Stromness Dragon

The crowd, muffled in scarves, gloves and Christmas jumpers, fell silent. Behind us stood the red sandstone glory of the cathedral, and in front of us, an empty street. Left, from Victoria Street came the menacing sound of tramping feet, echoed by the same sound from Albert Street, to the right. Two large groups of men strode forth, came to a menacing halt, and stared wordlessly at one another. AD, visiting Orkney for the first time, turn and whispered, ‘It’s like the Wild West!’ You could almost hear the Ennio Morricone soundtrack.

As the great bell of St Magnus chimed 1 o’clock, a hard leather ball was thrown into the mob and the scrum began. Ladies and gentlemen, I gestured to our visitors, welcome to the Ba’.

The origins of the Kirkwall Ba’ are spurious, to say the least, but my favourite explanation dates to the 15^th century when the newly-appointed Earl of Orkney, Henry Sinclair, built himself a castle, against the strict instructions of the King of Norway. His justification for the edifice was that as Earl he was entitled to a residence as befitting his status; particularly as the Bishop of Orkney had a large grand palace across the road.

Thus began the rivalry between the Bishop’s followers ‘up-the-gates’, and the Earl’s supporters ‘doon-the-gates’. Over time, this antagonism would become crystallised in the Uppies and the Doonies. In modern times their rivalry finds its expression on the streets of Orkney’s capital, Kirkwall, every Christmas day and every New Year’s day, when the Ba’ is contested*. This particular 1 January was bitterly cold and threatening snow, and our visitors were bundled up against the persistent northerly wind.

‘The object of the game is to get the ba’ or ball, into your home territory,’ I explained as we blew on our fingers. ‘The Uppies have to take the ball ‘up’ into the town and touch it against the wall of the house at Mackeson’s Corner. The Doonies have to get the ba’ ‘down’ into the harbour, where it usually ends up in the water’. ‘And then they change ends?’ asked AD’s girlfriend, who hadn’t really been listening.

‘No,’ I replied in that particular tone of voice used for addressing small children. ‘And then the game is over.’ ‘And that’s it?’ ‘And that’s it.’

For our first-time spectators, the throw-up of the Ba’ was certainly a high spot. The honour usually falls to a ‘toon’ worthy, and on this occasion the lady councillor performing the task had allegedly practiced for several weeks in her back garden with a neep, in order to perfect the optimum trajectory. I can attest to her pinpoint accuracy as she threw it straight into the middle of the pack, earning a great cheer from the crowd.

An unlimited number of people can play the Ba’, and the form is a huge scrum with few rules. After the initial excitement, the play can grind to a halt very quickly, as the pack jams itself up against a shop or house.

We watched a crowd of 50 or 60 players grapple themselves to a standstill – the exertion evident in the cloud of steam hanging over them in the crisp air. AD remarked that not much seemed to be happening; no sooner were the words spoken, than the pack broke, the Ba’ shot out right in front of where we stood, and the men, fired up with territorial bloodlust, stampeded towards us . The effect, I would imagine, was not unlike the running of the bulls in Pamplona. The look of naked fear on AD’s face was priceless as we leapt for our lives.

As the poor lad’s heart slowed to normal speed, we watched the sweaty scrum jam itself up against Judith Glue’s gift shop. AD’s girlfriend peered over the crowd. ‘Won’t the windows break?’ ‘Look,’ I pointed, ‘they’ve all got barricades’. In fact, the barricades in the centre of Kirkwall had been up for over a week -  huge wooden bars were bolted across the doors and window to present breakage.

During the pre-barricade days, one Ba’ scrum saw a young fellow pushed through the plate-glass window of a genteel café. Legend says the thoughtful lad reached backwards, grabbed a cake stand full of fancies and proceeded to hand it round the players in his vicinity. The protagonists’ mouths full of profiteroles and Empire biscuits, the hostilities resumed.

As our feet were numbing to the point of no return, we ran into Neil, who offered us a welcome swig from his hipflask. ‘Whit like the day, buddo?’ ‘Good, Neil, thanks! Happy New Year!’ and there were handshakes and kisses all round as we shared the 12-year old Highland Park single malt. Behind us, the pack broke as a Doonie make a break for it, heading off down St Magnus Lane. The lad in front looked to have smuggled it up his jumper, but that can sometimes be a ruse to throw the opposition off the scent.

The ba’ can actually go anywhere, on the journey to its destination. There are famous instances of it travelling over rooftops, through people’s houses, gardens and flower beds – once it was even smuggled in a car, although this was frowned upon as being not quite in the spirit of the game. ‘Awa’ the Uppies!’ cried Neil as the pack surged down the alleyway, followed by the crowd.

We followed the action down to Junction Road, and Neil explained to our visitors that once upon a time, you were an Uppie or a Doonie depending on which side of the toon you were born. In more ‘modren’ times, he said, most babies are born at the maternity unit of the Balfour Hospital, so now it’s more their family allegiance that says if they’re Uppies or Doonies.

‘That’s how I’m an Uppie,’ he said, ‘as me father was an Uppie. And I’ve heard tell of me uncle Geordie too – he was a lifelong Uppie, and this one time he saw his pregnant wife out shopping you see, deep in Doonie territory. He got her into the car and home, just in case’.

‘What are we then?’ our visitors demanded to know. Ah well, explained Neil, a visitor to the islands can assume partisanship by the simple method of determining how they first entered the town. If you come by ferry to Stromness and then make your way to Kirkwall, you are a Doonie. If you arrive in Orkney by plane to Kirkwall airport, you shall forever be an Uppie. ‘She,’ he said, pointing to me, ‘is most definitely a Doonie.’

‘We’re Uppies like you!’ they cried, and immediately the day took on a more competitive tone. We cheered the pack and AD’s girlfriend and I cast a critical eye over the male specimens on offer. The Ba’ dress code is not especially flattering - usually jeans, a rugby top, and a large quantity of gaffer tape round the ankles. Most players were between the ages of 18 and 35, but there were plenty older players too. Large muscular farmhands predominated, but we could see lawyers and teachers hurling themselves equally into the fray. Under the age of 18, players can play in the Boys’ Ba’, which is contested earlier in the day. For one year, and one year only, they held a Women’s Ba’ – it was never repeated as it proved to be too violent.

Taking part in the Ba’ is hugely strenuous and often physically punishing; bruises, sprains and exhaustion are common, broken limbs are not unheard of. We saw several rumpled young men dropping out of the game for 10 minutes whilst their wives and girlfriends administered bacon rolls and cans of Guinness.  However, it is not, as some have portrayed it, a large free-for-all fisticuffs. There are very gentlemanly traits exhibited throughout, and during the game, if a player goes down onto the ground, the scrum abates and everyone stands back to let the man get back on his feet. Although there are no actual rules, there is widespread adhesion to ‘spirit of the game’ and using the Ba’ to settle old scores is very much frowned upon. There are, in the whole history of the modern game, no instances of death, although in 1954 an experienced player called Davy Tait took part in the Christmas day Ba’, felt unwell, went home and had a fatal heart attack. It was the way, his fellow Doonies agreed, he would have wanted it.

The spectators of the Ba’ play an important role in the game. The wives and girlfriends of the players shout encouragement, provide sustenance for the men as they peel off from the game for 10 minutes, and in extreme cases, have been known to add their own shoulders to the heaving mass, should they feel that the pack is weakening. When the Boys’ Ba’ is in full swing, the scrum is followed by a small crowd of teenage girls, done up to the nines, texting furiously. Across the country, as young people groan at the very notion of tradition or heritage, it is very heartening to see such enthusiastic support, even if it is the modern-day version of tribal initiation and display of physical prowess. More than one Orkney girl has chosen her life partner having seen him play in the Ba’.

AD’s girlfriend and I were not in the market, however, and by 4 o’clock the sleet was starting to fall. We wandered along to Bruce’s Stores, the only shop open during the Ba’, and waited for Mr DRagon and AD to get pies. Standing in the doorway were two of the elderly Posh Ladies, tucking daintily into hot mince rolls and flirting with the Red Cross volunteers. ‘Oh,’ they twittered. ‘We love the Ba’! We haven’t missed one since 1952!’ One of them claimed to have seen the shortest ever game –  at 45 minutes, and they both admitted to missing the end of the longest game, which lasted for just over 8 hours.

At 5 o’clock we called it a day. Slush was forming on the kerbs and the wind had eased not a jot – our fingers and toes were frozen. Driving out of the town centre, we turned along Great Western Road to find the scrum dead ahead and coming our way, so I had to reverse hastily in the opposite direction. Heading for home and hot soup, we agreed we could not think of a better way to nurse our New Year hangovers than standing for 4 hours in the wind and sleet watching 100 or so men fighting over a leather ball.

Long live tradition, we cried. Long live the Ba’! Long live the Uppies and the Doonies! But mostly the Doonies!

*Except when 25 Dec and 1 Jan fall on Sundays, which they did this season. In this case they are played on the Mondays, ie 26 Dec and 2 Jan.

Photos can be seen here, on the Facebook page of BBC Radio Orkney

Tags: Ba' game, Kirkwall, New Year, Orkney

I had visitors round at the house last week – storytellers attending the 2011 Orkney Storytelling Festival, out on a jaunt to the West Mainland. I’d lit the stove and even given the place a bit of a hoover (largely because there wouldn’t be enough chairs for everyone and inevitably someone would end up sitting on the floor). The cosiness factor was then ratcheted up a notch or two by a plate of homemade cheese scones and a ginger cake. The house smelled lovely, and the domestic-Goddessy aroma distracted the visitors (hopefully) from the peeling paint, threadbare blankets and copious amounts of cat hair.

The general reaction to this scene of domestic bliss was ‘ahhhhh…’ except the lady from Crete who, when it was pointed out that she was under investigation by a frisky tabby, muttered something along the lines of ‘Yes, I know. They like me because I don’t like them.’ The lady in question is very nice otherwise, and an exceptionally fine storyteller, so I forgave her this faux pas and passed her the butter.

The point is: cake. Cake is the point. I can think of few occasions that are not enlivened and improved by the addition of cake. Expecting people round? The warm fug of baking as they enter the house will dispel any crabbiness in their hearts. Got a tricky meeting? Take a lemon drizzle cake – it will soften the attitude of the toughest businessman. Want to say thank you to someone? Iced gingerbread hits the spot. Hard day at work? I can make a batch of scones and wash the bowl in 24 minutes…the 15 minutes in the oven is enough time to make a pot of tea and change into my comfy baffies. Bliss.

I can remember the first time I baked something: I had been given a Lett’s Girl Guides diary as a Christmas present (I was about 8 years old and had been neither a Brownie nor a Guide; my parents couldn’t afford the uniforms, having spent all their spare cash on oil paints and piano lessons. Sigh. Deprived childhood). At the back of the diary (why would an 8-year old need a diary?!) was a section of handy hints for aspiring housewives, which included how to sew on a button, how to iron a shirt, and instructions on how to run a multi-national corporation.* Then, on the tissue-like pages were printed two recipes – one for drop scones and one for gingerbread. My mum helped me, and I made the gingerbread, proudly presenting my sticky efforts to a work colleague of my father’s whom he had brought home for tea. The gentlemen in question was very gallant, proclaiming it to be the best gingerbread he had ever tasted – which was exceedingly generous considering I had forgotten to put any sugar in it.

The thrill of watching someone eating a cake I have made has never left me. My favourite cakes are of the homebake variety, as opposed to the fancies. There is a long debate to be had about the subtle differences between the two;  but essentially homebakes are, well, homely; whilst fancies have pretensions to hotel-tea-room grandeur and often feature coconut, fondant cream, or glace cherries. Like most people I have my old standbys – gingerbread still features, as does lemon drizzle. I have a fantastic new recipe (Thanks Jenny) for orange and poppy seed cake which requires wholemeal flour and groundnut oil and could almost be called healthy.

One of the recent recipients of this new cake was our beloved Orkney Library, whose reputation is now spreading far beyond these shores. With over 4,000 followers on Twitter, and more than 1,000 ‘likers’ on Facebook, they are a constant source of amusement and wonder to people all over the world – many of whom will never even visit these islands. A typical status reads: Some people still don’t know that we have free wi-fi in Kirkwall and Stromness Libraries. We are sometimes asked what wi-fi stands for. Many people think it means wireless-fidelity, like hi-fi being short for high-fidelity. In actual fact wi-fi stands for Windolene Fiona, and was invented in honour of the Patron Saint of Clean Windows.

Earlier this week, they posted this:  ‎”HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKK” That, Ladies & Gentlemen, is the baking siren. Our first delivery of home baked goods this week has arrived….

Get the idea? These folk are mad for cakes and the generous public respond; it’s like Test Match Special in there – except with books, and less cricket. Outside the building is a book drop facility for members to return books out of hours. Occasionally, people leave gifts in it of cakes and biscuits, much to the delight of the staff; and it’s not just local folk, either! I know a couple who visited Orkney and made a special trip to the library to deliver a packet of biscuits, having been charmed by their baking-related Tweets.

This brings me to another important point. Attend any event, and watch the local ladies peruse the sweetmeats on offer. ‘Shop-bought’, they mutter as they pass the Penguins. The tone with which this is uttered conveys a mixture of many things: ‘these people have ideas above their station’, ‘…they can’t be bothered to make an effort’ ‘…they’ve spent too long sooth’…but mixed in with all of this is a slight tinge of envy, because in times past it would have been a real treat to buy a dainty, refined biscuit rather than make something a bit more rustic. I remember a holiday in Scotland as a child; we visited an aged aunt, who presented us with tea. Her own plate consisted of a crusty homemade roll and a chunky fruit loaf, whilst the special guests received white bread and butter, followed by wrapped mint Viscounts.

Stalwarts of the Orkney baking scene are the various branches of the SWRI, who wouldn’t been seen dead with an Orange Club or similar. The SWRI are the Scottish Women’s Rural Institute; their equivalent in England would be the Women’s Institute, made famous/infamous by the film Calendar Girls, after one of the branches made a nude calendar as a Christmas fundraiser and dispelled forever the ‘Jam and Jerusalem’ myth.  A similar calendar was made in Orkney a few years later, but that’s a different story.

The SWRI has branches throughout Orkney, and they generally meet once a month. Its members hold regular competitions, wherein the members demonstrate their skills in baking and other home-crafts. Listening to Radio Orkney’s What’s On can be a joy when they announce the competitions. ‘Harry SWRI meets tonight and the competition is….four squares of fudge.’ ‘Birsay SWRI, the competitions are…a poem about winter and the best use of 100g ball of wool’. ‘Westray SWRI…can members bring along…..a flower photograph and 6 cherry scones’. If the group meeting has a guest speaker (and I have had the honour of addressing the Quoyloo SWRI), then they will be asked to judge the competition – believe me, the pressure is immense and the ladies are very competitive! Luckily I only had to judge the ‘interesting old plate’ competition and not a baking one, but I was treated afterwards to the loveliest spread of homebakes of all descriptions, provided by the members. As we all tucked in to the goodies, a lively discussion ensued about whether they should start a slimming club.

Almost alone amongst women of my acquaintance, it would seem, I am not that fussed about chocolate. I can honestly take it or leave it, and I have to be in the mood to want to eat it. Same with biscuits or sweets. But by Golly, present me with a plate of Orkney home-bakes and I am sunk. All good intentions go out of the window as I stuff my face with shortbread, fruitcake and Victoria sponge. I am not alone in this – I know few people who can resist a homemade cake. So the next time you have a tricky situation to deal with, take my advice. Get baking.

*one of these is made up.

Tags: baking, cake, Orkney, SWRI

Earlier this year, I was invited to take part in the annual music and arts Tartan Heart Festival, held at the beautiful Belladrum estate in Inverness-shire.

I was asked to go along by the Arvon Foundation (who support new writers) to tell stories – but specifically ghost stories. One of the events was a three-way conversation about ghosts and belief in the supernatural between the Scottish writer, Roddy Martine, and the American psychologist and parapsychologist, Shari Cohn-Simmen. It was a very interesting experience, and during the afternoon, Roddy told this story.

There was a writer and journalist who lived in the Highlands of Scotland. He was somewhat reclusive, largely due to the fact that he had been in a very bad accident that had left his brain altered – very subtly, but altered nonetheless.  The result of the accident was that from then on he possessed a very unsettling ability – that of seeing peoples’ future lives. The way he described it was that it was like seeing a series of flickering images above folks’ heads – as if he were viewing an old movie reel. He would see their days to come – their triumphs, tragedies, families….everything. He quickly realised that this ability was more of a curse than a blessing, and he gradually withdrew from society.

Shy away though he might, he gained a reputation for this ability, and sometimes people would seek him out, desperate for any information he could give them about their future selves. He never advertised or exploited, never took payment, and would try and be as kind as he could. As a self-imposed rule he also pledged never to give anyone bad news, but find a gentle way of telling the truth without causing any distress. Mostly though, he shunned company and hid away.

One late autumn day he was visited in his house by two ladies. They had driven up from the south of Scotland especially to see him, and were tired from the journey. Despite the fact that he had never met them before, and was not expecting them, he was hospitable, and invited them in for a cup of tea. They explained that they had heard that he had the gift of prophecy, or second sight, and that they were very keen for him to ‘read’ their futures and tell them what was in store. He demurred, saying that they were mistaken, and that he did not do ‘readings’. The ladies persisted: they knew his reputation through the friend of a friend; they had travelled a long way to see him. Again he refused, telling them gently but firmly that he could not help them. Furthermore, he explained, he was very tired and had a dreadful headache: this would affect his abilities. The ladies pushed further, stressing once again the effort it had taken them to drive up to the north-west of Scotland, and how grateful they would be for any insight he could offer, impeded by headaches or otherwise.

Exasperated but bound by customs of hospitality, he agreed to a short ‘consultation’ with each of them. The slightly older of the two ladies went first. They retired to his study for 10 minutes or so, and when they emerged, the lady seemed pleased enough with what she had been told. But when the second, younger lady stood up for her turn, he apologised and said he would be unable to help her – his headache was worse and he felt extremely fatigued. She was disappointed – to have come all this way! They had a long drive back home, and to come away with nothing was….the lady was most upset. He relented. Drawing her in to his study he proposed a compromise. He would write something for her on a piece of paper and place it in an envelope, not to be opened or read until the ladies were home. Happy, she agreed.

Some 15 minutes later, darkness descending, the ladies set off for home, the younger driving, envelope safely stashed in the glove compartment. Neither had eaten much that day, and they had risen early, so both were weary. As the weather closed in and the light began to play tricks, they failed to see the car ahead of them that had braked suddenly…and they hit it with force. Their own car bucked and overturned, skidding along on its roof before crashing down the embankment and slowing to a smoking pile of twisted metal. The younger lady, who was driving, was killed instantly. Amazingly, her companion walked away with barely a scratch. After the emergency services had been to the scene, the survivor was taken to the nearest hospital and checked over for injuries. The police gently questioned her about what had happened, and explained that they had examined the car and had removed her friend’s effects. They handed over a coat, her handbag, and an envelope that had fallen out of the glove compartment…..

With shaking hands, the lady ran her fingers under the flap of the envelope and drew out the piece of paper. It was completely blank.

Tags: Halloween, Highlands, Scotland, second sight

15,000 paper butterflies...

Art, of course, is a subjective thing. We bring ourselves to it, and depending on our life experiences thus far, we might respond with anger, with joy, with amusement, with melancholy, or maybe with boredom or non-comprehension. I don’t think anybody could have responded with indifference to the art installation I saw today, because every single one of us was, or is, a child.

Lullaby, by Sheena Graham-George is at first glance a simple piece, comprising thousands of paper butterflies pinned to the wall of a first floor room in The Orkney Museum. They sweep around the room in a great swarm, high and low, crowded in some places, breaking away in others. The floor is bare, but the air is filled with sound; through a discreet speaker, a female voice sings an unaccompanied, wordless melody. I didn’t recognise the tune, but I would guess that it is an Irish lullaby.

The piece is inspired, you see, by a visit made by the artist to Ireland, to study the cultural phenomenon known as the cillìn burial grounds. These areas of unconsecrated ground, often hidden away on the wrong side of the churchyard wall, were the final resting place for unbaptised children, as well as suicides, shipwrecked sailors, and others of the dead who could not, for whatever reason, lie in holy ground.

Graham-George spent time seeking out these strange places, many of which are disappearing without trace. Because the burials were often unmarked, and memories fade, sometimes all that remains of these poignant spaces are dips in the ground, mounds of earth, or small unmarked stones. She discovered that mothers who gave birth to stillborn children would often be so ashamed that the burials would be carried out at night, and in secret, away from the judgemental eyes of society.

Running parallel to this sad tradition are the Irish folk tales, wherein the soul is represented by a white butterfly. Butterfly-souls that can cross into the otherworld can be found in many ancient belief systems, but in the case of Ireland, it applied particularly to the souls of dead children. These were the two themes – the cillìn, and the butterflies, that the artist brought together when she created this work.

The butterflies in Lullaby are between 1-3 inches wide, and are cut out of paper. Even if they had been plain white, the effect of them swarming joyously across the walls would have been powerful enough; but look closely and you discover that they contain text, and black and white illustrations. Drawn in to read the words, you find that they are all from classic works of children’s literature – Mary Poppins, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Peter Pan. These books are often the touchstones of our childhoods, and many of them are stories that engage with the magical, involving children that can enter different worlds, or enable them to have special powers, like the ability to fly. Pulled in by these echoes from past, my eyes were caught by the name Mary Lennox, character from one of my favourite childhood books, The Secret Garden. Mary’s garden was a place where she found joy and acceptance; the contrast with the resting places of the unbaptised children was heartbreaking.

Reading as many of the paper butterflies as I could before my eyes began to ache, it struck me that they were all utterly individual – no two were alike. Some were crammed with excited dialogue – others had a few simple words, or no words at all – just a pen and ink drawing of a small hand, or a tree, or a scruffy little dog. The differences between them gave every single one a personality; it was as if the creation of the butterflies had given all these children a voice of their own, at last.

This feeling of childhood recreated is also apparent in the way that the butterfly swarm flows across the wall. In some places they are crammed happily together, jostling for position whilst still surging forward. Others have broken free and are flying off to the edges of the room as if to explore this world of space into which they have been released. I stood back into an alcove, butterflies to the left and right and above me, and imagined them flitting by me, brushing my face with their paper wings.

All the while, the lullaby played; the same soothing, simply melody, over and over again. It could have been any mother, singing to any child, but the sound seemed very personal and intimate, helped perhaps by the fact that I was the only person in the room.

In the corner on the floor sat two wooden boxes of butterflies, unpinned and packed together. I picked a few up and looked at the rough cut edges, trying to work out how long it must have taken to make them; who did them? Did Sheena Graham George create them all, or did she enlist the help of small hands to help her? I had to resist the urge to take a handful and throw them into the air and watch them fall. I resisted too, the desperate need to put one in my pocket and take it home. I imagine that many women, and men, might feel the same; particularly those who have suffered the melancholy, pain and perceived shame of miscarriage, terminated pregnancies, stillborn children, or infertility.

I am not alone, it seems. The comments in the visitors book reveal how much the artwork has touched people - several were moved to tears, others found it soothing or calming. This beautiful, simple artwork commemorates little lost souls; and in doing so, it finally gives them a home.

Tags: butterflies, children, Orkney, souls

An Orcadian, so the old wisdom goes, is a crofter with a boat; whilst a Shetlander is, of course, a fisherman with a plough. This distinction neatly encapsulates the general truth that whilst fishing was the predominant industry for our northern neighbours, in Orkney it was always the farming that came first. Orkney is indeed blessed with fertile land which can support good livestock, but there is no escaping the fact that we are a small group of islands, surrounded by sea. Thus fishing did and does have a part to play in Orkney’s economy.

Over the past week or so, the small town of Stromness (population 2,000) has played host to some magnificent Tall Ships. Over 20 stopped here, including one of the world’s largest, the Mir from Russia, a Colombian vessel, the beautiful and regular visitor the Norwegian Statsraad Lemkuhl, and the splendid Gulden Leeuwe from the Netherlands. Indeed so lovely was this last ship that I couldn’t prevent Mr Dragon from boarding her and running away to sea, at least temporarily.

On Sunday afternoon, the town was jumping: ships coming in and out of port, stalls displaying Orkney crafts, ice cream sellers doing a brisk trade, and the football club raising funds via the old nails-in-a-hay-bale wheeze. And tucked away down the Nav Pier (so called as it houses the College of Maritime Studies AKA the Navigation School) was a super exhibition recalling the links between Stromness and the fishing industry. Whilst folk wandered with their cones amongst the seine nets and old black and white photos, local storyteller Tom Muir shared tales of Selkies and fishermen lured by mermaids to a watery fate.

The Vikings fished, no doubt, and Stromnessians have always dropped a line over the wall to see what was biting; but it was in the late 19^th and early 20^th century that the town really came alive with the bounty of the sea. From about 1880 onwards, the herring shoals of the North Sea would migrate down the east coast of Britain to Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft, pursued by thousands of small fishing boats, eager to catch the ‘silver darlings’. The season lasted from mid-May to mid-August, and for those 8 weeks Orkney would be heaving with boats, nets, barrel makers, fishermen, herring gutters, salt merchants, and the constant screeching of seagulls overhead. In Stromness, every pier and jetty and slipway became a gutting and curing station for the silver fish, and the work was relentless.

The fishermen who caught the herring in their nets would drag them ashore and dump them in boxes on the piers, before heading back to their boats for sleep or more fishing. The boats might be the larger Zulu types, or they might be the yole-type with the sails brown through being steeped in bark to deter insects and prolong the life of the fabric. As the boats sailed south down the coast, they were followed on land by the womenfolk who travelled in wagons, carts and charabancs, and slept in tents or lodging houses or sheds. These were the gutters – the lassies who processed the fish by cutting off the heads, scooping out the guts, and packing the fish tightly into barrels of salt. This preserved the fish for export, at a time before refrigeration.

Along every pier and quayside would be set out dozens of long wooden trestle tables, and hundreds of wooden barrels. The women would cover their hair with headscarves and don large leather aprons before standing behind the tables and wielding a small, sharp knife. A herring gutter was not paid by the number of hours she worked, as would be the case today; she was paid by the number of barrels she could fill. Thus the faster she worked, the more money she earned. Working at high speed with a very sharp knife could be a perilous business, and fingers were occasionally lost. As the women were outside all day, their fingers could easily become very cold (even in summer), which made them not only more clumsy but could also lead to loss of feeling, and this numbness meant that they sometimes did not feel the knife slicing their hands until it was too late. To prevent this from happening, the women would tear up strips of cotton and use them to wrap round each finger, thus protecting them from knife wounds.

There was a woman from Portknockie called Betsy Slater who was widely regarded as the champion of herring gutters. At the height of her powers she could gut over 60 herring in a minute – quite a feat! An old fisherman in Stromness explained to me that it was all in the way you held the knife – in one movement you sliced off the fish’s head and slit its belly, whilst with the ring and pinkie fingers of your right hand you scooped out the fish guts before throwing the entrails into a bucket and the herring into a barrel…then picked up another fish. All that in under a second! The lasses were often at work for 16 hours a day; whilst the fish were being landed, they had to be processed immediately.

Economically, the herring boom benefited Stromness in a number of ways. It gave employment to fishermen and herring gutters, but it also provided enough related work to support at least 3 boatyards and 7 coopers for making barrels. Lodging houses made money from gutters and boat captains, and the 30 or more pubs, taverns and ale houses that graced the main street would also have had cause to thank the silver darlings. The herring season added up to 5,000 people to the town’s population, and it was said that you could walk from one end of the harbour to the other on the 400 or so fishing boats, without getting your feet wet.

I’ll confess at this point to a family interest. My great-grandfather was a fisherman, operating from a small village on the Moray Firth called Findochty. He followed the herring shoals each summer, and whilst he sadly never had a son live long enough to accompany him, he was blessed with four daughters, all of whom were expected to become herring gutters. My grandmother’s two eldest sisters worked ‘at the fishing’, and she said that on the occasions she saw them in action, there seemed to be a lot of laughing and singing and flirting with the fishermen. However, this light-hearted banter did not detract from the plain fact that it was gruelling work – long hours, filthy, smelly conditions and low wages. In fact, so unpleasant was the job, that my grandmother and her younger sister refused to do it. In the face of family pressure they both opted instead to go into domestic service; this, they decided, was a preferable career option! My grandmother eventually rose to the dizzy heights of becoming a live-in housekeeper to the man who invented the squeezy Jif Lemon, but that’s another story….

By the beginning of the First World War, the herring fishing was in decline. Overfishing had depleted the stocks, and the catches were so erratic that it was impossible to predict what and who would be required. In the end it was the unreliability of herring fishing that made it non-viable, but for a few decades it brought great prosperity, life and excitement to Stromness. Today, almost no white fish is landed in the town. But there is still a fishing industry, in the form of creel fishing, and the catching of crabs and lobsters. They are bought by the Orkney Fishermen’s Society and processed by the Orkney Herring Company (one of the biggest shellfish processors in Britain), before being exported all over the world. There are divers who hand-pick scallops off the sea bed and sell them to local restaurants, and every year at the lowest ebb tides you can still see the traditional harvesting of spoots, or razor clams – surely the ugliest seafood known to man.

It is Shopping Week in Stromness at the moment, and the exhibition will run until Sunday. And if you happen to be in the town on Saturday and fancy hearing more about the fishing heritage of Stromness, then just drop by the Nav Pier at about 2.30pm and you might just catch a guided tour being conducted by a certain Dragon…..

Tags: fishing, herring, Orkney, Stromness

No, no, I wasn’t at the wedding! Read on…..

On the north coast of the East Neuk of Fife, a stone’s throw from some very bonny fishing villages and a slightly longer stone’s throw from the grim industrial areas of Methil and Kirkcaldy (birthplace of linoleum, and the expression ‘what’s that f*ckin’ awful smell?) lies the jewel of St Andrews.

After his crucifixion in Patras in Greece, the bones of St Andrew the Apostle ended up in Constantinople. A monk called Rule or Regulus, was warned in a dream by an angel that the relics would be destroyed, and he was commanded by God to take them to further-most outreaches of the world. He ended up in Fife, where he founded a shrine to the saint.

This ancient town is something of a legend for golfers, being as it is home to the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, where long ago, plus-foured chaps sat down over a snifter in a women-free club house and invented the rules for anyone that actually cares. However, the world’s media has recently been focussed on this little town for very different reasons: for it was at the university here that Prince William met his bride-to-be, Kate Middleton.

St Andrews University is the oldest in Scotland (1411, founded during a period of regency brought on by another Stewart dynasty minority rule). The Papal Bull resides in the University Museum, inscribed on vellum and bearing the red wax seal of whichever pope gave permission for the ecclesiastical house of learning to be founded. And it was here that I studied for my degree in Scottish History, some years before William attended.

The university is one of the smallest in Britain, and in my day it still had fewer than 5,000 students on its roll. The reputation of St Andrews University has long been up there with Oxbridge in attracting those of exceptional academic ability, those who come from privileged backgrounds (William was not the first royal to go there, although he was by far the most senior in terms of rank), and those who were living the dream for their Fifer father who never had the chance to go himself (ahem). I absolutely loved it: it was a place stuffed with history, it boasted stunning beaches and rugged shoreline, it was small enough for you not to feel swamped, it had a cracking little cinema, a groovy art gallery and a bakery that makes the best fudge doughnuts in the world. And quirky does not even begin to cover the personality of the town; cobbled streets, faces in stone, deep dungeons, a ruined castle, a clifftop cathedral…I could go on. I have. St Andrews was a great place to study history, particularly Scottish history of the 16^th century, as many of the key events happened right there in the town: John Knox preached his first sermon here, Cardinal Beaton was murdered and his body dangled from the window of the castle, Patrick Hamilton met a fiery Protestant martyr end on a pyre of beach driftwood (and it took them three hours to get him alight as it was raining).

Being a place of ancient knowledge, St Andrews University has, as you might imagine, many traditions and idiosyncrasies, some going back to the Middle Ages. The most recognisable of these is probably the wearing of the red gown. Every St Andrews undergraduate is entitled to wear one (although the Divinity students actually have a different colour), and until relatively recent times, it was compulsory. To be found not wearing one’s gown whilst abroad in the town, was to risk expulsion and ignominy! Now, the gown is worn mostly to formal occasions, choir, and is obligatory should one choose to speak at an official debate. It is also the outer garment of choice for students taking the Pier Walk after chapel on Sunday – a colourful spectacle as the students parade along the ancient stone pier and try not to get blown into the North Sea or down onto the rocks below. One of the ancient and never-repealed by-laws states that if four or more students are wearing their gowns within the city walls, they have right of way over the traffic. Luckily, no-one has ever seen fit to abuse this system, else chaos might ensue. Another by-law (occasionally enforced) is that it is illegal for any of the town’s publicans to serve a drink to a student wearing a red gown; in my vaguely left-leaning barmaid day, I did occasionally take great pleasure in telling Tamsin or Farquhar, fresh from the debating chamber, that they had to take the gown off before I would give them their Pimms. Cue indignant spluttering as I quoted by-law 325 of 16-oatcake, subsection b/47 blab blah blah, all in my best Essex accent.

But yes, I will confess, I owned a gown. It was second hand and of a deeper red than usual – I reckon it was probably about 70 or 80 years old by the time it came to me. Depending on whether you were an artist or a scientist, a first, second, third year or finalist, you wore it in a particular way; off one shoulder, off both, hanging from the elbows (a tricky one to pull off if you are as vertically challenged as I am), but never, ever did one do up the hooks at the front. It was unlucky, apparently, and a sure-fire way to fail all your exams, as opposed to drinking and smoking and staying out all night. Um.

I wore it with pride on occasions, and it served as an extra blanket on my bed during the frozen east of Scotland winters. It lived for a few years in the cats’ basket and I still have it somewhere, stuffed in a box, refugee from several house moves. Of course, even if I dug it out and had it cleaned and pressed I still couldn’t wear it, as I am a graduate, and as such no longer entitled to wear the red undergraduate gown.

However, my favourite St Andrews story is not gown-related. The tale goes that back in the late 1960s there was a student who had wasted most of his academic career for four years, barely scraping by, set to fail his finals, etc etc etc. Whilst desperately trying to cram in the last few days before exams, he stumbled across a very handy little by-law that did not seem to have been repealed, and he decided to try it out.

Having sat almost all his papers (and discovered he knew nothing), he then turned up for his final exam looking confident and relaxed alongside his pale, haunted, ink-stained fellow students. Whilst the others were scratching away with their nibs, he raised his hand and summoned the invigilator.

‘I would like to see the University porter, please’ he said (because despite being a layabout he was a reasonably well-brought up young man).

‘What?’ said the incredulous invigilator. ‘Why?’ But the young man persisted with his request and eventually the University porter was brought. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, bemused.

‘I want a glass of port, please.’ There was a stunned silence. ‘I beg your pardon?’ (The porter was also well-brought up).

‘I would like a glass of port, please. Preferably within the next half an hour.’ The student folded his arms as the invigilator, the porter, and most of the exam-takers stared at him.

‘Well,’ said the porter, after a while. ‘I suggest you wait until after your exams to start celebrating,’ and off he went. The young man put down his pen, pushed his chair under the desk and left the room.

The next day he made representation to the Senatus Academicus; according to an ancient by-law, if a student is not given a glass of port, when requested, during his final exam, he must be awarded an unspecified Honours degree. The Senate, horrified, checked the law and found that it had indeed never been taken off the statute books, and that the young man was entitled to an unspecified Honours degree. Three weeks later, he was duly presented with one, standing proudly alongside his fellow graduates who had slaved so hard for theirs.

Two days later, they stripped him of his degree for walking across the grass in the Quad without wearing a sword.

The moral of the story? Well, I’ll leave you to work that one out!

As beer names go, it has to be one of the best. In 2008, the drinks industry watchdog The Portman Group set about investigating claims that the Orkney beer Skull Splitter gave out a reprehensible message – one advocating violence and excessive drinking, due to its provocative name and use of Viking imagery. Indeed, the beer is 8.5% and has probably caused more than a few headaches in its time. The Orkney Brewery, who make Skull Splitter, made two salient points: firstly, it had been brewing this beer for over 20 years, and nobody had seen fit to make a fuss about it up until now; and secondly, the name did not come from its hangover-inducing properties, but from medieval Viking earl Thorfinn Skullsplitter who ruled Orkney in the 10^th century. Good sense prevailed and the beer lives on. Take that, sensible-drinking-killjoys-and-people-unaware-of-our-cultural-heritage.

I live about 500 yards away from The Orkney Brewery, and depending on the brew and the prevailing wind direction, my nose is often assailed by the lovely aromas of dark malt and bitter chocolate emanating from the distinctive pagoda chimney. This takes me back to my Edinburgh years, when we lived within sniffing distance of two breweries; a visitor once commented: ‘why does this city always smell like newly-baked bread?’ I must say I loved the malty, burnt-toasty, sometimes sour smell that pervaded the streets but I can appreciate it is not to everyone’s taste. Perhaps it was for this reason that part of my MSc research focussed on the history of the brewing industry in Edinburgh: the city was blessed with good brewing water (similar properties to those of Burton-upon-Trent, great ale-producing region), and plentiful monasteries once-upon-a-time. A well sunk by the monks of Holyrood Abbey in the 12^th century was used by the canons for their own brewing, served Wm Youngers for centuries, and now provides the ‘grey’ water for the heating system at the Scottish Parliament.

In the interest of balance, the other half of my MSc consisted of a study of the temperance movement in Scotland, specifically the history of The Independent Order of Rechabites, a teetotal friendly society. Nothing if not even-handed, eh? Anyway, back to the beer.

My first encounter with Orkney beer was round about 1988, during my first visit to the islands as a student - a trip that involved a journey on the old St Ola. The present ferry (operated by Northlink) is the Hamnavoe, but the previous four vessels (operated by P&O) all went by the name St Ola. Depending on the generation speaking, the ‘old’ St Ola could refer to any one of them (although the first of them, dating from the 1950s, might stretch memories a bit): in my case I believe it was the 3^rd vessel to bear the name. It was an uncomfortable journey, the first of many I was eventually to take across that unforgiving body of water, the Pentland Firth. Harvey Johnston, Orcadian farmer, wit, and raconteur, once wrote a comic song about the Ola III’s propensity to roll and pitch alarmingly: it’s called The Roly Poly Ola, and the lyrics are here http://www.orcadian.co.uk/features/articles/p&ofeature/rolypolyola.htm.

My boyfriend (this is pre-Mr Dragon, remember!), with whom I was travelling, had been to Orkney before and was keen for me to experience the full range of sensory pleasures. As part of my Orkney initiation, he made me drink a pint of Raven Ale from the ferry bar. I did not enjoy it - I was not a beer drinker, and it was on that journey that I discovered I had no sea legs. If I did not relish it on the way down, I can assure you it was no better on the way back up.

Popular to contrary belief, not all students spent their time in the pub (I nearly wrote ‘grant’ there, instead of ‘time’ – oh, the irony…). Indeed, I was not much of a drinker at all (see blogs passim for alternative methods of entertainment and relaxation, hem hem). My underage drinking career went no further than the odd cider in the Half Moon (one for the Epping-ites there) after orchestra practice. But I did quite like whisky, and drank it with ice and Canadian or American ginger mixers. I moved on to gin and bitter lemon and this was my tipple for some years.

It was not until I had left university and moved to the big city that I started developing a taste for beer. I was working in a hotel bar, and there was a regular who would drink epic quantities of Guinness before cycling home (and he was eventually caught and convicted, before anyone says it!). One warm afternoon he came in and ordered his usual. Being the well-trained barmaid I was, I poured 2/3 of the dark stuff, let it settle, then topped it up. The condensation formed on the clean glass. The brass beer pumps were reflected in the black surface. The creamy head has settled just right, and though I say it myself, it was a perfectly poured pint. The customer lifted it to his parched lips, closed his eyes, and took a long swallow, and I thought ‘my God, that looks good, I want one of those.’ So when I sat down to enjoy my end-of-shift drink, it was half a pint of Guinness that I chose. And I liked it, much to the delight of the eventually-to-become-Mr-Dragon, with whom I was working at the time. I loved all the stouts, and he loved real ale, so for the first few weeks of our clandestine courtship, we would meet secretly in a nearby pub and sup away, whilst wringing our hands and wondering what to do (don’t worry folks, there was a happy ending). One day, after our 2^nd or 3^rd pint (I certainly couldn’t do that now!) he gestured at my glass. ‘If you can drink that,’ he reasoned, ‘you can drink ale’. So I had a pint of Flowers Original and that was that – I became an ale drinker. Caledonian 80 /-, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, Flowers, Old Peculier…. I favoured the more malty brews (as is traditional in Scotland) over the hoppy ones, but would drink most if they were well kept.

I don’t know why I stopped drinking ale – maybe a combination of poverty and habit; after I stopped working in the pub my drinking dropped away to almost nothing. My pal Mike worked in Oddbins and would occasionally bring round a bottle of something nice; thus I became a wine drinker. Work trips to Belgium also gave me a taste for lambic beers (those produced by spontaneous fermentation by free-floating yeasts), particularly of the fruit variety.

About a month ago, I met up with fellow blogger Northern Blethers for a, well, blether. Walking into the pub, he told me that I had no choice in what I was to drink, as there was an ale so fine that I simply had to try it. It was Dark Munro by Rob Hill at the Swannay Brewery, and it was indeed lovely. My next pub foray saw me enjoying a half or two of Scapa Special, also from the same brewer, and in time I will no doubt sample the delights of all the islands’ beers, thus erasing the unfortunate memories of that Raven Ale of long ago.

Both of the island breweries are award-winning – a quick trawl through the interwebs will give you medals and certificates galore (in fact, as this blog was being written, Rob Hill picked up the award for Overall Cask Beer Champion at the Brewing Industry International Awards!) – and the one nearest to me is busy building a visitors centre and tasting room, so I shall be within walking distance of a brewery.

As if you needed another reason to come and see Orkney…….

Tags: ale, beer, drink, Edinburgh, Orkney

You know you are at a middle aged, middle class music festival when it’s a civilised walk to the nearest pub, the town boasts a top class cheese shop, and they switch off the power at 11.00pm so that everyone, citizens and festival-goers alike, can get a good night’s sleep. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Guildford.

I have never been particularly attracted to the whole music festival thing, but I like to think that had I been lucky enough to be in the vicinity, I would totally have gone with the vibe at Woodstock, say, or the Isle of Wight in ’70 or ’71 or whenever it was that Hendrix set fire to his guitar. Of course, in my groovy chick daydreams of these seminal musical events, there would be no rain, no need to wash, and no overflowing toilets. The reality of these events has probably been lost in the rose-tinted spectacles-ness of their iconic status, but I am willing to bet that there were several nasty cases of food poisoning at both.

I’m not actually very squeamish. I can clean up all manner of nasty stuff and whistle whilst I work. But I fear human waste and I know that music festivals are generally awash with the stuff; I also think that there is a time in one’s life when it is appropriate to attend music festivals, and for me that has long past. I can hear howls of protest already. ‘You’re never too old!’ ‘It’s about attitude!’ ‘LOTS of old people go to Glasto!’ (Gee, thanks…) But really, honestly, the idea of camping a mile away from the site, wading through lakes of mud, not washing for 3 days, and having to share a toilet with thousands of people does not appeal to me in the slightest.

Anyway, once I was persuaded to take a chance, I discovered that the Guildford Festival is an extremely civilised affair: the event actually takes place in the middle of the town, to which one can walk to the pub for a pint of nice cider, the newsagents for one’s Saturday Guardian, or peruse the delights of the aforementioned cheese shop. Sorry…music, you say? Oh yes, some bands did play as well.

At Guilfest we saw (amongst others): The Fun Lovin’ Criminals and Squeeze (both excellent), Rolf Harris (surreal and featuring wobble-board), a used-to-be-Hawkwind-but-can’t-call-ourselves-that-anymore ensemble (absolutely awful)….and many more. But for me the highlight, musically, was a fabulous outfit called Some Dogs. You may have heard tell of some jokers called Hayseed Dixie and the like, who take heavy metal songs and sing them in a country, blue-grass kind of style, decked out in ironic dungarees and chewing bits of barley. The joke lasts for one song, as far as I’m concerned, and I discard them. Step forward then, Some Dogs, who have the same joke, but the other way round. They take classic country songs and put them through the thrash/metal/punk mangle and create things of dirty beauty and madness. To see slightly portly, unshaven men in khaki shorts and straw hats screaming ‘You…picked….a……FINE TIME…to leave me, LUCIIIIIIIILLLLLE….’ whilst accompanied by heavy electric guitars and frantic drumming was a joy. They dished out little homemade, hand-drawn pin badges (I’m sure I still have one somewhere) and I enjoyed pogo-ing around to them for a good hour or so. Once again in the interests of research, I did a wee interwebs trawl and discovered that they have a website wherein you can listen to sample MP3s of Lucille, Rhinestone Cowboy, Jolene, D.I.V.O.R.C.E., and many others. They describe themselves on their MySpace page as ‘A temporary alliance between two enemies in order to defeat their common enemy - good taste’. What’s not to like?

Mr Dragon went to Glastonbury several times and loved it – but that’s his story to tell. My overriding memory of his trips is the one where he got Campylobacter poisoning and lost about 2 stone in weight. I rest my case. Let’s move along, shall we?

In writing these music blogs I have been jotting down lists of bands I’ve seen live, and on paper it’s not bad: Neil Young (backed by Booker T and the MGs), Rush, Yes (at the Edinburgh Playhouse – I swear Rick Wakeman had FOURTEEN keyboards *swoon*), the Velvet Underground (who reformed to play a tour of all the cities where Nico had once lived – they were great), Pink Floyd in Rotterdam, and Ray Charles at the Festival Theatre in London.

But what of Orkney? As you can imagine, the Northern Isles are not on the main music circuit, but local music promoters are doing their best: the Brit-award-winning Mumford and Sons are booked to play St Magnus Cathedral next month, and at a recent Blues festival I saw the legendary Peter Green shuffle on stage, stroke a couple of solos, and look around wondering where he was. But I think my favourite Orkney gig so far has been Hank Wangford. He played with a lovely chap called Reg Meuros in Woodwick House, a kind of country house hotel set in a bluebell wood in the parish of Evie. Hank is the musical persona of Sam Hutt, a gynaecologist and campaigner for women’s sexual health in third world countries: as Hank he is a gentle, left-wing soul, singer of tortured, gloomy, and often very funny country songs. He wears vivid cowboy shirts and bootlace ties. He once wore a pink suit on stage at a festival and got beaten up by a bunch of skinheads. His demeanour is loping and mournful. All of this would be reason enough to buy a ticket, surely! But actually the main reason we went was this: my parents live in a tiny village in Suffolk called Wangford; and that’s where he got his name. We had a long chat about it, Hank and I, in Woodwick House. The gig was wonderful and life-affirming, and Hank was a lovely charming man, who happily signed a CD for my parents down in ‘the Wangford heartlands’. Bravo, Hank.

Tags: Guilfest, Hank Wangford, Music

Regular readers of this blog (are there any? Show yourselves!) will know that for various reasons my blog-brain is having trouble shifting itself from the mid 1980s. I am going to ask that you indulge me once again as I have a little nostalgic wallow. I spent a long time, you see, distancing myself from my teenage years; but as an older dragon I am almost enjoying looking back at myself with the benefit of hindsight.

Let me take you to Battersea in south London in the summer of 1985. Picture a group of teens and early-twenty-somethings emerging from a dark blue, windowless Transit, engulfed in fag smoke, and suffering heat exhaustion, having driven down from Essex earlier that morning. One of them is a pale, skinny dark-haired girl in an ankle-length strappy sundress that she bought from Oxfam, her nails bitten and her shoulders rapidly burning in the fierce city sun. Meet me, the Young Dragon, and a bunch of people I barely knew, attending the second GLC Jobs for a Change free concert. Before its abolition in 1986, the Greater London Council, under the leadership of ‘Red’ Ken Livingstone, was a constant thorn in the side of the Thatcher government; one of its better wheezes was to post the London jobless total daily on the roof of GLC headquarters, where it could be seen directly from the Houses of Parliament across the river. The GLC campaigned for reduced fares on trains and buses, invited Gerry Adams to talks (in the event, he wasn’t allowed into the country), and championed Nelson Mandela when the Iron Lady still thought he was a terrorist. And for two years they also held a free music festival. The first one in 1984 (*checks interwebs*) was held in the Jubilee Gardens, and the acts included Billy Bragg, Hank Wangford (more of whom in Part III) and The Smiths. So popular was it that a second event was held in July of the following year, in the larger environs of Battersea Park, to an audience that has been estimated to number between a quarter and half a million people.

My memories of the day are fuzzy, but happy. Surrounded by Amnesty tables and wholefood stalls, I wandered barefoot in the park, eating lemonade ice lollies and sitting on the parched grass listening to The Pogues, Terry and Gerry, The Men They Couldn’t Hang*, and Mr Red Wedge himself, Billy Bragg. How much of the political message hit home it was hard to say; and I am not about to go all misty-eyed and claim that back then, when the enemy was wearing a skirt and living in No 10, that it was all so much simpler and possibly even more innocent. Often when people claim this, it’s not the simplicity and innocence of the times they miss, it’s their own youth. But having said that, I still blame that woman for a large part of society’s ills, and I am still a member of Amnesty International, having joined at the GLC Jobs for a Change Festival. Thank you, Ken.

Whilst I remember little of what The Pogues played that day, I did use the fact that I had seen them live to impress the lassies in the Summer Isles café in 1987. I worked for a summer in Achiltibuie, on the north-west coast of Scotland, serving lunches, doing dishes and cleaning rooms at the Summer Isles Hotel. One of the girls there, Theresa, was a huge fan of Runrig and Silly Wizard (‘Oh, there’s sober men and plenty, and drunkards barely twenty….’ – the band that started Freeland Barbour and Phil Cunningham), and she also had a cassette of Rum, Sodomy and the Lash by The Pogues. We played that tape to death. We knew every word. We whirled and wailed like banshees to The Sick Bed of Cúchulainn, jigged furiously to Sally MacLennane and belted out I’m a Man You Don’t Meet Every Day whilst roaring drunk on the four mile stagger home from the pub.

During my second year at Uni, The Pogues released If I Should Fall From Grace With God, and they announced a promotional tour, which included a date at the legendary/infamous/notorious Glasgow Barrowlands. I went with Steve, my boyfriend at the time, and the gig was just before Christmas, with the album’s single, Fairytale of New York, nearing the top of the charts. I can’t remember getting there or back, but I think it might have been in a minibus organised by Rocksoc of the students’ union. I do remember walking into the venue and being alarmed (well-brought up girl that I was) by the sticky floor, the crusty patches on the walls, and the general air of shabbiness. Two hours later, I was thoroughly convinced that this was a venue worthy of such an awesome band. Steve and I managed to get right to the front of the crowd, pressed up against the stage where the band played, and boy, did they play! It was utterly exhilarating to watch and listen, and those songs have never sounded better. A quick check on Wiki-p and I can tell you that Shane McGowan, who looked as if he could drop dead at any moment (and still does), wrote almost all those songs; and he performed them as if his life depended on it, whilst snarling with contempt at the world and its feeble efforts to understand his aching, tortured, simple, hungry, riotous, Irish heart. I fell head over heels in love with him. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better……they struck up the intro to Fairytale and Kirsty McCall walked onstage…..it was a blissful night, and I even bought the T-shirt.

*whilst doing ‘research’ for this blog I did an internet search for The Men They Couldn’t Hang, and they have their own website! The quality merchandise available includes a rather spiffy cigarette lighter: smoking is now the ultimate act of rebellion, so well done them. I am delighted to report that they are still going strong and have just started a 10-date UK tour, including Southampton, Edinburgh and Glasgow. I’ve got no idea whether they are still any good, but I intend to search YouTube for clues. See research? It’s great.

To be continued………

Tags: Battersea, GLC, Ken Livinstone, The Pogues

There’s nothing quite like live music. The venue might be cramped and hot, the music might be too loud to do anything but communicate by sign language or telepathy, but there is something joyous about the atmosphere and noise and occasion that can thrill your soul if it’s done right.

I was chatting to a pal about bands we’d seen live, and it got me reminiscing. I have never been an ardent gig-goer really: there are people out there who are at live gigs every week, and travel to different parts of the country or indeed world, to see their favourites. Fans of certain bands will stop at nothing to get tickets; camp out on the street, phone hotlines for hours on end…I’m not one of those. If I have been lucky enough to see a good band it was because the moment was appropriate, the tickets were available and crucially, the company was right.

It is a subject of debate whether the first band I ever saw is something of which I should be proud, or embarrassed. It was Hawkwind. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there. I went with my friend Sophie to, if memory serves, the Hammersmith Odeon. Was that a venue? Is it still? This must have been about 1984 or 1985, and I have two strong memories of the occasion: the two litre bottle of cider we smuggled in, and the fact that Michael Moorcock came on and recited epic fantasy poetry. I was chuffed as I was quite into Moorcock at the time, although I have never re-read any of his books, and I hesitate to do so, fearing that The Dancers at the End of Time Trilogy will not stand up to the cold eye of experienced lit.crit. I would be delighted if someone were to assure me otherwise. Would I still love Jherek Carnelian? Of Hawkwind the band, the music, I remember nothing. In later years I was to see one of the we-can’t-call-ourselves-Hawkwind-due-to-ongoing-litigation bands at the Guilford Festival, and it had all the old tricks: a child juggling, a man in a waistcoat and rubber mask grinding a guitar, a large-breasted woman dancing: and it had all the charm of a car crash. But in 1985 as a first gig, Hawkwind had at least a smidgeon of street-cred.

Towards the end of the 1980s there were big music scenes in Britain’s towns – but it could rarely be said that the Fife town of St Andrews was a hotbed of cutting edge performance and happenings. RockSoc did their best, but you can understand the reluctance of some bands to play a university full of posh rugger buggers, fewer than 5,000 students, and no railway station. Despite this, I managed to see the Bay City Rollers (can’t remember which ‘version’, and sadly they only want to play their new album and nary a hint of tartan anywhere), Showaddwaddy (who turned up in shiny suits and crepe soles and sang all the cheesy hits and were fab), and Sam Brown (who was having a very off day, snarled at the audience, and gave a very bad-tempered performance, only redeeming herself by singing Led Zep’s Rock and Roll at the end).

But the finest gig without a doubt that I ever saw at St Andrews Student Union was The Waterboys. The music was great, but the story is better. By some unheard of fluke, the Union had managed to book a band shortly before they hit their peak: in the time between booking the band, and the actual gig, The Waterboys released their Fisherman’s Blues album, and they were riding high. The day the tickets went on sale, I was working in a local café bar (The Victoria Café, fact fans) and had no money anyway, so missed out. I was mildly disappointed but got on with my life. On the day of the gig I was also working, and the bar that day was busy. From 10am onwards, one table in the corner was taken by a group pf Irishmen who were drinking Murphys like it was going out of fashion; they were very funny and sweet and they asked me if I was going to the gig. Not me, I replied, no ticket. Aw well, that’s no problem, they said. We’re the support band – we’ll put you on the guest list. Ooh, the support band, I said, what are you called? The Saw Doctors, they said. Never heard of you, came back my snappy reply. To be fair, the Saw Doctors did not at that time have a record deal, and had been discovered (so legend had it) by Mike Scott playing in a bar in Galway or somesuch, whereupon he invited them to support The Waterboys’ forthcoming tour. I jumped at the chance, and they made me agree to get on stage and dance when they played. Well, the concert was fantastic, and I jigged like a good ‘un and had a brilliant time. Afterwards, my pal Julie and I invited The Saw Doctors back to my flat where a true rock ‘n’ roll evening was had by all, during which I copped off with the bass player. In true gentlemanly fashion they all went back to their scabby Transit and spent the remainder of the night there, turning up in the morning for tea and toast before heading off to Aberdeen for the next gig. Happy days, indeed.

My boyfriend in first year at Uni had dubious taste in music: he was a huge Marillion fan (as were his little ‘gang’ of old school pals in Rickmansworth, the Frowning Ducks – geddit? Oh how we laughed) and could also be found lurking around the back catalogue of Barclay James Harvest. To his credit though, he introduced me (via the medium of the good old C90 cassette) to John Martyn, and I will always be grateful to him for that. I saw John Martyn three times I think, all of them in Edinburgh, with Mr Dragon. On one occasion it was just John and a guitar and an amp, and it was like being transported to heaven on the wings of slightly grubby but still gilded angels who smoked forty a day. On another occasion he had a full band, and was a little the worse for wear: during a sublime guitar solo he misjudged the crucial angle of guitar-godness, lost his balance and fell over. He lay on his back and continued to play without even skipping a beat. A few roadies managed to heave him back on his feet, and all was well. This week is the second anniversary of his death. We miss you, John.

To be continued……

Tags: John Martyn, live music, The Saw Doctors, The Waterboys