible for moving from the original draughty house to Monreith house in front of the White Loch apparently had a slave shipped over from Jamaica or aome other island. This slave obviously sowed his wild oats in Dunragit whose gene pool was already very weak through the inevitability of incest over generations, there being only two other surnames. That was prior to the arrival of the black slave 'Jolly’’ according to Irma, due to inbreeding the inhabitants are extremely ugly. So, the descendants of the slave, though white, show signs of ‘good rhythm and their hair is short and tightly curled’. Sounded like a bad joke or a racist cliché. He is, apparently, not talked about, this ancestor. “After siring these half-caste children Jolly attempted to escape. When caught, rumour has it, he was whipped to death. In Monreith house there is a locked room which has a painting in which the slave is depicted. No one else is allowed to see it”.

Irma said that the lady who up and moved to Monreith had it built slap-bang in the middle of a stone circle to get all the energy, selfishly, for herself.

Dunragit and other villages have lost a lot of men in the two wars, along the route are monuments naming the dead; Sad!

I think I’ll have to go investigate the story of Jolly the slave. I should have a word with the caretaker. I looked in the phone book and there is, indeed, a number under that name. I will hang out in the local pub and pick up some local history in Dunragit.

The cycle back was against blustering winds and I’m shattered.

The midwives are coming to inspect Maddy tomorrow. She’s insistent on the place she’s chosen for the bender. The child will come by the end of the month.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Sap Rising

Sap Rising                                       March 5, 2002

From the pier at the Isle of Whithorn you can see five kingdoms the kingdom of Wales; The kingdom of England; The kingdom of Scotland (on which you stand); the kingdom of Ireland and the fifth? Look around, the kingdom of God.

Saint Ninian brought Christianity to Scotland from Ireland through Galloway. Apparently, he travelled centuries ago in Curagha, wood framed boats covered in ox hides made water-proof with grease. The sails were woven wool. Tristan, Maddy’s boyfriend made one and sailed from Brittany around the coast of Ireland west and past Scotland.

The land hereabout was staunchly Presbyterian and had serious run-ins with Charles II. Many talk of the ‘killing times’ when King Charles’ dragoons hunted those most resistant to the Church of England and slaughtered them on the spot. All over Galloway are tombstones to the martyrdom of those killed. Somewhere, hereabout, is a stake to which they tied the dissenters, when the tide came in they drowned.

Roy mentioned the change in fishing over the last few decades which lead to the depletion of trout, flatfish, tarp and basking sharks. From the beam net and trap nets and gill nets the big trawlers use mile-long nets and indiscriminately haul in everything; those fish too small for the table are turned into compost for the land which is mainly acidic.

Free Kirk, those who live in the North of Scotland and on the Isle of Skye. They are fanatic believers who shun mirth, music, drinking and dancing and those who do all of the above. A couple of bender dwellers made their way, on hearsay, to the Doon yesterday from Skye looking for people they might have parity with; John and Magna and their two children. They looked ragged and weary. Bewildering, they reminded me of Wild West frontier folk who might have broken with a wagon trail and gone in search of better land and opportunity. Brett and Alison were impressed with them and also grateful that their kids now had others to play with.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Al Fresco

Al Fresco                                                     March 4, 2002

Building the fire to heat up the bath was a meditation. From dubious kindling to ineffective smoke pile to licking flames to furnace and embers; the whole progression took at least an hour or so. I’m not imbued with patience, and here, haste can seriously mess things up. You have to let things take their own course, almost placate the spirits as it were. After a time of careful building and stoking, the water was almost piping hot, so hot I had to add some cold. In order to prevent burning myself against the sides of the bath I threw a quilt in and in and lay on the water-absorbed duvet.

There it was; ‘C’ for Cold and ‘H’ for Hot, both taps disconnected, beyond a 3-D wallpaper depicting wooded scenery complete with birds and sound effects. I recognised the absurdity of it; not that far away was a clear freshwater Loch in which it would have been more natural to bathe. And there was me, basking in a household object without a house! It’s totally decadent, like servants carrying a dinner table and chairs to the top of a mountain and serving a black-tie dinner al fresco. I was tempted to bring the wind-up radio and listen to Radio 4 while reading the Guardian; one for the photo album! Instead I toasted myself my good fortune, love, nature and their respective shadows and then sipped Yarrow Wine.

I’ve found some cambucha, a very potent health drink based on a Chinese fungal fermentation. It is the reason, in some villages throughout China, for longevity. This one has been fermenting for some time; it’s got that fizz.

Mark wants to come up to Glasgow on the 13^th. Though I want to see him, I can’t afford to stay in a hotel in Glasgow. Maybe he can book a few nights. It would be cheaper to come back here. We would not have the privacy as I am not yet in a bender. It would be lovely to see him and have loads of sex and go out. The life here might be too much of a shock; I must think of what he needs. If he came here he might get a sense of exhilaration. In Glasgow we’ll probably go to gay bars and party and fall into bed drunk. I can’t afford Glasgow. I have £40 for the rent, £40 for Alison and Brett plus….Leaving me with £200 to pay Ben and Jo’s phone bill. I can ask him if he prefers town or country. I wanted to go out on the razz now I can do that with him. I’ll ask him to look up gay hotels to stay at for around £40 a night.