The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; The Commercial, Port William

The Commercial, Portwilliam.      April 3, 2002

I decided today I would go to Portwilliam on the rumour that the Commercial Public House was owned and run by members of the Jolly family. I would have to be discreet. I took the bus from Newton Stewart following a lift from Tristan. I was extremely exhausted. I sat in the Commercial in the company of the landlady and a ginger stray stretched luxuriously in front of an open fire. Her husband, a beefy dark-haired man in his early fifties emerged from the back. He turned out to be loquacious, explaining he had had the pub for a year and was building up custom. He was at present levelling ground out back to make space for two static caravans. His eyes were a translucent brown and I tried to see the face of the slave in his strong jaw-line and deep-set eyes; his hair lacked the legendary frizz. A character came in briefly. He looked like a big English school boy in kaki shorts. When he left the landlord said, “His mother’s just died. He’s burying her tomorrow. Brilliant musician”.

“What’s his name?” I asked in an attempt to get to the subject of surnames”. The landlord said a name I can’t now recall… (Means to an ends).

“Is that a common local name?” I asked, getting warmer.

“Well, yes” said the landlord.

“What are the other local names”, I queried. He reeled off a couple and after a pause he said, “Jolly”.

Bingo! I thought.

“That doesn’t sound like a typical Scottish Name”, I said rolling my cigarette with an air of indifference.

“Well”, he said “There is a rumour…..”

The landlord explained that the Jollys made every attempt to straighten their hair, even to the point of shaving it off. It is well suspected there might be Negro blood there but, the family being reportedly rough Celtic- Rangers-staunch-catholic bunch. I would have to go to Dunragit, but broaching the subject of their slave ancestor would be a very delicate matter.

The landlord turned out not to be a descendant of the young slave and did not confirm the rumour that The Commercial had been owned by them in the past. He did confirm, a) that the Jollys have frizzy hair and, b) that they are a rough lot even down to the children and c) that they all live in Dunragit.

The landlord wanted to know, once I had opened the subject of the slave Jolly, who he married. I told him I was due to visit Monreith House on the Tuesday 9^th and Wednesday 10^th April in order to see the portrait and go through some papers and books of Jolly’s owner to establish how much William Maxwell paid for him. I will research his burial, marriage and arrival and the descendants. Where is he buried?

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Heimweh

Heimweh, April 1, 2002

I’m becoming quite irked by Douglas Botting’s biography of the writer and aristocrat Gavin Maxwell. The irk is in the similarities. I have already quoted the paragraph of his liking for ‘nostalgie de la boue’, but there is a passage written by Gavin Maxwell’s ex-lover, Thomas, that I could relate to and am disturbed by as reflecting my own unease with the here and now.

‘Gavin cut a very romantic, adventurous figure in society but this was only one side of him, for in reality he was two different people – the respectable publics figure, (the aristocratic painter, author, ex-Guards officer and member of learned societies ,and the less respectable one, (the homosexual, the outlaw, the fearful, repressed, inhibited man). So though he was not schizophrenic he often behaved like one – he separated his personalities into two distinct parts and led two compartmentalised lives like everybody who has an unresolved emotional problem, he was a role player (…) Gavin was too fearful to live in his essence, so he lived in his ideal, and, like many people in conflict, he lived as he wished to be, not as he was, he faced life seeking rather than being- for only an integrated person can be – and in this sense he was a genuinely romantic figure, like a knight on a quest.’

The writer, lover or biographer doesn’t take into account the fact of his Chinese star sign; Year of the Tiger. Those born under this restless sign are just that, restless. They are natural loners destined to shift, often loveless, from one adventure to another; boredom being their worst enemy. Reputation is all important to a Tiger and works, creative or otherwise are periodically meted out lest one be entirely forgotten.

There is another quote somewhere about creativity only possible at the place of one’s roots. Gavin Maxwell has to return from his travels and from London to the Western Highlands in order to write.

I’m going in the opposite direction, Western Lowlands towards London. I have never had homesickness before, but looking at my diary and the map of London, I had sudden nostalgia for places as crushingly mundane as Deptford, New Cross, Brockley; basically, the familiar grot that is south-east London. I am so familiar with London it is incredible. I have, in various guises, walked its streets and riverbanks; in love, broke, with friends, after dinner, before and after the theatre, in exploration of a new venue, on a mission of sleaze, desperate, familiar, suited on the way to work as an interpreter, on the way to a gig or a coffee house, the British Library, (the old one), with Alfie, Laurence, Keith and among strangers. I’ve walked tirelessly, like a pilgrim, the route from Earls’ Court to New Cross and back again on a mission of self-destruction mingled with creative revelation; pearls in pigswill. I’ve walked Sundays with girlfriends, through trendy markets with other bewildered fashionable couples; Camden, Greenwich, Pettycoat Lane looking at things I could never afford, lips pursed in arrogance. London, the trail from Nick’s to Wickham Road, to Gary’s to Ben and Jo’s to Keith’s to Soren’s to other people’s lives; to Scotland!

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; A real and Virtual Cattle Market

A Real and Virtual Cattle Market. March 31. Easter Sunday

I went to Cloe’s, the herbalist, the day before last and collected some of her herbal potion for asthma. It has Thyme and labelia and elecampangne in 40% alcohol. It is fantastic and instantly appeased my asthma. Cloe also gave Maddy some remedy for external vaginal tearing after the birth.

I had stir fry at Boggy’. He is cute and Pisces/dog, right up my alley. Vicky and Boggy are both Dogs. His children are cute and the youngest, Beadie must be two or three but her use of language is incredible, very articulate indeed.

I got on Gaydar and managed to pin-point gays in Dumfries. Two were year of the Dog, 19, and one was Taurean and another bi-guy, 26, Sagittarius, tiger or cat. The Sagittarian, Andy, left a message and I emailed a more extensive profile of myself. One guy from Ayrshire sent me a message.’ Come over now’, with a dodgy picture. I don’t know, with spring having sprung a shag wouldn’t go amiss. I’ll check out the Dumfries lad, Andy, who sounds eminently up for it.

I am reading the biography of a local writer Gavin Maxwell author of A Ring of Bright Water and of the powerful Maxwells of Monreith. There is a funny quote;

All this too, was part of the man’s contradictory and complex nature, for the knight errant, who pursued a beautiful vision of unattainable freedom and beauty also suffered from nostalgie de la boue’.

I would like to visit Monreith House still. At Boggy’s I read a book of Cloe’s, a collection of short stories of Galloway. Sawney Bean and his cannibalistic cave-dwelling family along the Ayrshire coast, the covenant martyrs drowned tied to a stake in the sea. I must borrow it. Vicky says there is a crest on the Galloway road depicting a slave in shackles. I’ll have to investigate. I’d like to go to The Portwilliam Pub to investigate the Jolly’s as they own it.

I would like to incorporate the Isle of Whithorn digs. Irma said she became quite possessive over the body she found, sneaking out at night to scrupulously brush the dirt away with a toothbrush. I don’t know what I’ll do with the info. I don’t want anything trite. It doesn’t have to be a murder mystery; the life of the Jolly character will do, unless I stumble upon a secret.

The rumour of a painting hidden away in a locked room made me curious. Also the mystery that the young blackamoor slave may have been flogged to death by his master was of great interest; though both of these rumours are as yet unproved.

In Newton Stewart I was tempted to enter the cattle market but unfortunately it was closing. It was about five o’clock and most of the farmers were in the pubs across the road; which reminds me of Gaydar. Gaydar, the social networking site for gay men, seems to have a stratospheric hierarchical categorisation system. When I tried Quick – Search - Bi-Guys, I got a list of those available in Scotland-rest, but when I clicked on one I was told I would have to join as a ‘Gold Member’, which my friend Alan tells me is a fee-paying customer. How and why these bi-sexual guys are herded into a pen of elite heifers, I don’t know. It was the same with a ‘Business Men’ and a ‘Professionals’; when I tried to access one I got the same curt reply. How they, at Gaydar, decide the pecking order is beyond me. Maybe having a job gains one points. There is a ‘Platinum Membership’ which obviously houses within its hallowed lists British aristocracy and members of parliament. One can obviously ask to be Gold or Platinum member and thus benefit from a triage of the rabble. Pedigree on Gaydar; it’s like the levels on the Titanic. I must explore this virtual cattle market which has gone très Animal Farm, ONE JOB GOOD, NO JOB BAD’.  Is normal membership the equivalent of steerage, a virtual sticky carpeted rusty hold where blow-jobs and loos cohabit in a swill of beer and vomit and where  un-Happy Hour never ceases? And the fee-paying look down on the plagued and palsied below? Probably. Must check my E-Mail.

The Queen Mother died yesterday. 101 years old?!

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Birdsong and Engine Sound

Birdsong and Engine Sound March 26 2002

Last night was a false alarm. Maddy did not give birth and I awoke to the absence of the midwives’ vehicles. At first, I thought the deed done and announced such around the Doon. Alison, however, wanted to visit before she left for the south and, once up there, found out.  The midwives came again this afternoon and are still at Maddy and Tristan’s.

I, however, have taken the time to go and sit by the loch without Horse, the dog, who tirelessly begs for sticks to be thrown, and is sadly a distraction. Instead I sit on a promontory made by a single large rock with a sparkling view of Mochrum loch.

There is a cacophony of recognisable and unrecognisable sounds, mostly the calling of geese, mallards and gulls flown in from the nearby coast. (At present there is a knocking, as on wood, which I believe to be deer butting against trees.) These are birds that prefer moorland and mountain freshwater lochs and streams. Apparently these are barnacle geese from Spitsbergen, via Iceland some 1,500 to 1,800 mile north, 3000 of them. Pink-faced geese from Iceland and Greenland. Greylag and Greenland whitefronts and some Baikal geese from eastern Russia and western bean geese. There are whooper swans, golden plover, oyster catcher, curlew, denting pigtail, scup, knot, widgeon, redshank, teal, ringed plover, bee-tailed godwit, plus hen harriers, marlins, peregrine falcons and kestrels.

The loch’s habitat for goosanders, mergansers, golden eye, tufted ducks, pintail, sparrow-hawks, buzzards, barn owls, swifts, swallows, sedge warblers, willow tits, pied fly catchers and grasshopper warblers.

The birdsong is drowned out by the occasional roar of fighter jets from a nearby RAF training ground. They shriek over a clear skyline and drop mock bombs on to a private beach between Auchenmalg and Portwilliam. The pilots are obviously aware of people watching from below because they get a bit flash executing all kinds of manoeuvres.

Cormorants stand sentry on the rocks out in the centre of the loch. They seem to be competing with the noise of the gulls.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; A Full Moon

A Full Moon                                                27-28 March, 2002

At quarter to midnight my mobile phone rang and Tristan’s voice announced, “Maddy is in labour….. The midwives willl be due within a few hours; I’ve given them your number.” As planned, Maddy hoped she would have her child on the full moon and, indeed, it’s a big juicy one with a thin wisp of cloud passing over her face like a coy lady behind a veil. Shortly after Tristan’s call, I received one from the midwife; she would arrive in about twenty five minutes. I said I would be waiting. It is my task to guide the midwives up the path and into the woods along muddy tracks and over burns up towards the Doon behind which Maddy and Tristan have erected a superb bender in preparation for the arrival of their child.

Ladened with oxygen cylinders in holdalls and numerous drugs we, Helen and Carol, wellies on and torches flashing, made our way to Maddy’s. As it is her first birth, labour could last well into the morning and beyond. Apart from Helen, (The first midwife to arrive), nearly hitting a stray bull on the road, it is all going fine. Maddys’ contractions are half an hour apart and Tristan seems calm having been awoken from sleep.

When the news came through of the labour I paged Brett and Jenny and left a message on Alison’s’ mobile. Having had a child here herself she, Alison, will probably not stir to investigate until tomorrow; Tristan will phone me once the baby is born.

I walked up on to the top of the Doon and offered a prayer to the moon and the Goddess for the safe delivery of the child and for Maddy’s health.

I was amazingly aware of the seasons today; the buds are on the trees, geese are coming and going, the days are miraculously longer and all this wonderful cycle of winter, spring, summer and autumn… and winter. Now, today is enhanced by the possible birth of a child, with a stray bull on the loose to boot!